"You can't hide from the inevitable."

Francis waited for a few minutes before heaving a frustrated sigh and falling back against the wall. He loved Roderich to death, however, that man could get so childish and downright irritating. When Francis needed to talk to him more than ever, Roderich locked himself away in his house. No one had seen him for weeks. Some part of Francis was willing to bet he left the country.

"Please, Roderich," Francis said once more, "We need to talk about this, and hiding from me won't do you any good. If you keep hiding from us like this, it's going to be June 5th before you know it and…Is that really what you want, Roderich von Wolffe? Do you want to spend your last days here alone?"

He was met with nothing save for the stillness of a Viennese morning.

"Then I guess I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want." Francis turned to go back to his Mercedes. "It was nice knowing you, von Wolffe. Personally, I liked Edelstein a lot better than you. Edelstein would have answered the door. But he's long gone, isn't he?"

And with that, Francis marched off towards his car, anger and fear mixing together to make some horrid emotion that took over his thoughts. There were better things to do than waste his time waiting for Roderich to open up. On the other hand, what if he never saw Roderich again? The last time he talked to him was before he left for Bratislava, and Francis couldn't remember what it was about.

Nevertheless, Francis was running out of time. There were arrangements to be made, the last few papers to be updated to hopefully outlast the war, and he promised to help Lilli with a few things that needed to be done to the house before it was abandoned. Roderich was of the very least concern.

"Wait," a thin, very un-Roderich voice called. "Francis, I'm sorry. Don't go."

Francis stopped.

"I mean, it's just that…It's just that I can't…I don't...Oh, Lord, why don't you come inside already? I need you here with me."

"When have you not needed me?" Francis said with a smile, turning back to face Roderich. His happiness was short-lived; after he saw the way Roderich clung to the doorframe to hold himself up and the bandages around his hands and wrists, Francis knew it was not going to be an easy conversation.

"I'm not up for conversation, if that's what you came here for," Roderich said once Francis was inside, trying to organize his wreck of a kitchen into less of an eyesore. He grabbed a bunch of papers from the table, shoving them into a drawer that seemed to hold about everything. "I don't want to talk about what's going to happen to us. Let me think that everything is normal for the time being."

Roderich glanced over at Francis, his indigo eyes full of a fear few knew. "It's nothing serious, is it?" he asked. "You don't seem to be yourself today."

"I don't seem to be myself?" Francis said. "Roderich, you're the one who's been locked away for three weeks. You haven't come over, you haven't returned any of our calls, and even Ludwig said he hadn't seen you in a while. What's going on?"

"I'm working on my last piece," Roderich said, holding up sheet music that was scratched out and written over. "And I want this to be perfect. I'm fine."

"No, that's not what I mean."

"Well, then, what do you mean? You have to dumb things down for a Jew like me," Roderich said, clearing a space at the table for Francis. "I've been told Jews aren't particularly bright, and I have a hard time arguing with that."

"What are you – is that what this is about?" Francis asked. Roderich went silent, pulling his sheet music up to his chest like a shield.

"Let's start somewhere easier," Francis said, realizing Roderich wasn't going to answer him. Roderich nodded in agreement, stuffing the scores into a folder lying on the cabinet. Studying the musician, Francis picked what he thought was a good starting point. "Can you tell me why you've got the bandages on your hands?"

"I dropped a glass yesterday and cut up my hands. Honestly."

"It's not because you were –"

"You know me better than I know me," Roderich interrupted, his words thick with unfitting anger. "I don't want a painful death. Slitting my wrists seems like a rather harsh and incredibly messy way to go. And if I was trying to kill myself, why on earth would I be here talking to you?"

"It was a simple yes or no question, mon cher."

"I'm going to die in four days and you're concerned about me killing myself." Roderich took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with his bandaged hands. "Oh, God, that is so you, Francis."

"Merci. Now, will you tell me what's got you so upset?" Francis asked. "Perhaps we can work this out."

"No. There is nothing more to work out," Roderich said sharply. "Tell me," he added in a softer voice, "How is everyone else? Have you told them about the 5th yet?"

The 5th. It was a simple date, no different than the 6th or the 7th. But even the thought of it hurt the both of them. "Lilli thinks she's coming to Normandy with me for work," Francis said. "I can't bear to tell the recruits, not when they've got their hopes up for a mission of their own. Lukas and Natalya are making plans to blow up half of Vienna. Mathias is rather calm about it." Francis looked back up at Roderich. "I guess we're the only two that are worried."

"I wouldn't call myself worried. Death is such a strange idea to me that I don't feel much of anything. Sure, my life's been in danger for years, but now it's in danger. Mathias said this was going to be a suicide mission. And frankly, I don't have any idea what's worse: killing myself or letting someone else take care of it for me."

"Don't say things like that," Francis said.

"You want me to act like nothing's wrong?" Roderich asked. "Are you saying I should deny that I'm going to be dead in a matter of days?"

"I don't want to think about you…about all of us in that way."

"You said it yourself, Francis. You cannot hide from the inevitable. And what's avoiding it going to do? It won't save us."

"Don't you realize how hard this is for me?" Francis said. "For the first time since I came here, I can't save anyone. I've tried to come up with plans to get you out of this, to at least give someone the chance to live. There's nothing I can do. It's up to fate to tell us who will survive."

Roderich blinked a few times. Did he understand?

"You, Francis Bonnefoy, have given up?" he asked. "You've just given up on us?"

"There's nothing I can do!"

"There's always something. Even if it ends with us dying, so be it. At least you've tried!"

"I don't want failure, Roderich," Francis said, clenching his hands into fists. "I want someone to walk out of this alive!"

"If you wanted someone to live so badly, you would have never given up," Roderich said. "You have to try."

"What is there to try?"

"Send Lilli to Switzerland. Alone. She's old enough to go by herself."

Francis shook his head. "I told Basch I would keep her safe. That's too big of a –"

"Too big of a risk?" Roderich interrupted, flashing Francis a mocking grin. "So moving to Vienna and making a business out of lying wasn't a risk? Getting mixed in with the Gestapo wasn't a risk? Finding me wasn't a risk? The sabotage business we've been running for three years wasn't a risk? What is a risk to you?"

"You don't understand. I promised Basch. If he ever found out that I sent Lilli to Switzerland on her own, he would kill me."

"Francis, he would think you did the right thing. I'm sure he would much rather have Lilli safe than the two of you dead."

"I can't go back on a promise like that," Francis said, hating himself for sounding like a broken record. What else was there to say?

"You can't break a dead man's promise? Those are the easiest."

"Don't say that."

"Don't say what?" Roderich came up to Francis, his smile gone. "That Basch is dead? You don't believe that he's alive after years in wherever he is, if he wasn't shot first?"

"Basch is smart. He could get himself out of anything," Francis stammered. "You're wrong."

"Basch may be smart, but intelligence means nothing to a bullet."

Francis took a step back, too stunned to do anything more. "Shut up. Just shut up."

"Then you do something about Lilli! I won't stay here and watch you kill that girl because you're loyal to a dead man. You don't see me keeping my father's promises, do you? Please, for the love of God, Francis, do not kill Lilli. I don't care if you can't save anyone else. Do not give up on her. She deserves more than any of us."

"We all deserve the chance to live," Francis said, his voice shaking. "It's not just Lilli."

"That girl hasn't seen a world without a war. All she knows here is hate and bloodshed. I want her to have the same memories you and I do, of a country without Hitler," Roderich said. "I want her to have a life that is not centered around the Nazis or sabotage or anything of that sort. And if you're not going to give her that life, then I'll do it myself."

Francis tried to find the words to fight with; he drew a blank. How could he argue with Roderich, the man who once sat in the same room as Adolf Hitler and set fire to the Reichstag? Roderich was a wall that couldn't be broken. He saw too much in his lifetime to let a few words shake him.

"Well?" Roderich folded his arms over his chest. "Are you going to do it yourself or leave it up to a stupid Jew?"

"I'll…I'll get her to Switzerland," Francis said, feeling the weight of Basch's promise be lifted from his shoulders. If Basch wasn't dead, he would strangle Francis when he found out. "I have a man or two who can meet her there and take care of her for me."

It caught Francis by total surprise when Roderich pulled him into a hug.

"Lord, I am so sorry for everything I said," he whispered, holding tight to Francis like he might disappear. "I didn't want to bring Basch into this, I promise."

"Don't apologize. You probably saved Lilli's life."

"You aren't mad at me, are you?" Roderich asked, letting Francis go. "I completely understand if you don't want to talk to me after this."

"No, no, you're fine. I'm glad I came over here to talk with you," Francis said. "I could have killed Lilli, being so stubborn like that."

"You had a good reason to be stubborn. If it was me, I wouldn't want to break a promise to Basch."

"I should have broken it a long time ago, though," Francis admitted. "Then we wouldn't have to do this."

"It's good you can keep a promise, Francis. You're not like me. I've broken at least five promises in the past week," Roderich said with a smile. "You're already doing better than I am."

"If you don't mind me asking, what were you doing here that was so terrible?"

Roderich took a deep breath, as if mentally preparing himself for whatever he was going to say. "Can you keep a secret? And I mean it this time. You cannot tell anyone or I'm going to be dead before the 5th."

"I wouldn't dare to tell anyone," Francis replied.

"I've been drinking since Christmas of 1941 and hiding it from everyone. I'm hungover right now and my hands are bandaged because I broke a bottle upstairs when I heard you knock and cut my hands open," Roderich said, holding up his hands shamefully.

"I think I'm in love with Elizabeta, or at least her voice," he continued. "We've been talking every Sunday since '42. I started calling her liebchen as a joke and it's turned into less of a joke and more of a truth. I'm scared of dying and yet I've thought of taking my life at least a hundred times. And I want to be Roderich Edelstein again instead of the bastard I am now. That's why I've been hiding." He looked over at Francis. "I'm sick of being not-Jewish, if that's a word. If I'm going to die in four days, I'm going to die as myself."

Francis wished he wouldn't have asked.

"I suppose you're mad," Roderich said. "Go ahead, yell at me. Give me my last lecture."

"I don't want to yell," Francis said, still a little startled by everything that happened that morning. "Can we talk how we used to talk? Before the war and everything. I liked it when you would take me to a café and we would talk about air raid sirens and politics and people and whatever else was on our minds. And I never realized what you were saying, and you would explain it over and over. I want you to explain that to me like you used to do."

Vergeltungswaffe.

The can of paint slipped from Ivan's hand, hitting the floor with a crash. White paint splashed up onto the steel plate, speckling the dark grey with flecks of ivory. Ivan didn't notice; he couldn't tear his eyes from the sixteen letters.

"What is it, Braginsky?" Frau Moyer said, putting her book down on her lap. She didn't bother to get up from her place by the open doors, choosing to glare at him from across the room. Lately, she'd taken to ignoring Ivan more than usual, never speaking to him unless he did something wrong. "Christ, what have you done now? We don't have time for this. That is supposed to be shipped out in two days."

Ivan kept staring at the word he painted on the panel, watching a teardrop of white run down from the s. "Vengeance weapon," he whispered in Russian. No, that could not have been right. Something was lost in translation.

"I can't understand you. Speak in German or don't speak."

"It was nothing of importance," Ivan said quickly, snatching a rag up from the table beside him. "I was only cursing myself for being so clumsy." With a shaking hand he wiped away the paint splashes, returning the steel to its polished glory. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"Can't you go a day without causing some sort of disturbance?" Frau Moyer muttered under her breath as she went back to her book. Ivan swallowed a reply; it was always better to keep quiet than to be heard.

"Can I go back to your office to get more paint?" Ivan asked, stumbling over the German words he was so confident with. "I'll clean up the rest of this when I come back."

"If you must. Can I trust you to go without a guard?"

"Yes, Frau Moyer."

"Then go. You have five minutes before I send a man after you."

Ivan muttered a thank you – or maybe it was an excuse me, he wasn't paying attention – and left the hangar almost running.

"Vergeltungswaffe," Ivan said to himself as he walked down the twisting hallways back to the office. He knew vergeltung: vengeance. Germans loved to use the word; vengeance for the Great War, vengeance for the Russians, vengeance for the Jews. And waffe was easy. Germans were just as fond of weapons as they were vengeance.

But surely Ivan made an awful mistake. Although he spoke fluent German and knew both words, mistakes were always possible. The one way to be sure was to find the classified papers.

He came to Frau Moyer's office, making a quick check for the guards that seemed to appear whenever Ivan was in the vicinity. It was like they could sense when Ivan was about to do something questionable and immediately found him. Seeing as the hallway was empty, pushed open the office door and slipped inside.

"Who are you?"

Ivan turned to face the voice, his fists held up out of instinct. A short technician stared back at Ivan, his hands trembling as he pressed a folder to his chest. He seemed more scared of Ivan than Ivan was of him – after all, Ivan was twice his size. However, he was a German and Germans had the authority.

"I'm sorry, sir. I did not know you were in here." Ivan hung his head in practiced shame, a surefire way to be overlooked as another lowly prisoner. "I am following Frau Moyer's orders."

"You mean you're not part of the project? You're in worker uniform," the technician noted. "Where's your ID?"

"I have no ID. Frau Moyer gave me this to wear while I painted," Ivan said, pulling at the rough canvas of the uniform. "I was coming back here for paint, sir. You see, I'm sort of clumsy and I dropped the last can we had in the hangar."

The man took a deep breath, pulling the folder away from him. "You're from the camp, aren't you? My, you're rather large for a prisoner. Most of the ones I see here are skin and bones."

"No, sir. I am a Russian from a POW camp," Ivan said, pulling down the sleeve of the worker uniform. Strapped around his arm was an armband with POW written crudely on the fabric. "See? I come from Stalag XVIII-A in Wolfsberg. Not a concentration camp."

The technician nodded. "Very well, then. Carry on." He walked past Ivan, keeping his head held high. Ivan happened to look down at the folder in his arms, a thick one with Projekt Auto written on the front. The exact folder Frau Moyer carefully built over the past month.

"Are you supposed to have that?" Ivan put a hand over his mouth, remembering he wasn't supposed to speak out of line. The technician flinched, looking back at Ivan with worry. Did he seriously think Ivan was going to attack him?

"Yes. I am mailing it to Berlin," he explained with a tremor in his words. "The launch is in eleven days and they need the plans by tomorrow. And I suggest that if you want to make it out of this factory without a visa to Mauthausen, you should keep your mouth shut."

"I'm terribly sorry, sir."

"Don't be sorry. I'm trying to help you. I'd hate to see someone like you go to waste. You're not concentration camp material yet." With that, the technician carried on down the hall and disappeared around the corner.

Ivan felt a terrible amount of dread come over him, and not from the thought of a concentration camp. He went back into the office, locking the door once more and going over to the drawer where the manuals and blueprints for Project Auto were kept. Frau Moyer was very defensive of the stack of papers, often slapping Ivan away if he got too close to them. He wrenched the drawer open, amazed to find it unlocked. Grabbing a manual from the top of the pile, Ivan opened it to the first page – the project outline. Vergeltungswaffe was printed in bold in the middle of the page. Did he want to read past that word?

"The V-1 launch date is 14 June, 1944," he read aloud. "All test models must be sent to the site by 7 June, 1944. Any military producer who fails to comply will be court martialed and shot for treason. Any civilian producer will be immediately arrested and dealt with accordingly."

The vague description made things ten times worse. Ivan flipped through the rest of the booklet, searching for a more detailed explanation of what a V-1 was. For all he knew, it could be something as menacing as a new tank or as simple as a radar. Whatever a vergeltungswaffe was, it was not good.

A note slipped out from the booklet, fluttering to the desk. Ivan snatched it up, startled to find a general's name printed at the top of the page. He knew Frau Moyer had lots of odd contacts; he never heard of a General Hauptmann.

On 7 June, 1944, the V-1 rocket will be taken to testing facilities in France, the note started in sharp military handwriting. If approved, the rocket will be sent on to London. We are expecting it to do mass civilian damage during the test runs and possibly run military attacks by the end of June.

Your instructions for your workers are as follows:

Colonel Ivan Braginsky, serial number 202870, must be executed on 7 June, 1944. A firing squad can be summoned if necessary. No records will remain of his work at the Graz munitions factory. His prisoner records are to be destroyed. Everything in his possession will be destroyed as well. Anyone who was aware of Colonel Ivan Braginsky's work will be executed, including the commandant of Stalag XVIII-A in Wolfsberg. His replacement will be able to take over at –

The note fell out of Ivan's hand. He stared at the note until everything else became blurred, his pulse drumming in his ears. Ivan picked the note back up, shoving it in his pocket. He couldn't bear to read any more of it, however, part of him thought that maybe Frau Moyer would forget if she did not have the note.

Ivan slumped down into the chair before his legs gave out, holding his head in his hands. Tears stung at his eyes and his hands would not stop shaking. The world felt as if it stopped. His thoughts were empty and his vision was a mess of colours. There was no escape, no quick way out like the troubles he'd run into before. He was going to die, and that was final.

Frau Moyer thought she could hide everything from Ivan, even his own death.

She forgot that Ivan was not a typical mindless Soviet soldier. He was a criminal and a thief who escaped every arrest. He outsmarted a German scientist. He found ways around everything, searched through everything until he found a loophole. Ivan was not going to let Frau Moyer use him for one more damn minute, even if it killed him.

He snatched up a pair of pliers and a wrench from the desk, going off into the adjoining room where the pieces of the vergeltungswaffe were waiting. The pieces that were designed by his hands to kill his allies. With shaking hands Ivan turned on the lights, picking a larger piece of rocket internals.

Rage, unfortunately, was Ivan's best attribute. Paired with his ability to memorize nearly anything, anger made for quite a powerful weapon. Ivan knew exactly what wires he had to cut, what parts needed to be torn out, and which circuits were irreplaceable. He could destroy a month's work in two minutes.

Ivan pushed open the cover of the delicate wires, cutting two of the delicate tendrils. He took out a mess of relays and smashed a fragile piece against the stone floor. And as gently as he had first built them, Ivan covered the ruined internals with a sheet and put them back in their exact place.

He did the same with another clump of metal and wires. And another. And another.

Before he knew it, he was out of rocket pieces to sabotage. He was left with a pile of scraps and a huge anger swelling in his chest. Ivan gathered up the scraps, tucking them into the last empty cavity that used to hold the radar for the rocket. He sealed it up and put it back against the wall, walking out of the room calmly as if nothing happened.

Ivan grabbed a can of white paint from by the door and went off to finish what was left of the vergeltungswaffe.

Gilbert closed his eyes, listening to the gunshots.

Eins.

Zwei.

Drei.

Vier.

Four shots for four escapees. Gilbert found himself thankful that they were Russian escapees – the Soviets did not get the full detailed reports like the British and the French. He would have to add their names to the records, make an illegible scribble by their name, and pretend to look for surviving family members. Of all the deaths, Soviets were the easiest. Gilbert would rather have a thousand Soviets die than one Frenchman.

"We're playing from the office to the fence," Alfred said, bringing Gilbert back to the dusty strip of dirt between the barracks. "No tacklin' Raivis, but the commandant's fair game."

"Why can't they tackle me?" Raivis asked, looking up at Alfred. "I'm strong, I can handle it."

"Kid, you'll break in two if someone like Arthur so much as touches you," Alfred said as he ruffled Raivis' golden curls. Raivis grumbled something about being eighteen – or so he thought he turned eighteen in November. He was rather small for an eighteen-year-old, small enough that everyone could pick him up.

"Hey, Commandant, did you tell your guards what we're doing?" Sadik asked. "I don't want to get shot."

"Yes, they know. It's not my fault if they don't follow my orders, though."

"That's reassuring," Alfred said, glancing at the guard towers. "Okay, guys, don't hit Commandant too hard or you might get shot. If one of you assholes throw my football over the fence again, you owe me a new one and half your next Red Cross package. I'm not responsible for any blood, broken bones, or deaths."

"What are you responsible for?" Arthur said. "Come on, I don't want to be here all night listening to you ramble on."

"Just for that, my team's got the kickoff. Toris, are you sure you don't want to play?" Alfred asked. "We could always use another man."

Toris, who had been quietly writing in a worn journal, slammed the book closed and looked up. "No, I'm good keeping score," he assured him, his face bright red. "Besides, I'm worse than Raivis. I'm not smart enough to understand what's going on."

"Stop it. American football's the easiest sport in the world. You don't have to be smart to play it."

"That says a lot about America, doesn't it?" Heracles said in perfect German to Raivis.

"Shut up, Karpusi. Let's hurry up and get this game going," Alfred said, tossing the ball to Arthur. "There you go, Eyebrows. Kick it. And don't mess up this time."

Sunday nights were Gilbert's favourite; he went as far as finishing his work so he could play American football with Barracks Two. Their field was a dirt path between the rows of barracks, since the Europeans claimed the actual field as theirs and refused to let the Americans go near it. Gilbert didn't mind playing in the alley, although grass would have made for a lot less bruises. The roughness of it all reminded Gilbert of the games he would play with Ludwig when they were younger, which always ended in a fight.

Stalag XVIII-A was no different. Before it got dark, someone would be shouting. Alfred said it was because everyone was so mad at each other, and football was a good way to let out some of that aggression. Gilbert figured it was because everyone liked a fight. Whatever the reason was, it was easy to tell who was angry with who by how hard they tackled each other.

And so the game carried on, just a few hundred meters from where four Russians had been shot that evening. Alfred tried to explain plays to Sadik, Arthur, and Gilbert as the guards carried the bodies off to be thrown in a mass grave. Heracles scored the touchdown that tied the game as the brick wall where the executions took place was cleaned off in case someone came on a surprise inspection.

Despite so much evil going on around them, there was a small bright spot between the barracks. A hope made with American football.

"Hey, Alfred," Gilbert said as he pushed Heracles off of him, "Is it legal to punch someone?"

"Legal? Herr Commandant, this is nowhere close to legal football. The other team's on their first and eighth," Alfred said as he gestured to the other team. Gilbert nodded and acted like he knew what a first and eighth was. "This is street football. As long as you're not trying to kill someone, you can do about anything."

"Alright. Karpusi, the next time you touch me, I'm going to beat your brains out," Gilbert snapped.

Heracles shrugged. "Ich verstehe nicht," he said in broken German.

"You speak better German than some of those Jerries," Arthur said. "Stop acting dumb."

"I do not want to understand you," Heracles said matter-of-factly.

"Referee Laurinaitis, will you please disqualify Heracles?" Sadik asked. Toris looked to Alfred for help, the American offering a confused smile in reply.

"I don't believe I can disqualify someone for not speaking fluent German," Toris said. "Sorry."

"Oh, you're no fun," Gilbert said right as a truck pulled into the gravel drive. Strange, he didn't order any patrols that day. The truck wasn't from Stalag XVIII-A either – it bore the name of a satellite camp of a stalag in Slovenia. He didn't recognize the driver or the guard that got out of the back of the truck.

He did recognize Ivan getting out of the truck in handcuffs.

"Shit, I have to go," Gilbert said, grabbing his uniform jacket from where he'd left it in the dirt. He ran up to the front porch, running his hands through his hair and trying to wipe all the dirt off his clothes. When he went inside, the guards were leaving, Elizabeta looked incredibly mad with Gilbert, and Ivan was nowhere to be seen.

"What?" Gilbert asked, feeling like he'd done something wrong.

"Ivan saw the executed prisoners' bodies," Elizabeta said. "He's in your office and he is not happy." She went back to the phone, ignoring Gilbert and his thousands of questions.

"Did I know them, Herr Commandant?" Ivan said when Gilbert came into the office. He was rubbing his wrists, trying to hide the deep red marks from the handcuffs.

"No, you wouldn't have. They were new and a little too hopeful," Gilbert replied, throwing his jacket over the back of his chair. It was too hot for military perfection.

"Is that what it's called?" Ivan asked. "Wanting to survive and make it out of this war alive is having a little too much hope for you Germans?"

"Yes, it is. They had no reason to escape," Gilbert said. "So, why were you in handcuffs when you came in here? I don't believe I got a call today from the factory."

Ivan gave Gilbert a clenched smile. "Herr Commandant, I don't believe you understand what's happening here. Soviets are being killed for nothing. Their only hope of living is by escaping. No matter how many of them you execute, they are going to keep trying." He leaned over the desk and pushed reports away, his eyes flashing with anger. "We're resilient, Herr Commandant. If a Russian has to climb over the bodies of his people to get free, he will."

"They can continue to kill themselves or start behaving. I don't care. I will kill as many of them as I need to make a point."

"Would you kill Toris?" Ivan asked in a low voice. "Would you kill Raivis? Would you kill me? We're Soviets."

"I would shoot you in a heartbeat," Gilbert replied without hesitating.

"What about everyone else?"

"Toris would be easy to kill. Raivis doesn't have legal papers. I could do anything with that boy and there would be no laws to protect him," Gilbert said. "Murder is the one crime the army doesn't look down on. I could get away with a lot."

"You're lying to them, Herr Commandant," Ivan snarled, grabbing Gilbert by his collar and pulling him close. Gilbert put a hand on his pistol, hoping he wouldn't have to resort to violence. He'd had enough violence for the night. "You act like you love them, and all you want is to kill them so you can get promoted. I saw you out there, playing with them and earning their trust. You say that I'm insane. I don't think I'm anywhere close to being as mad as you are."

"It's not insanity. It's strategy. Tell me about the handcuffs."

"Strategy?" Ivan laughed, letting Gilbert go. "Oh, yes, murder is a strategy. Murder of innocent people who believe you are protecting them! Murder of innocent people who care for you more than you know! Murder of people who obey your every command and look up to you even though you're the enemy!" He slammed his hands down on Gilbert's desk. "Tell them, you sick bastard. Go out there and tell them that you couldn't care less about their miserable lives."

"I do care about them, Braginsky. However, when push comes to shove, I will have no trouble killing them," Gilbert said. "If the Reich wants me to kill them, I will."

Ivan grinned again, standing up straight. "I didn't think I was talking to Ludwig Beilschmidt. Has the Reich gotten into your head too, Herr Commandant? Are you another mindless slave like your brother?"

"I'm loyal," Gilbert said, feeling his heart sink. He sounded exactly like Ludwig, like the too-loyal soldiers Gilbert used to laugh at.

"Sure you are."

"This is not about me, Braginsky. Why did you come here in handcuffs?"

"I found out they were going to kill me when I got done working at the factory," Ivan said. "And so I refused to work. They saw me as unruly and sent me back here for your discipline. Go ahead and shoot me now so I don't have to put up with your lies."

"They were going to kill you?" Gilbert said; he did not remember that from the contract.

"And you, too. Anyone who knew about my work was going to die. How's that for German loyalty, Herr Commandant?"

"Goodbye, Christian."

Francis half-heartedly smiled. "Adieu. It was fun while it lasted, von Wolffe. Maybe we can meet up sometime after the war. I'd love to take you to Paris in the spring. Everything is so beautiful during springtime."

"Ja, spring would be good." Roderich would be dead long before spring. And yet he forced himself to agree, forced himself to say happy parting words instead of all the sad things he wanted to pour out before Francis was gone forever. Before Roderich was gone forever.

"You should see the Tuileries Garden with me. My father would always take me there in the spring, before he left us." Francis laughed to himself; Roderich would never hear that wonderful laugh again. "What a horrible thing to say before I leave you," he added. "I'm not going to be like my father and run out on you."

"I wouldn't mind if you did. Everyone else has already run out on me."

"Don't say that," Francis said, growing serious. "You have so many people who are here for you. They would die for you. I would die for you."

"Was that a compliment?" Roderich asked, blinking back tears.

"Yes, it was. You are going to Headquarters tonight, aren't you?"

"I'll tell them what you wanted me to."

"And you'll take care of the house?"

"I'll do what I can, but you've left your house in Feliks and Eduard's hands. I can't promise there will be a house when you return," Roderich said.

"You have your keys Basch gave you, right?" Francis said, seeming to regret giving Feliks and Eduard full control. "In case you need anything."

Roderich nodded, feeling a stray tear roll down his face.

"Oh, dear, don't cry. It'll be fine," Francis said, as if he wasn't on the verge of tears himself.

"You're going to be gone forever," Roderich said. "This is the last time I'm ever going to see you or Lilli."

"No, this will not be the end. You will find a way to survive this, Roderich von Wolffe. Fight for your life. Whatever you do, don't give up quite yet. There's always something you try."

Roderich said those words only two days ago to Francis. Two days ago, when everything was fine and death was still a faraway thought. Roderich would give anything to go back to that day. He could have said so much more than he did.

"God, Christian, have I ever told you how much I love you?" Roderich asked, wiping away his tears. "Because I love you ten times more right now."

"I feel the same." Francis put his suitcase down, pulling Roderich into a hug. Roderich buried his face in Francis' shoulder, taking in everything about Francis. His expensive black-market cologne, his soft golden curls that were too long for the Nazi's liking, his strong arms and shoulders – Roderich tried to remember every detail.

"What am I going to do without you, Francis?" Roderich asked. "I can't make it another day."

"Of course you can, mon cher. It's just one day more."

"I'm going to be shot or hung tomorrow."

"Or you're going to live. There is always that option."

Roderich looked up at Francis. "I love you and your optimism."

"I love you too," Francis said with a smile, letting Roderich go. "You remember that, Roderich. I will always be here for you as long as I live."

"Thank you." Roderich turned to Lilli, feeling rude for ignoring her for so long. The poor girl was already sobbing – Roderich put his arms around her and pulled her close. She was so grown up, a completely different girl from the tiny fourteen-year-old Roderich ran into so many years before. Who knew what she could do with the rest of her life?

"Be good," Roderich said, stroking Lilli's blonde hair. He'd learned how to braid with Lilli's hair, the girl teaching him all sorts of fancy things that didn't come out right when Roderich tried them. "Do you hear me? You do everything Christian says. He knows what's good for you."

"Oh, Herr von Wolffe, how am I supposed to do this?" Lilli asked. "I can't leave Vienna. I can't even speak French."

"Christian will teach you. He taught me."

"I taught you the curses," Francis corrected with a smile.

"Close enough," Roderich said. "Trust me, Lilli, you will be fine. I promise you everything will be alright. You're almost seventeen. Why, soon you'll have a boyfriend and then you'll be married and before you know it, you'll have a family of your own. You won't need some old bastard like me."

"Roderich, we have to go," Francis said, gesturing to the train that had pulled in.

"Goodbye, Lilli. I'll see you sometime in the future." Hopefully not soon, Roderich said to himself.

"Goodbye, Herr von Wolffe," Lilli said as she gave Roderich another hug. "I'll miss you the most."

Francis handed Roderich the envelope with the train tickets, a ring, and a letter from Natalya. His last mastermind plan. Roderich and Francis worked on the plan late into the previous night and put the final details in hours ago. Operation Elizabeta, they'd jokingly named it. "Good luck, Roderich. You're going to need it."

The last few goodbyes were bittersweet and painful. Roderich stood on the platform and watched as Lilli and Francis disappeared into the train. He forced back tears – for he was alone now, and crying would have made him look especially weak. And as the train left, Roderich held himself together. He stood still and did not cry and did not think and did not do anything other than breathe.

The man who saved his life was gone. The girl who he protected like his own daughter was gone.

And he was dying tomorrow morning.

Roderich turned around and left the station. He walked in the opposite direction from his home, towards the big park where the Danube River cut through Vienna. He didn't stop walking when he reached the park. Roderich kept going, his mind empty and his heart broken. Even though he wanted to go home, Roderich promised he would go to Gestapo Headquarters for Francis.

He was almost sad as he walked up the steps to Gestapo Headquarters; he would never come to the mortifying building again to ask Ludwig to go drinking. Roderich stopped in the doorway, tearing open the envelope. There were the train tickets, the letter, and –

The ring was not in the package. The key element to getting married was missing. Roderich looked around, wondering if he dropped it. Sure enough, there was a gold band on the steps next to his foot. He snatched it up and slipped it over his ring finger, not remembering the ring being so big. Roderich was sure Francis found one at least close to his size; the ring gapped and nearly slid off his finger when he put his hand down. And it had tiny swastika imprints – Roderich was certain the ring Francis got was a plain band.

Oh well, he thought to himself as he walked inside. If anything, it's more believable. Francis outdid himself on that one.

"Guten Abend, Herr von Wolffe," the tired secretary said, looking ready to quit her job. "Kriminaldirektor Beilschmidt is still here, if you're looking for him."

"Danke," Roderich said as he headed off down the hall. He didn't bother to knock; Ludwig wouldn't care.

"Roderich?" Ludwig sounded as tired as the secretary when he got up, his blue eyes clouded with sleep. "What are you doing here? My God, what happened?"

Roderich held up his hand, pasting on a smile and praying his eyes weren't red. "I'm getting married. Tomorrow, in Paris."

"To that French model, right?" Ludwig said, pretending he'd forgotten her name. "Or is there another affair I should know about?"

"Adeline," Roderich said as he took the letter Natalya begrudgingly wrote from his pocket. He handed it over to Ludwig, who took a long time to read it. Roderich couldn't be sure if he was planning something or so tired he couldn't read.

"Congratulations," Ludwig said, handing the letter back to Roderich.

"Would you like to come celebrate with me?" Roderich asked. It was the last time he would ever ask Ludwig to come drink with him, and Roderich wouldn't miss it. "Mathias is taking me out and he said I could bring you along."

"Sure. I don't have work tomorrow, thank God," Ludwig said, putting away the last of his work. Roderich couldn't resist a grin.

Operation Elizabeta was a go.

History notes:

Vergeltungswaffe (V-1): The V-1 rocket was an autopiloted bomb made by Germany specifically for attacks against Britain. It was 25 feet long and had a wing span of 16 feet. Loaded with fuel, it weighed 2 tons and it had a warhead of 2,000 lbs of explosives. They had a maximum range of 250 miles, meaning they had to be launched from either France or the Netherlands. The first V-1 launched on June 13, 1944. Until March of 1945, 10,500 V-1 rockets were launched at Britain.

Stalag football: In stalags like Stalag XVIII-A there was a lot of free time, so many prisoners organized their own sort of sports. Most of the time there were very few rules, as it was more of a way to stay sane than to compete. Some stalags did have a field for prisoners, but the size of the fields led to fights between prisoners. If you ever have a chance to play street football or baseball, do it!

Tuileries Garden: The Tuileries Garden is a huge public garden in Paris between the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde. Originally it was the gardens for the Place de la Concorde before being opened to the public in 1667. There's lots of beautiful statues and flowers and ponds – it's the ideal place for any painter. The Arc de Triomphe is also nearby, if you're into that.

I'm so sorry this is a day late, I had an interview for an exchange program yesterday and wow, was it a long day!

Thank you's go out to Violet Thropp, WonderfulWondyWorld, EllaAwkward, and my lovely Swing-Stole-My-Heart! Thank you all for putting up with me!

See you all next chapter!