His city was silent the morning of June 5th, as if it knew.
Roderich stood at the window, watching his final sunrise. How many times did he watch the sunrise before he died? It was such an everyday thing that he hadn't bothered to pay attention to it before. Now Roderich found himself wishing that he would have done more of the little things like watching a sunrise. There were so many things he thought were unimportant that became very precious in a matter of days. Seeing things through a dying man's eyes changed everything; he wished he could have realized it sooner.
"It's weird to think I'll never see this hellhole again," Mathias said. "I just started liking the place, too. Austria isn't half bad."
Roderich turned away from the window, watching Mathias wrestle his shirt on. "I wish you would have come here before the war," Roderich said. "Austria used to be beautiful."
"Everywhere used to be beautiful," Mathias corrected. "War turns any place into a mess. My dad sent me a picture of Hanstholm, where I grew up with Lukas. I remembered it being this cute fishing village. In the picture, half the houses are boarded up. Everyone's left for Sweden, where they won't feel like so much of a traitor to their own damn country. Because God forbid Denmark actually stand up for itself for once. We gave into the Nazis after thirty minutes."
The room went quiet, Mathias looking down at the impeccably clean floorboards. "Sorry," he said. "I talk too much. I didn't mean to get so pissed about it."
"It's fine," Roderich assured him. "I didn't know any of that. And today is a good day to learn. Do you have anything else you want to tell me before we go? I'm happy to listen."
"One time Lukas and I tried to steal a boat and run away to Norway," Mathias started with a smile. "It didn't work that well. We stole the boat; that was the easy part. We made it all the way to Norway before Lukas remembers I can't speak Norwegian and we have about twenty kroner between the two of us. We bought a huge salmon as an apology and made the hour trip home," he said, his grin fading.
"I told my parents that Lukas and I went to a nearby town. I was too scared to say I'd gone to Norway. I guess they won't ever find out about it," he said. "That's kind of depressing."
Mathias' parents would never hear his stories. They would never see their son's stupid smile. They would never have the chance to say goodbye to him.
"It was nice while it lasted," Roderich said.
"It was. I wish everything was still like that."
"Don't we all?" Roderich twisted the ring on his finger, the ring for an imaginary wedding to a woman he did not love. "Are you ready to go?"
Mathias smiled again. "Only if you are."
Ludwig's house was always clean and vacant looking. The powder blue hallway was empty of the odd things most people liked to hang up, each doorknob free of smudges. The floor was too clean for someone who came home with blood on his clothes and owned a white dog. Everything that could be seen was neat and orderly, as if Ludwig was waiting for some important guest to walk in at any minute.
If there was such thing as the personification of German stereotypes, Ludwig had to be it.
"I'll run over and get the radio started up," Mathias said in a low voice. "You get the gun. Do you have the music ready?"
Roderich nodded. Mathias gave him a playful shove and a Viel Glück before disappearing around the corner. Moments later, Roderich heard the front door close; Mathias was already running off to Roderich's house.
Roderich looked back at the hall, feeling his heart sink. It wasn't in the plan to wake up at Ludwig's house. When they were writing up Operation Elizabeta, Francis said it would be better if they could ditch Ludwig and go to Roderich's house. Ludwig made different plans for them; he could be so manipulative, even when he was drunk. And although Mathias and Roderich were completely sober, they figured it was better to follow along with Ludwig than get shot.
"Ludwig?" Roderich called, knocking on the door he knew was Ludwig's. He spent so many nights there that some weeks he felt like he was living with Ludwig.
"You're already awake?" Ludwig's tired voice replied. "That's rather impressive for you. Please, come in."
Roderich bit his lip –Ludwig destroyed another plan by simply being Ludwig. Mathias and Roderich were counting on Ludwig still being asleep. He pushed open the door, not one bit surprised to find Ludwig getting ready for work. That man would not let one day get away from him.
"Good morning," Ludwig said. "When is your train leaving for Paris?"
"At 6:30. I wanted to tell you goodbye before I left, although I didn't think you would be awake. I guess I was wrong."
"I've gone to work with a broken arm before. Hochstetter returned two days after he was shot in the heart. I won't let something like a hangover get me in trouble with the superiors."
"You're so good it almost hurts me," Roderich said. "Can't you do something wrong and give the rest of us a chance?"
Ludwig shook his head. "I can't help who I am." He smoothed out his uniform as if it wasn't good enough for him already. "You should probably get going. I would hate for you to miss your train."
"Ja, I should. It was nice knowing you, Ludwig," Roderich said with semi-honesty. Over the past three years, he had come to call Ludwig an odd sort of friend. Of course, Roderich hid a lot from Ludwig, but there were lots of other things he could trust the kriminaldirektor with. In a sense, that made them friends.
"Will you be coming back?" Ludwig asked, looking straight ahead at the mirror.
"Maybe," Roderich said. "I'm afraid I won't be seeing you for a long time, though."
"I understand. If I were you, I wouldn't want to ever come back here. Be careful out there, please. I won't be in Paris to carry you home," Ludwig said, grabbing his pistol from his nightstand and shoving it in his holster. Roderich was supposed to take out the pistol's firing pin – so much for that idea.
"No, you won't. Thank you for everything you've done for me here. I would be dead without you," Roderich said, cursing himself for not stealing Ludwig's gun while he could. He missed the opportunity to give himself time to live.
"Thank you for taking care of me," Ludwig said. "You were the first person I met here. If I didn't have you, I have no idea where I would be. Thank you for trusting me, even though I work for the Gestapo. And I'm so sorry about everything I've done…especially your father."
Roderich felt like he'd been slapped. "No, don't apologize," he said, forcing himself into composure. "You did what you had to. I don't blame you for anything."
"You should. I was the one who reopened the case a few weeks ago. My brother started talking about it and then he said…Oh, I'm sorry," Ludwig apologized, his face going red. "I didn't mean to bring this up. You should go before I make things worse."
"Don't worry about it," Roderich said, truly meaning it. "You haven't done anything wrong. Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Beilschmidt."
"Auf Weidersehen, Herr von Wolffe. I hope everything goes well for you, wherever you end up."
"I hope I can see you after this war."
Roderich left knowing he would be seeing a different side of Ludwig in a few hours. At least he ended things on a happy note, before he was looking down the barrel of a Luger.
"Roderich, is that you?" Mathias called when Roderich came into his house.
"Yes. Sorry, there were problems with Ludwig. I didn't get the gun."
"Whatever, it probably wouldn't have worked anyway. Come in here. We've got Francis on the phone."
The living room was indescribable. There were no words to describe the mess of wires and machinery Mathias and Lukas set up, no words to use for the feeling of dread that hung over them. Natalya was on the phone, speaking perfect French. Lukas and Mathias were together as always, arguing about where a cable should go. Feliks and Eduard were thankfully quiet, as someone must have told them what was happening. And Roderich was in the middle of the too awful for words catastrophe.
"Francis says he's waiting on some American to give them the go-ahead," Natalya said, looking up at Roderich. "It's raining in Normandy and they're not sure they can make it. If it were Russians invading instead of the Englanders, we would not have this problem. Russians would cross the sea in the middle of a hurricane."
"I swear to God, if this gets cancelled…" Mathias didn't bother to finish his sentence, as everyone was thinking the same thing.
"At least we won't be dead immediately," Roderich said, sitting down beside Natalya. "Have you picked out a nice suit for the wedding, Herr Arlovskya?"
"I'll borrow one of yours, fräulein. And I see Francis found you a ring." Natalya grabbed his hand, pulling it closer. "Shame, it doesn't match mine." She held up her own ring ringer, showing off the alexandrite ring Roderich bought her a few Christmases ago. "I do like the swastikas. It's very Nazi of you." She slipped the oversized ring from his finger, looking it over.
"It feels wrong to wear a ring," Roderich said. "And especially one that's marrying me to you."
"I feel the same way." Natalya stared at a certain spot in the ring where the swastikas didn't quite match up with the rest, her eyebrows furrowing together.
"Francis," she said, holding the phone up to her ear, "Où avez-vous obtenu l'anneau de Roderich?" She held up the ring, tapping her thumb on the edge of a swastika.
A tiny spike popped out.
"It's laced with poison," she said. "It can kill a man in a minute. Lots of criminals carry them for a quick escape."
"Are you serious?" Roderich asked, taking the ring from her. Natalya nodded, pushing the spike back into place for Roderich.
"Yes. Francis says he got it from the Gestapo when he was changing out a few old records. You should probably keep that on you for later in case you lose the cyanide," she said as if their death was an everyday topic. "Quelle? Oh, out. Je comprends. Je vais leur dire d'arrêter…Et Lilli?...Bien. J'aime cette fille." Natalya hung up the phone, an almost-smile on her face.
"What is it?" Feliks asked with a bit of hope in his voice.
"Lilli is on her way to Switzerland," she said. "Her train should have just gotten to the border."
"So Lilli gets to live, but not us?" Eduard said, sounding rather offended. Roderich didn't blame him.
"Because you two are way too Russian," Mathias said, shoving a cable into the back of the transmitter. "You would be arrested before you even got out of Vienna. Besides, you get to be with us. We're fun."
"Fun," Feliks muttered, holding his head.
"That's not the best part," Natalya continued. "We get to live another day. The storm is too bad to carry on with the invasion."
"Thank God for rain," Lukas said with the first smile Roderich had seen out of him in a long time.
"Daan, have you seen my shirt?" Basch asked, looking through the footlocker that kept half the barracks' possessions. The other half didn't have anything to call their own. "I swear I was wearing it last night. If this is one of your damn games, I'll have to kill you."
"No. I have not seen it. Maybe Boris took it," Daan replied as he lit up a half-cigarette. Of course he was no help when Basch needed help. Daan only helped when something was in it for him.
"Why would that creep take my clothes?"
"He thinks you're cute," Daan said. "Wants to see you out of uniform. Look at pretty Swiss boy with no shirt."
Basch snatched up a stray shoe, throwing it Daan's way. Daan ducked, letting the shoe hit the wall with a dull thump. "Shut up," Basch snarled, slamming the footlocker closed. "We have roll call in five minutes and if I show up out of uniform again, Boris has to put my name on the list. And I would rather stay off the list."
"Why? I'm on list. I'm not dead."
"I'm sure they'll be killing you soon, if I don't get to you first."
"I have extra jacket. From first camp. They almost look alike," Daan said, going over to his bunk. He pulled a nearly identical grey jacket from under the mattress, taking off his own. Giving his jacket to Basch, he put on the old one. "See? No difference."
"Except you forgot that I'm much shorter than you." Basch pulled on Daan's jacket, his fingertips barely peeking out from the cuffs. "I look like a little kid."
Daan smiled. "Suits you well."
Rollcall started later than usual – which was both good and bad. While a late start meant that Basch and Daan got a few extra minutes of not working, it also meant that a roundup was happening. Roundups were the one thing that scared Basch. Every few weeks, a German officer would prowl up and down the long lines of prisoners, calling off names from a list, prisoners strong enough be used for a project or something worse. The men selected rarely came back, and the ones who returned didn't live very long afterwards.
"Is it June 5th?" Daan tugged on Basch's too long sleeve like a child. Basch ignored him, looking straight ahead at the back of Boris' head. Daan tugged on the sleeve once more.
"Daan, please, not now," Basch whispered, hoping to God that no one saw them. Talking during a roll call warranted a hanging.
"Is it June 5th? We have bet, remember?" Daan insisted. "I want payment."
"It is June 5th. If you don't shut up, you won't live to see the 6th," Boris answered without turning around. Basch saw him glance back for an instant, his worried eyes locking with Daan's.
"Where is the big invasion? Where are Allies?" Daan said. "Your friends are liars. Bad liars."
"They are not."
"Serious?" Daan threw the stump of his cigarette down, grinding it into the gravel. "Because I see no Allies. Boris?" he asked. "You see Allies?"
"I wish. I really, really wish I was seeing the Allies." Boris' voice was shaky and not very Boris-like at all. "Then I wouldn't have to be here with you lot. I could go to Sofia and forget about you two."
"Nothing big happened today. Pay up." Daan stuck out his hand towards Basch. Basch looked at his hand like Daan was asking for him to offer up his heart. He would have rather given up his heart than a chocolate bar.
"The day isn't over yet," Basch said as he shoved Daan's hand away. "Anything could happen between now and tomorrow. You'll have to wait until tomorrow."
"There won't be a tomorrow," Boris whispered, clenching fistfuls of his uniform.
"What's gotten into him?" Basch asked. Daan shrugged, pulling his tin of cigarettes back out of his pocket. He took out a full length one for himself, closed the tin and handed it to Basch. Basch opened it up, startled to find a handful of full cigarettes.
"What's this about?" Basch tried to hand the tin to Daan, but he shoved it away.
"Maybe you were right. Maybe there will be big invasion. That is my payment to you." He nodded towards the tin in Basch's hand. "I hope you like it. Gave me three marks on kill list."
"Hold on, this isn't fair." Basch took one of the chocolate bars from his pocket, handing it to Daan. "There. In case something doesn't happen. We're even."
Daan gently took the chocolate from him, peeling back a corner of the worn gold foil. He broke off a tiny half-melted piece, putting it in his mouth. "Never had German chocolate. Very good. Better than Dutch chocolate. Here, Boris." Daan broke off another piece, giving it to the Bulgarian. "Sorry it is not yogurt."
"Thank you," Boris said with a strange sincerity. Had the roundup gotten to everyone? "Yogurt would have made for a much better send –"
"Report," ordered the sharp voice of the officer in charge of roll call. Boris stood up straight, holding his head high like the German soldiers he denied staring at.
"Barracks 9 has 122 out of 124 prisoners present. 140967 died last night and 140231 is in the infirmary, mein Herr," Boris said in perfect German. Usually he tripped over the words or mixed them up for fun and ended up sitting in the commander's office getting basic German lessons.
"Sehr gut." The German soldier moved on, his heels clicking against the concrete path. About five rows before them, Basch could see the officer in charge of roundups. Soon he would hide in Daan's shadow and pretend to be invisible, praying that no one would call his number.
"Basch, how is Lilli?" Daan asked abruptly. "Is she alright?"
"Why do you care?" Basch replied. Daan wasn't interested in anyone's affairs, save for his own.
"Have you heard from her?"
"I got a letter last week. She said she was going to Paris with my cousin. From the sounds of it, she was rather excited about the trip."
"She is good?" Daan said with a tiny grin. "Good. And the Jew?"
"Roderich? Oh, Roderich…" Basch trailed off, remembering how Roderich said he was killing himself on June 5th. Had someone talked him out of it yet? "I can't say what's going on with Roderich. He's not right in the head. What about your family?" he said in a hasty attempt to change the subject. "Are they okay?"
"I am sure Laura is fine. And Laura is fine, Louis is fine. They do not need me." Daan's green eyes flicked over to the man picking out people for the round up. "Boris, what about your family?"
"I have a few brothers. They hate me. I love them more than they'll love me. My best friend has a brother who is like my own. He is very tiny. Cute, though," Boris answered. "Everyone lives in Sofia. We have apartments next to each other. On Sundays we go to someone's house for dinner." A stray tear rolled down from Boris' eyes and he stopped talking.
"Boris?" Basch asked. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, thank you. I'm sorry I get so emotional. I miss my family more than anything. I wonder if they will miss me."
The man picking people was two rows in front of them; he would be at their row in a second. Daan turned to Basch, grabbing him by the arm. "Basch, listen. You need to get out of here alive. Do whatever you have to do to survive. I want you to go back to Vienna. I want you to see Lilli and the Jew and everyone else."
"My God," Basch said, "What are you talking about?"
"120654!" the officer shouted.
Boris' number.
Boris stood still and did not fall out like he was supposed to. Basch heard him whispering what he could only assume were Bulgarian prayers. And when the prayer was finished, he glanced back at Basch and Daan, nodded, and stepped out of the column to join the selected.
Basch watched the man go, trying to understand what happened. It was a mistake. It must be a mistake. Officers were never selected, and not a loyal one like Boris. The man must have meant to say some other –
"140084!"
Criminal 140084 Basch Zwingli looked over at the German guard. He heard the wrong number. He had to have heard the wrong number. For the past few weeks there were no incidents, no fights, no warnings. The man calling the numbers held up the list in his hand, checking the number for himself.
"Who is 140084?" he growled, tapping his foot against the stone. Silence choked their row, people turning to look at Basch. Basch tried to make himself respond, to step out of line like Boris did. Instead he pretended it wasn't him and looked up at the sky, at the beautiful blue sky. The sky was always gorgeous above the worst places.
"140084!" a far-off voice shouted. Basch snapped out of his thoughts, looking at the German man. "Who is 140084?!"
"I am."
Basch froze. That was not his voice.
Daan took a step forward. "I am 140084, mein Herr."
"No, you're not!" Basch stepped out of line, grabbing Daan's arm. "I'm 140084! I'm Basch Zwingli! This is Daan van Dijk!"
"Get in line, 140196," the man said. "140084, out here."
"You've got it all wrong! I borrowed Daan's jacket this morning so I wouldn't be out of –" Basch stopped as he saw Daan turn to leave.
The number on the back of his jacket was partially missing, but Basch could make out the 140084.
"Do not let me die in vain," Daan said as he walked away, refusing to look back at Basch.
"Achtundneunzig, neunundneunzig, und das macht hundert."
Raivis put the last figure – a tiger – down among the wooden zoo. One hundred hand carved animals covered the patch of dirt, and those were only the ones that Toris kept for himself. There had to be at least another fifty given out for birthdays and Christmases, and there were a few tucked in coffins beneath the earth.
"What are you going to do with a hundred of these?" Raivis asked, holding up a rough looking horse. The date on the underside was March 1941, a few months after Toris was captured.
"I'm planning on giving them to Feliks. If he doesn't want them, I guess I'll sell them," Toris said as he wrung out a shirt, pinning it to the clothesline. "Unless you want them."
"We could go into business together," Raivis suggested, trading the horse for a parrot. The jungle animals were his favorites, as Toris modeled them after pictures from a book Arthur had. Raivis loved the book and the figures to pieces when he was younger – no one ever told him there were such things as monkeys and leopards.
"And what would your part of the business be?" Alfred asked. "You haven't done shit today. In the real world, you have to work. Toris won't always be there to do everything for you."
"Enjoy it while it lasts, kid. Before you know it, this war will be over and we'll have to go back to being regular people," Sadik said, handing another shirt over to Toris. "And even worse," he added, "You'll have to find yourself a job. Those are the worst."
Raivis put the parrot down between the jaguar and gorilla. "I'm not twelve anymore. I won't have any trouble out there."
"We're all going to have a lot of trouble out there," Arthur said. "We've been speaking stalag for the past four years. I can tell you I need a light in Polish, French, Italian, Greek, and Russian, but I can't have a proper English conversation anymore."
"We have no clue what's going on out there," Alfred said, jerking his thumb towards the fence. "What if I get to America and my president is a black man and there's twenty more states? The whole world could have changed while we were on our German vacation."
They were right; Raivis was oblivious when it came to life outside the fence. For four years of his short life he'd learned how to cheat at poker and Greek curse words, not how to get a job or buy a house. Out among civilization, Raivis would be a total wreck. Society did not want to hear how Raivis could count to a thousand in four languages. They wanted him to work and blend into the machine they called life.
Raivis almost wanted to stay in Stalag XVIII-A.
"What do you think it's like?" Heracles asked as he draped a blanket over one of the ropes crisscrossing between the walls of the barracks.
"I bet it's terrible," Raivis said. He picked a tiny wooden songbird from the menagerie, cupping it in his hands like he would a real bird. "There is a huge war going on, and the commandant keeps telling us we're losing."
Alfred put his pile of wet clothes back into the basin, coming over to Raivis. "Listen, kid," he said, putting a hand on Raivis' shoulder. "You have to learn something if you're going to make it out there. You can't trust a German with anything. See that guard?" He pointed to a man leaning on his rifle outside of the commandant's office. "He'd rob you blind if he got the chance." Alfred snapped to accent his point. "Not that it's hard to steal from you."
"I'm not that gullible," Raivis said.
"You're not?" Alfred's smile turned into a laugh. "Then tell me where that bird in your hand went off to. Did it get up and fly away?"
Raivis looked down in his empty hands, feeling like the child he didn't want to be. Alfred kept laughing, pulling the bird out of his pocket and tossing it back to Raivis.
"You have to be fast if you're going to live on the streets, kid. By the time you realized that bird was missing, I could have got it to France."
"Stop calling me kid. I'm seventeen," Raivis snapped. "I'm not a little boy anymore."
"Did you hear that?" Sadik asked, leaning over the clothesline. "He's seventeen. We have ourselves a real man right here."
"Stop it!" Raivis got up, trying his best to make himself look taller than the Turk. Sadik grinned as he ruffled Raivis' hair, making Raivis feel even shorter.
There was so much shame in being the youngest, a shame Raivis didn't want to bear for the rest of the war. Before, everyone coddled him and acted like he was their brother. Now everyone reminded him that he was and would forever be the smallest. Raivis was almost eighteen; he should be a part of the adults and not a child that needed to go in the other room when something serious was being discussed.
Raivis pushed Sadik's hand away, going back to the rows of figures. He sat down in the dirt, putting the carvings in their box. If they wanted a childish Raivis so bad, they could have him.
The offended Raivis façade worked for a while; Raivis could feel everyone's guilt. Every so often someone would try to apologize, then soon stop after realizing Raivis wasn't paying attention. And he would have kept it up, had he not come across a figure he didn't remember counting. He picked up the charred dog-shaped lump, searching for its date. There were no markings, making Raivis wonder if the burnt thing was even Toris'.
"What is this?" Raivis asked, holding up the figure. Toris took it from his hands, shoving it in his pocket before Raivis had a chance to say anything.
"That is none of your concern," he said too hastily.
"Who was it from?" Arthur said. "Because that wasn't a normal Toris voice."
"It's between Ivan and myself. Leave it at that," Toris snapped. Arthur muttered an English curse, returning to the laundry.
Raivis held back his own questions, knowing better than to argue with Toris. No one ever pushed Toris about anything. It was more out of sympathy than respect; he'd been through more than all of them combined. Raivis thought it was rather unfair. Toris cried more than Raivis, got out of a lot of work, and still everyone treated him like he was an adult. And Raivis got talked down to every day.
"Speak of the devil," he heard Sadik mumble. Raivis looked up from the animals, watching a guard truck come into the compound. Two guards dragged Ivan out – and Ivan was not fighting them. In fact, it looked more like the guards were carrying him. Toris said something snarky in Lithuanian about making a scene.
"What's going on with him?" Heracles asked. "He looks bad."
"Good. Serves him right." Raivis caught Toris smiling as he spoke.
"I don't know, that seems pretty excessive," Alfred said. "Like, Ivan's a bad guy, but I don't think he deserves to get the shit beat out of him by those Germans."
"I can go check on him," Raivis offered, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket. "I still have my pass from when the colonel was having me file papers."
"Why don't you?" Arthur said. Toris shot him a glare, his green eyes flickering with anger.
"He's fine," he growled, his knuckles turning white as he clenched a wet shirt. "Raivis, you stay here."
Raivis got up, brushing the dust from his pants. "It's fine, really. I don't mind going. I need to move, anyway."
He started to walk off when he felt someone grab his wrist.
"I don't want you going," Toris said, tightening his grip around Raivis' wrist. "I don't want you to get hurt. And Ivan deserved whatever's been done to him." He pulled Raivis back, forcing the boy to turn and face him.
"It's been three years since you last talked to him!" Raivis shouted, looking up at Toris. "He's been nothing except nice to you ever since then! And you're still pissed off about one incident a long damn time ago."
"I don't want him to hurt you," Toris said. "You're fragile, Raivis –"
"You're not my mother!" Raivis tore Toris' hand from him, pushing the Lithuanian away. Before Toris could grab him again, Raivis took off running for the commandant's office. He didn't stop running until he came to the front door, handing the guard his slip before bursting inside and slamming the door behind him.
Raivis paused to catch his breath for a moment, looking around the empty front room. Elizabeta was gone, her paperwork strewn across her desk in a very un-Elizabeta style. She was usually so neat and organized it made Toris jealous. Raivis went over to the door to Gilbert's office, listening for voices. There was nothing.
"Herr Commandant?" Raivis asked as he went into the room. Instead of Gilbert, Ivan was sitting in the commandant's chair with a hand held to his head. The windows were wide open, a breeze fluttering the curtains and pushing papers off Gilbert's desk. Ivan didn't move from his place or even look Raivis' way.
"Ivan?" Raivis took a few steps towards the man, remembering what Toris said. Ivan pulled his hand away from his head, his palm covered in slick red. A bruise on his cheekbone stood out against his pale skin. Another bruise adorned his collarbone. And blood ran down from a gash in his forehead, covering the left side of his face.
"Hello, malyutka," Ivan said, as cheery as ever. "I'm sorry I look so awful. I wasn't expecting to see anyone. Where is everyone else?"
"You're bleeding," Raivis said – the first thing he'd said to Ivan in three years. "You're bleeding really bad."
"How observant of you. It is not a bad cut, though. Head wounds bleed worse. No need to worry."
"What happened?" Raivis asked, taking a bandana Alfred gave him from his pocket. He came over to Ivan, handing the cloth to him.
"I did something wrong," Ivan said as he put the bandana to the gash. "And I got punished."
"Elizabeta, they're going to kill me!" Gilbert shouted from the other room before Raivis could reply. Ivan's grin faded. "They said I haven't show that I'm loyal," Gilbert continued, much to Ivan's dismay. "They're calling me, a war hero, disloyal. Losing my hearing, my nerves, my own sanity wasn't enough for them. And you know how they're telling me to prove my loyalty to their Reich and save my life? They're having me kill Ivan myself!"
Ivan put his hand on Raivis' shoulder, his smile returning. "Thank you, Raivis. You should go back to the barracks before someone starts worrying about you."
Elizabeta could not sleep.
Neither could Gilbert.
"Everything will be alright," Gilbert whispered, as if that would fix everything. "I promise."
Elizabeta could not make herself believe him. They were in the middle of a war holding all of Europe in its clutches. There was no such thing as alright. "How will you do it?" she asked, having nothing better to say.
"I'll take him out tomorrow morning before roll call. He can choose how he wants to die. Then I file the official report with the administration and the factory and hopefully they won't kill me. After that, I forget about Ivan and go back to my life."
It was easy to talk about forgetting Ivan. Elizabeta went over it herself countless times after Gilbert told her everything. How were they going to overlook four years? Ivan played a huge role in both of their lives, and there was no way to ignore him.
"Where is he?" Elizabeta said. "You didn't say where you'd put him."
"He's in Barracks Two. Something wasn't right with his breathing, so I told Arthur to watch him for me. If he dies in his sleep, I'm dead." Gilbert sighed, rubbing his red eyes. "They need military documentation of his death, and it has to be caused by me."
"I can't believe they've pushed you into a corner like this," Elizabeta said. "What sort of empire turns against their own people? It's sick."
"War is sick, Frau Beilschmidt. It's turned my country into a mess. And to tell you the truth, I don't think it's going to get any better from here on out." Gilbert stopped talking and looked around as if someone was in the room with them. "I'm not supposed to tell anyone this, so don't you repeat it. There are plans for an Allied invasion soon," he whispered. "They're trying to invade Dunkirk again. And if Germany loses this time, it's over."
Elizabeta felt her heart skip a beat – the Allies were planning an invasion? She knew the war was no longer in Hitler's favor, however, she didn't think it was that bad. "Do we want it to be over?" she said, unsure of where Gilbert was standing politically. "Or do we want the Reich to win?"
"We?" Gilbert laughed. "We're not one person. You and I can have different opinions. It isn't against the law. Tell me, who do you want to win?" he asked, poking her in the chest.
"The Reich," Elizabeta replied, trying to make the right choice.
"And why is that? Because your beautiful husband is part of the Reich? Because you think that's who I want to win?"
"Yes. Whatever makes you happy makes me happy."
"That's a shit mentality to be going through life with," Gilbert said. "What if I died tomorrow? Would you never be happy again?"
"Of course. You would be dead," Elizabeta said. Gilbert smiled, taking Elizabeta's hand in his own.
"This is why I love you. Remember that," Gilbert said. "Because if I do get hung tomorrow, you're going to be on your own. I don't think it will happen, but I can't promise anything."
Elizabeta couldn't imagine a life without Gilbert. Who would be there to make her laugh and push her closer to insanity? Who was going to talk with her late into the night? Who would be there to hold her and tell her everything was going to be okay? Elizabeta needed Gilbert more than he needed her.
"I want the Allies to win," Gilbert said, turning away from Elizabeta. "I guess that's a bit odd, a Nazi wanting the Allies to crush Hitler. Oh well. Gute Nacht, Frau Beilschmidt."
"Gute Nacht."
Elizabeta closed her eyes, her worries disappearing. Gilbert was right – it would be fine in the morning. They would do what they had to and move on with their lives.
The sharp trill of the phone tore Elizabeta out of her pleasant thoughts. She reached for it, but Gilbert grabbed the receiver before she could.
"Who in their right mind calls at midnight?" he grumbled before putting the phone up to his ear. "Hello? Colonel Beilschmidt speaking."
Elizabeta heard the muffled voice on the other end of the line, their words calm and sharp. The voice of a professional. Gilbert's face went blank as he listened, occasionally nodding as if the other person could see him.
"Who is it?" Elizabeta dared to ask.
"This is a test, isn't it?" Gilbert said, ignoring Elizabeta. "Well, Lieutenant Kastl, you'll be pleased to hear that Eduard von Bock died three years ago in Serbia and I do not need the Gestapo calling my home at midnight. Tell me, where is your superior officer? I'm sure he would not be happy to find out about –"
Gilbert stopped talking as a different voice took over the phone. Elizabeta recognized it, too. Was she willing to believe it?
"What…What day were you captured?" Gilbert said when he got the chance. "January 2nd, 1940," he repeated. "Hold on, I'm coming." Gilbert put the phone down, throwing the covers aside and grabbing the uniform he laid out for the next day.
"Who was that?" Elizabeta said.
"The Gestapo. They say they have a Captain Eduard von Bock who thinks he's supposed to come here," Gilbert replied as he buttoned up his jacket. "It can't be Eduard. However, the Gestapo man was very determined and wanted me there at this very moment. At least it will get me on the Gestapo's good side. I'll be back as soon as I can." He came over to the bedside and kissed her on the forehead, mumbling something of an I-love-you.
Elizabeta sat in the darkness for a long time after he left, trying to figure out what happened. There was no way Eduard could be at the Wolfsberg Gestapo – he was in Vienna with Roderich. When they last talked, Roderich said that Eduard was never going to return to the stalag. Eduard himself verified that. Having someone claiming to be Captain Eduard von Bock show up at midnight was nothing short of suspicious.
She heard someone knock on the back door; Gilbert must have forgotten the keys to his car. Elizabeta got up out of bed, going to the kitchen. In the darkness she found a key ring and pulled open the door.
"Here you…" Elizabeta faltered – it was not Gilbert standing in front of her.
"Whatever you do, do not scream," Roderich said, holding his hands out like Elizabeta was some sort of wild animal. "Please, do not draw any attention to yourself. I'm not here for you."
"What's going on?" Elizabeta asked, putting the keys down and pulling Roderich inside. She closed the door behind him, making sure to lock it. "Come with me, I don't want you out here where someone can see you."
"Am I that big of a disgrace to you?" Roderich said as Elizabeta led him into her quarters, watching her close the blackout curtains for extra precautions. "I can leave right now if you don't want anyone to see me."
"It's not that I don't want anyone to see you, it's that –"
"You don't want anyone to start thinking things, do you?" Roderich interrupted. "You don't want someone to see the two of us because you're terrified someone will talk bad about you."
"It's not that."
"It is that," Roderich said, coming over to the woman. "You're so afraid of rumors that you won't give a dying man a chance to talk to you."
"Wouldn't you be afraid?" she shot back, her face hot. Roderich shook his head. For someone who showed up at midnight, he was rather calm and composed. He'd even gone through the trouble of putting on one of his better suits, complete with the Nazi accents he loathed.
"No, I wouldn't. Because I'm not scared of people saying dirty things behind my back," he said. "How do you think I've lived with myself all these years?"
"Did you come all this way just to insult me? That's so thoughtful of you. You're very lucky, von Wolffe," she said. "Gilbert left minutes ago. If he was here, he would have your head. Now I'm going to have to kill you for him."
"I know he's gone. I'm the one who got him out of the camp. It isn't that hard to put on a fake voice and make someone think a dead man is alive," Roderich said. "Eduard really is with the Gestapo, though. And Feliks. I made the two of them papers that said they'd been through the whole interrogation process and they're coming here."
"Why didn't you bring them here?"
"It would be too obvious. See, I'm already on a lot of watch lists and there are people out there waiting for me to slip up. It was easier to make up a few lies."
"I forgot you're a world-class liar," Elizabeta said with a hint of a smirk.
"I was. I'm not going to be alive for much longer," Roderich replied. "That's why everything was so rushed. And why I came here. See, I have to be dying in the morning –"
"What is it with you and killing yourself now? Is that something the Führer wants you to do? I don't think he would want to hear that his prized musician is suicidal."
Roderich's smile faded. He didn't seem so well composed anymore.
"Elizabeta, Hitler knows."
She looked up at Roderich, praying she heard him wrong. "No. No he doesn't."
"They know my father was Jewish. I don't write music anymore," Roderich snapped. "I am killing myself because I don't want your husband's brother to do it for me. This Jew is working with the Allies now. This Jew is going to change the war. And someone will find out. After I turn this war around, I have no other choice except suicide."
"Stop it!" Elizabeta grabbed Roderich by the shoulders, pulling him close. She hated herself for the sudden change of heart, however, she couldn't stand there and listen to Roderich talk about killing himself. "Don't say that. Don't you ever say that," she said. "You have so many other choices. I can get you out of Europe tonight if you need it."
"I have to do this for the Allies. I can't let Germany win."
"You can. You don't have to do this," she assured him. "Whatever you're doing, stop it. It isn't worth your life."
"Do you want to live like this forever?" Roderich asked. "Would you want to live under Hitler for the rest of your life? Would you want to watch your own people get killed for being nothing more than Hungarians? Would you want to watch the world fall apart in the hands of a madman?"
"Roderich, I don't want you to die. I love you, okay? I really love you."
Roderich smiled. "I didn't think we would ever feel the same way."
Elizabeta knew that kissing her ex-husband was probably a mortal sin. She at least recognized that much. Sin wasn't stopping either of them. Lost in the flawed person that Roderich was, Elizabeta didn't think about Gilbert or morals.
When they broke away, Elizabeta could tell that Roderich was thinking the same thing Elizabeta was. His violet eyes – those wonderfully strange eyes – were wide. He realized what he did too late.
"I…I should go," he stammered. Elizabeta nodded in agreement.
"Here. If you ever need something, go here," Roderich said, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. An address was scrawled in between staffs full of music. "I'll…I'll see you later. I'm sorry for any trouble I've caused."
Elizabeta couldn't think of anything to say to Roderich; was there anything to say to a dying man? She let him go, trying to figure out why she ever left him.
History notes:
Denmark in WWII: The invasion of Denmark was the shortest battle of WWII. It lasted only six hours, and 40 men were lost between Denmark and Germany. There were a few skirmishes, but Germany quickly took over and Denmark surrendered. A lot of Danes were upset with Christian X for surrendering, but in the end he did the right thing for his country. Denmark became a huge player in the sabotage business during the war, as most Danes were completely opposed to German rule. Go read Courage and Defiance for more on Danish sabotage.
Rainy weather: D-Day was really planned for June 5th, but the weather was so bad that day that the Allies decided to call it off. The storm made it too dangerous to cross the Channel.
The second invasion of Dunkirk: The first invasion of Dunkirk, France, ended badly with a huge evacuation of Allied forces. Because Dunkirk was the closest point to England in France, the Germans thought that the Allies would try invading there. When news of D-Day plans got to them, the Germans sent all their forces to Dunkirk, thanks to common sense and Juan Pujol Garcia, a Spanish spy. Seriously, go read up on Juan Garcia. He's my hero.
Big thank-you's to Violet Thropp, DARKnessLIVESoN, everythingisdragons, Still A Lover Of Franchises, scottthedisaster, ABCSKW123-IX, Roxyte, and my savior, Eleri.
I'm sorry this chapter is a week late, but finals killed me this year.
See you all next chapter!