"What happened last night?"
Roderich didn't bother to say anything. He thought that if he opened his mouth to reply, all of his secrets would come tumbling out. It was better to stay quiet and look rude than bear the shame of having someone else know what a failure he was.
"Fine, don't answer. I understand," Natalya said. She waited in the doorway for a moment as if she would get a response before coming into the bedroom. Why did it have to be her? "Mathias is worried about you," she continued, sitting down on the edge of Roderich's bed. "He says you didn't say anything when you came in."
Roderich picked up one of his composition books, a red one with a worn leather cover. He must have bought it before the war when he still had money to spend on silly things. Skimming through the pages, he found nothing worth keeping and put the book with the stack of other things deemed useless.
"You were lucky to leave when you did. Mathias and Lukas got into a huge fight a few minutes after you left. They both want the other to get out of the country, but Lukas won't go unless Mathias comes with him and Mathias won't go unless Lukas comes with him. I'd never heard Lukas raise his voice before," Natalya said, tracing the stitches in the bedspread with her pale finger. "I don't know if they ever agreed, though. They started speaking some northern language."
Putting a handful of letters in the worthless pile, Roderich dared a glance at Natalya. She looked nothing like the Natalya Roderich knew. The woman who was the image of Russian and Parisian elegance was no longer in a black dress with heels and vibrant red lipstick. She looked like any other housewife in her blue flowered dress, her bare feet swinging aimlessly back and forth. Instead of her usual rich self, Natalya was a tired woman who just wanted the war to be over.
"Will you talk to me?" she asked. Roderich looked away, continuing to sort out the memories of Roderich von Wolffe.
"What are you doing?" Natalya got down from the bed, coming over to where Roderich was. She knelt beside him, picking a photograph from the pile. "Is this your brother?" she said, pointing to a tiny black-and-white version of Ivan. Roderich nodded, taking the photo from her and putting it in the box of good things.
"Listen, von Wolffe, I'm trying to be nice here. It would help if you would talk to me like a damn person," Natalya snapped, grabbing another photo.
"What do you want me to say?" Roderich asked, putting a pile of letters on his desk. He knew it was wrong to talk when there was so much on his mind – he didn't want to put up with an angry Natalya.
"I would like it if you told me what happened last night and what in God's name you're doing with this," she said, gesturing to the mass of things Roderich pulled out from his desk and closet.
"To be honest, I have no idea. I think I'm picking things I don't want the Gestapo to get into," he said. "I figured Mathias could hide it for me, since they'll tear my house apart."
Natalya almost smiled, watching Roderich put a few photos in the box going with Mathias. "What happened last night, then?"
"Can I tell you a story?" Roderich said, pretending he didn't hear her. He was not answering her question. Not even the Gestapo could force it out of him.
"That's not the reply I wanted," Natalya said, her almost-smile gone.
"When I was seven, my mother went to Munich for a month to visit her family," he started as he picked up a handful of sheet music and threw it in the worthless pile. "At the house, it was my father, Ivan, and myself. One night, Ivan woke me up saying he heard noises downstairs. Somehow, I was the one to go downstairs and check for monsters. And do you know what I found?"
"It can't be anything interesting since it didn't kill you."
"My father was coming in the house through a window. I asked him what was happening, and what he told me was that if I promised to not anything about that night to my mother, he would take me into Salzburg and let me pick out whatever I wanted. I got a book about Brahms and my mother never knew what happened. While I can't take you to Vienna to buy you a bribe, you can follow my example and let secrets be secrets."
Natalya glared at him; did she really think Roderich was going to give her an answer? "I don't want to ask anything personal," she said after a long pause. "I want two things. Where are Feliks and Eduard and are you alright?"
"Feliks and Eduard are safe somewhere, I promise. And asking me about myself is personal."
"No, I somewhat mean it. What's going on with you?"
"The same thing that goes on with any dying man," Roderich said, pulling his Stradivarius out from under his bed. "I'm regretting my whole life. How are you doing?"
Again, she didn't respond. Roderich looked back at the woman surrounded by his memories. She was flipping through one of the composition books, stopping every so often to look at a page. Even without the makeup and diamonds, she was beautiful. Natalya was meant to be in the arms of a rich man, not some poor Jew like Roderich.
"You didn't show me these," she said, taking another book from the worthless pile.
"They're all terrible. Don't bother reading them. They were something new I was trying and they completely failed," Roderich said, feeling his face go red. He didn't think anyone was ever going to see his experiments; he wished that no one ever would.
"They look fine to me."
"Because you don't understand music. Most people in their right mind would laugh at that."
"I played the violin for two years. I'm not completely oblivious."
Roderich almost laughed. "That's not the same thing," he said. "Music is an art that few people understand, and I don't think you're one of them."
Natalya stood up, going over to Roderich. "Listen to me, Edelstein, because I'm saying this once. This right here" – she held up the notebook – "this is the best work I've seen you do. Mozart would have killed to have a mind like yours."
"Natalya, I'm a child compared to Mozart."
"Are you looking at this?" Natalya opened the book, showing him a page. "It says at the top this is the first draft. You didn't make any mistakes or scratch out anything. This entire thing was finished in your mind."
"I suppose so. That doesn't make it good," Roderich said.
I'm sorry you were born who you are," Natalya said, closing the notebook. "If you would have been born a von Wolffe, I think you could have done so much more with what you have."
"I'm rather happy that I was born an Edelstein," Roderich said, taking the book from her and putting it with the worthless pile.
"How can you be happy? Your last name killed you."
"But if I wasn't an Edelstein, I doubt I would have ever met Francis," he said. "If I didn't meet Francis, I wouldn't have met and married Elizabeta. If I didn't marry and then divorce Elizabeta, I would have never turned to drinking and then I wouldn't have met Mathias and Lukas. And if I didn't meet Mathias and Lukas, then I wouldn't know Basch and Lilli and I certainly wouldn't have been introduced to you. You would have killed me already and returned to Russia."
Natalya shook her head. "You don't get it, do you? You could have been up there with Mozart and Beethoven. Instead, you're here with us."
"There is no place in the world I would rather be. You and Mathias and Lukas are what I have left of my family," Roderich said. "I can't abandon you."
Natalya looked down at the floor, her face tinted pink. "Don't ever repeat this or I will kill you. I am so glad I met you. Although every day with you is a living hell, I don't know what I would do without you and your stupid suicidal optimism."
"I'm afraid we finally feel the same about something, mein Herr."
"Ja, meine Frau," Natalya said with an almost-smile.
Roderich gathered up the rest of von Wolffe's life, following Natalya downstairs. Lukas was on the phone in one corner of the room and Mathias was messing with the radio in the other. They didn't seem to be anywhere as friendly as they usually were. Roderich went over to his piano, hoping he hadn't walked into another fight. Mathias perked up a bit at the sight of Roderich, a bit of the gleam coming back to his blue eyes.
"Take up our quarrel with the foe," Mathias said into the microphone, flashing Roderich a grin. "To you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it high."
"You doin' okay?" he asked one the microphone was off, slipping the headphones down around his neck. "Oh, Lukas, the number is 88.3," he said without looking at the man. "Code word is villa."
"I'm fine," Roderich said. "And you?"
"Oh, I'm great." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a train ticket. His eyes flicked towards Lukas – Roderich was almost positive Lukas had a ticket for Mathias as well. "What've you got with you?"
"Some things I want you to hide for me. I don't want the Gestapo anywhere near my Stradivarius," he said, putting the violin and the box down on the coffee table.
"Ja, I can find some place to hide 'em. I can't guarantee the Gestapo won't find it, though." Mathias looked back at Lukas, who was doing the math for code villa on the blank side of a page of sheet music. Francis was much better at math codes – thankfully, Lukas managed. Lukas held up the paper, pointing to the 103.5 scrawled at the bottom. Mathias nodded in reply, switching the radio to the right channel.
"You are blind like us," Mathias said once he was sure he found the channel. "Ja, we're ready. Natalya, what are we waiting on?"
"Francis says there was a lot of German activity at one of the beaches, and they're waiting on a scout. Other than that, everywhere else is clear," Lukas answered for her.
"Wait, Francis says the scout is back," Natalya said. "We can start."
"Alpha, everything is good to go here," Mathias relayed to the British commander. "Switch to 105.2 to confirm. Code word is farewell."
"I hate farewell," Lukas muttered as he started to scribble numbers onto the page. "There's too much division in that one."
"That's ironic, picking farewell to be our last code. I bet London got a kick out of that one," Mathias said. "I'm happy they're taking our deaths as jokes. Makes me feel real important for once."
"Shut up and switch to 94.5," Lukas said, crumpling up the ruined page.
The room got quiet once more as Mathias switched to the final channel. They agreed to be silent during the actual performance – partially out of respect for Roderich but more out of fear that their voices could lead someone to them. The last thing they needed was a Gestapo agent showing up in the middle of everything.
Roderich couldn't bear to look at anyone else, keeping his eyes on his music. It took him four years to write the piece, and yet it only took seven minutes to play. So many hours of his life were spent making up the music for his final performance. While it was nothing like he'd imagined it to be, it was everything he wanted it to be. For once, Roderich didn't want to change anything. Everything fell into place perfectly.
"We're ready," Mathias whispered.
Somewhere in the English Channel, Eisenhower's men were waiting to hear piano music. On the beaches of Dunkirk, German soldiers were patiently waiting to hear music, the music they'd been told would signal an attack that would never happen. The resistance movements scattered across Europe were waiting for the signal to start the biggest assault on the Thousand Year Reich yet.
In that moment, Roderich was in control of everything. He was the keystone of the first steps towards the Allies winning the war. And while he was not performing on stage, he was doing so much more than standing before a crowd.
Without any hesitation, Roderich von Wolffe's final piece started.
Ivan hid himself for the last time.
He stood in front of the cracked mirror, smoothing out his Red Army uniform. In uniform, he looked less like a criminal and more like a regular man. If he ignored the bandages around his forehead and the bruises, Ivan could almost mistake himself for someone else. His reflection was a regular soldier, a colonel with a family waiting in Moscow for his return.
Ivan liked hiding under the image of the military. The rough military standard fabric covered up his criminal record and troubled past. Out of uniform, Ivan was a wanted criminal with three registered homicides. He was a conman and a petty thief. However, when he put on the tan dress uniform, he was an officer that fought for Russia and freedom and whatever other propaganda the government was forcing on the Russian people. The uniform gave him a significance, one he didn't have before.
"You look fine," Arthur assured him after watching Ivan fuss with his tie for the third time. "Well, as good as you can look in your sorry state."
"Thank you, I think." Ivan turned to face the Brit, giving him a slight grin. "You're going to make a good man of confidence," he said. "Better than me. I haven't had any confidence put in me for a long time."
"You were absent for three years. And that wasn't your fault."
"It was my fault. And besides, you're much more likable than I am. That already makes you better than me."
Arthur jumped down from the top bunk, coming over to Ivan. "I don't want to be better than you," he said. "It'll feel wrong to be in your position. You've been the highest-ranking officer for so long. Even when you were out working, you were our leader. For me to be in your place just seems wrong."
"You will be fine," Ivan said. "It isn't that difficult to be the senior POW. Of course, I've been on break for three years. The rules might have changed a bit."
"What will we do without you, Braginsky?" Arthur asked.
"I'm sure you'll move on. I'm only a colonel. Nothing too terribly important." Ivan tried to laugh but ended up clutching his side and cursing. So much for humor.
"Don't hurt yourself," Arthur said. He was the sole person to see the broken ribs and the bandages circling Ivan's arms. Ivan broke down and told him everything the night before, from the first war plant he worked in to yesterday's "accident." Arthur alone knew that the accident was a cover up for a German guard beating Ivan for not working.
"I'm fine," Ivan said. "Just a bit sore. I'll be alright."
"I can't have you die before roll call or the commandant will strangle me," Arthur said. "Please, try to refrain from dying for five more minutes."
"I'll keep that in mind. Would you go get Toris for me? I have to tell him something before…" Ivan trailed off, replacing his words with a smile. Arthur understood, hurrying out of the office into the main room. The open door let in the conversations from outside – Ivan picked up that there was a prisoner transfer, someone's girlfriend broke up with them via mail, and there was a staff car that pulled into camp.
Ivan eased himself into the chair at his desk, gathering up the papers he'd written in a frenzy when Arthur fell asleep. The frantic German was tangled and scratched out and not spelled how it should have been, hopefully, the message was clear.
"You wanted to see me."
Ivan nodded, mumbling a come-in. He heard the office door close, the morning roll call commotion muffled once more.
"I'm not going to pity you, if that's what you want," Toris said without a hint of emotion in his words. Ivan didn't need to look at him to see how angry he was. "And I'm not going to humiliate myself either."
"I wasn't asking for humili-"
"Oh, really? Because every other time I've been in this office, you've shamed me to the point of making me feel worthless. Tell me, would you like to abuse me verbally or physically? I've got five minutes and I need to patch up Raivis' shirt."
"I don't want to hurt you!" Ivan immediately regretted shouting, his hands going to his side. He thought he heard Toris laugh – no, he couldn't have. Toris was too compassionate to laugh at a dying man.
"Playing victim again, are we? Because you are so dreadfully hurt," Toris said, his voice sharp. "I was right. You're asking for pity."
Ivan looked over at Toris, tears in his indigo eyes. Toris was stone cold, his arms folded over his chest and mouth drawn into a thin line. This was not the Toris Ivan knew. His Toris was gentle and anxious and concerned for everyone's sake. The person before him wouldn't have cared less if Ivan died right there.
"Well?" Toris tapped his foot impatiently. "You're wasting my time, colonel."
Ivan started asking himself if he should go through with the plan; Toris wasn't as cooperative as he imagined. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "I'm sorry you think of me like this. I know in the past I've been a monster –"
"That's quite an understatement."
"I'm not like that, Toris. I have no interest in you or your body today. This is for someone else's good. I do understand if you want to leave, though," Ivan said. "If you don't want to help me, you can leave. I won't be angry."
"No, I'll hear you out. Tell me, colonel, what sort of hell would you like to put me through?" Toris asked, his voice getting higher. Ivan saw him put his hand on the doorknob; he wasn't as brave as he was trying to be.
"I need you to get something out of this camp for me. Please, that's all I ask of you." Ivan picked up the handful of papers, pulling himself up. Toris shrank back when Ivan stood up, pressing himself against the wall. His defiance from before was gone, fear taking over.
"What's the catch?" Toris took the papers from his hands, looking through them. "Do you want me to come to your room tonight or would you rather force yourself on me now?"
"Those are plans for the V-1 launches. I want you to get them out of camp and to the Underground. From there, have someone take them to England or France or wherever someone is willing to fight. I don't care," Ivan said. "They need to be in Allied hands."
Toris' hands started shaking and he put the papers down. "How do you know so much about them?" he asked. "The commandant doesn't have a clue what they are, and you have the plans down to the exact model numbers. That isn't suspicious to you?"
"Toris," Ivan said gently, "What do you think I was making at the factory?"
"You w-w-were making what?" There was the stutter that Ivan loved. Toris snatched up the papers, looking over the first one. "No, th-th-this isn't right. This says they're go-go-going to England. 'M-M-Mass civilian destruction'?" he read aloud, his eyes returning to Ivan. "This is s-s-some joke, isn't it?" he said, his hands trembling worse than before. "You've done it, Ivan, y-y-you have me stuttering. Are you happy?!"
Ivan carefully reached out, putting his hand on Toris' arm. Toris did not shove him away or shout; a huge improvement from the last time they spoke. "This is very serious, Toris. Do you see why this has to get to out of here?"
Toris didn't reply. He kept reading through the papers, each one making him more nervous. Ivan backed away, letting the reality of the V-1 sink in.
"What did they do?" Toris whispered. "Oh, my God, what did they have you do?"
"I was not given all the plans at once. They gave me page by page as I worked so I could not see the end product. By the time I figured it out, it was too late. I destroyed the one I made. That isn't enough. There are eleven others going to France for the tests."
"You're trusting me with this?"
"I've always trusted you," Ivan said. "And I hope you can do the same for me."
Toris stood for a moment in silence, thinking over his choices. "I'll do it," he said as he tucked the papers into his jacket. "After roll call, I'll take them to Sadik. He's going into Wolfsberg today on a work detail."
"Thank you." Ivan went back to his desk, resisting the urge to try repairing things with Toris before it was too late. He did what needed to be done. There was no time for healing. "You can leave."
"This isn't like you," Toris said, coming over to the desk. So he was concerned. Or perhaps he was there to rub in the pain.
Ivan nodded; he wasn't naïve enough to let Toris see through him. "I'm tired and a little sore from yesterday. Nothing too bad. Please, do not worry about me."
"If you don't mind me asking, what did they do to you? Raivis told me you were bleeding pretty badly yesterday."
"Head wounds bleed worse. It was only a small gash. Really, I'm fine. I heard there was a transfer today," Ivan said, trying to change the subject before he gave in and told Toris everything. "Who is it?"
Toris thankfully picked up on what Ivan was doing. "Two new prisoners straight from the Gestapo. A captain and a junior lieutenant. Raivis saw them when they came in last night. He says they're both blond and one of them looks just like Eduard. Not that it would be Eduard."
Before Ivan could think of a reply, he heard the sergeant-of-the-guard start shouting for roll call.
Captain von Bock, Eduard; serial number 109793.
"At 6:30 this morning, the Allies made a bold attack on the beaches of Normandy…"
Second Lieutenant Łukasiewicz, Feliks; serial number 110873.
"Losses on both sides are expected to be high."
Gilbert reached over and shut off the radio; he didn't understand half the things the BBC reporter said anyway. And from what he did translate, today was not a good day for Hitler or the Reich. They were officially losing the war. It was only a matter of time until the Allies marched into Berlin and took over. At least when the Allies had the Reich in their hands, Gilbert wouldn't have to fill out so much paperwork for something as simple as a prisoner transfer.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Gilbert signed his name on the last of the transfer papers. All night he'd been with the Gestapo, helping them pull up records and interrogate the two captives. There was a death record for Eduard – well, not much of one. It was his name in a clump of other names labeled "dead". Feliks had a baptism record from a church in rural Poland and a Gestapo record that claimed he went missing and presumably died in 1938.
The man pretending to be Eduard did a stellar impression of him during the interrogations; he even carried a tiny stag carving with him, like the ones Toris made. If Gilbert wasn't so sure Eduard died in Serbia years ago, he would have believed everything the impostor said. And the kid playing Feliks told Gilbert everything about Toris, his stories matching up with Toris'.
But the records said the two of them were dead.
And Nazi records rarely lied.
Gilbert grabbed an envelope, shoving the transfer requests inside. With any luck, the commandant of Stalag 306 would take in the two impersonators and Gilbert would never have to deal with them again. However, knowing the irritating little man who ran the camp, Gilbert wasn't going to hear the end of the transfer for a long time. He would have to keep pushing the two prisoners around until they became someone else's problems.
"Herr Commandant?" a guard called from outside his door. "It is time for roll call. What would you like me to do with the Russian?"
Gilbert looked at the clock on the edge of his desk – he thought it was two a.m. a few minutes ago. How did seven sneak up on him so fast? "Have him stand with the rest of Barracks Two for now," he replied, putting a stamp on the envelope and sealing it. "I'll take him out later."
"…Herr Commandant, you may want to reconsider that."
"Heidrich, I'm tired. I don't have it in me to kill a man at the moment," Gilbert said. He was too worn out to think about murder.
"The man the factory sent to record the Russian's death is here. And he isn't happy looking," the sergeant added.
"Tell him I'll be out in a minute, I have to do one thing," Gilbert said, getting up from his desk. He heard Heidrich complain again and ignored it. However pushy the factory's man was, Heidrich would have to tough it out for Gilbert's sake.
Gilbert went to his personal quarters, trying to remember where he'd put the lethal injection the night before. That probably wasn't a good thing to lose, Gilbert said to himself as he searched through the stacks of papers on the coffee table. He pushed a folder full of paperwork aside, sending a pile of papers off the edge of the table and onto the floor.
"Of course," he muttered as he picked up the papers – they were the prisoner records Elizabeta alphabetized the night before. She spent hours sorting them out for him, and he'd destroyed her work in a matter of seconds. Was anything going to go right for him that morning? Gilbert snatched up another handful of papers, hoping to find some sort of order to them.
Instead, he found something else.
Gilbert snatched up the tie pin laying among the records. He didn't own a swastika pin like that one. The pin gave off a Gestapo-esque feel with its bold swastika and the gold lettering around the red band.
"Elizabeta?" Gilbert called out, turning the pin over. There were smudged letters engraved into the back, barely recognizable. He could make out an R and an E, but the last letter was unreadable. "Hey, Elizabeta, did the Gestapo come here last night?"
He didn't hear a reply. Gilbert went into the bedroom, figuring she was still asleep. And sure enough, she was curled up beneath the sheets. He would ask her about the pin later; he needed to get his gun and get out to roll call before someone decided to kill him.
Rummaging through his dresser, he found his pistol with the silencer. Surely Ivan wouldn't mind being shot in the head. After all, he didn't have much of a choice in the matter.
"I'll see you later," Gilbert said, going over to Elizabeta. She looked up at him, wiping tears away with the back of her hand.
"Why are you crying?" he asked, too stunned to say anything better. "What happened?"
"Stop playing dumb. You know what happened," Elizabeta said in a shaking voice. Gilbert didn't think he had ever seen her cry before. He didn't like it at all – it made him feel he was the one who'd done wrong. "Go on," she said. "Say it. Go ahead and yell at me while I'm already crying. Isn't that what you came here to do?"
Gilbert shook his head, putting the pistol down on the nightstand. "I came here for my gun. What happened? You're starting to scare me."
"Don't do this to me, Gilbert. Please, don't do this to me."
"I don't know what I'm doing to begin with. Does it have to do with this?" Gilbert asked, pulling the swastika pin from his pocket. Elizabeta nodded and buried her face in her pillow.
"Whatever you're doing, stop it. I don't want to play some sick game with you."
"This isn't a game. Do we know an R.E.? I can't remember anyone with those initials," Gilbert said, rolling the pin over in his hand. He tapped the spike with his thumb, going through his list of contacts in his mind.
Then it hit him.
"Roderich Erwin von Wolffe," he said slowly.
Elizabeta gasped, looking up at Gilbert. "There, you've said it! Are you happy now? Go ahead and call your brother!" she screamed, her voice shaking. "Just get out of here!"
Gilbert left the bedroom, his hand clenched tight around the gun. He threw the pin down, kicking it away from him. Forcing himself into a vague sort of composure, Gilbert slammed the door open and walked out to roll call. The guard tried to introduce the man from the factory to him, but Gilbert kept walking. He didn't stop until he was in front of Ivan.
"Someone came into this camp while I was gone last night," Gilbert said, looking up at Ivan. It took every bit of his willpower not to punch the man right there.
"You left last night?" Ivan asked. "I had no idea. Most of us sleep during the night, Herr Commandant."
"Oh, of course," Gilbert said with pure malice in his voice. "Of course you know nothing. Well, thankfully, our guest left something here. A swastika pin. And not any swastika pin. It appears to be made of real gold, and there are initials on the back. RVW. Do I know an RVW?"
Ivan's face paled. "Sir, I…" he faltered, trying to come up with one of his lies. Gilbert wasn't going to give him the chance.
"Why was Roderich von Wolffe here?!" Gilbert asked the twenty men. Barracks Two went quiet for once. They looked down at the dirt or away from Gilbert, afraid to meet his red eyes. "Someone here has to have at least an idea of why that bastard would dare to show his face here!"
"...No? No answers?" Gilbert paused, waiting for someone to speak up. "Alright, then, have it your way." He grabbed Ivan, dragging him out in front of the crowd. With a swift kick behind his leg, Gilbert got Ivan on his knees. In an instant, he cocked the pistol and put it up to Ivan's head.
"Herr Commandant, please –" Ivan started, twisting back to look at Gilbert.
"No, no pleases," Gilbert interrupted as he forced Ivan to look at the men of Barracks Two. "Someone tell me why von Wolffe was here and I'll let Ivan go. If not, we're having a funeral."
No one spoke up.
"Fünf," Gilbert said, locking eyes with Toris. He started trembling, unable to look away from the colonel.
"Vier."
He saw Raivis reach out for Toris' hand.
"Drei."
Raivis whispered something to Toris in a language Gilbert didn't understand – he still knew what the boy was saying.
"Zwei."
Gilbert waited for a moment, giving the men a final chance. There wasn't so much as a sound from the scared group.
"Eine," Gilbert said smoothly, curling his finger over the trigger.
"Wait!" Toris took a step forward, ignoring Raivis' shaky protests. "Don't sh-sh-shoot. I'll talk."
"Toris, don't," Ivan begged – exactly what Gilbert wanted to hear.
Gilbert kicked him in reply. "Let the kid speak. So, Toris, what do you have to tell me about Herr von Wolffe?"
"Don't do this," Ivan said. "Please, don't do this. I'm going to die anyway. Let him kill me!"
"If I t-t-talk, you have to promise me y-y-you won't hurt Ivan or anyone e-e-else," Toris said, sounding like he was on the verge of tears. Gilbert wouldn't be surprised if he started crying. "Look me right in the eyes and promise me."
"I promise I won't hurt Ivan or anyone else."
"Swear on your l-l-life."
Gilbert smiled, pushing the pistol closer to Ivan's skull. "I swear on my life. However, if I feel like you're taking too much time, I'll be happy to revoke my promise."
"Toris, listen to me," Ivan said. "I am supposed to die today. The colonel isn't going to keep his word. Please, don't say anything."
Toris took a shaky breath, closing his eyes so he couldn't see Ivan.
"Roderich von Wolffe…His last name is Edelstein and he's Jewish."
There was a pause that followed; it felt like a year. Gilbert watched tears roll down Toris' face and heard him whispering an apology. To whom, Gilbert would never know.
"You…You didn't?" Ivan stammered, looking up at Toris. "No. We had a promise. And I cannot break that promise."
"Ivan, I –"
"Toris!" Ivan snarled, lunging forward to grab the man.
A muffled gunshot tore through the silence of the compound.
Ivan hit the ground, a blossom of red spreading out over the dirt at Toris' feet.
"I'll let you in on a secret, Laurinaitis," Gilbert said. "I'm a liar. Now, you and the rest of this camp will be put under confinement. Heidrich," he snapped. The guard came to his side, looking as mortified as the prisoners. "Get my brother on the phone and arrange for something to be done with Colonel Braginsky here," he said as he gave Ivan's body a soft kick.
With one more grin towards the shell-shocked Toris, Gilbert turned on his heels and marched off to end Roderich Edelstein's story.
Very little was making sense to Ludwig Beilschmidt on the morning of June 6th.
The Allies made a successful landing in France, Hochstetter was working without complaints, Roderich von Wolffe got married, and Gilbert called to tell Ludwig that Roderich von Wolffe was not a von Wolffe.
Ludwig hung up the phone, forcing his brother's frantic rambling from his thoughts. He hadn't heard Gilbert that excited in years. For an hour and a half, Gilbert ranted nonstop about how he forced the information out of Ivan and Toris and how Ludwig was wrong. He must have told Ludwig how wrong he was at least a hundred times.
And each time Gilbert reminded him that he was the mistaken one, Ludwig felt the tiny seed of anger in him grow bigger and bigger. He had trusted Roderich. He told that man more than he told his dog. Roderich knew everything about Ludwig, and Ludwig thought he knew everything about Roderich.
Clearly, he was wrong.
"I should have arrested him the first day I met him," Ludwig growled, running his hands through his hair. "How could I have been so blind?! Good God, the man looks Jewish to begin with! And I let him slip away! The Führer let him slip away!"
What was there for Ludwig to do? The arrest of the century, the arrest that so many people were waiting for slipped through his fingers. Roderich was already in Free France with his girlfriend or wife or Underground agent. Hunting him down would be a nightmarish waste of time. Roderich changed his name once – he probably did it again.
Ludwig picked up the book he'd been reading before Gilbert called, throwing it at the wall. He wasted his entire Gestapo career on one man. One filthy, disgusting, lying Untermensch. Five years of his life were spent pulling up birth records and pictures and tearing apart Roderich's perfect story sentence by sentence until he drove himself insane.
And this was how he was thanked for it?
"Do you want to explain why you're throwing things?" Hochstetter asked from outside the door. "Are we starting another fight? I'd like it if you'd give me a bit of notice before these things."
"It's over, Hochstetter! It's all over!" Ludwig got up, ripping the pictures from the wall where he pinned up anything they found about Roderich and his entourage.
"So, either your girlfriend that you don't have broke up with you or you're extremely angry with me," Hochstetter said, coming into the room. Ludwig didn't dare to look at him, tearing the photographs into smaller and smaller pieces.
"Are you okay?" Hochstetter walked over to Ludwig, watching him tear up the pictures. "What's your problem today, kid?"
"Gilbert called. He said he has proof that Roderich's a Jew," Ludwig snapped. "Actual proof. And Roderich's already out of the country! Even if we wanted to hunt him down, it would take too damn long."
Hochstetter nodded, putting his hand on Ludwig's arm. "I have something to tell you, however, you need to calm down before I talk."
"I'm not a child!"
"That's not calming down," Hochstetter said, taking the pieces of the photographs from Ludwig's hands and throwing them in the trash. "Are you prepared to hear this or do I need to wait for a few more minutes while you get yourself together?"
Ludwig took a deep breath, trying not to kill Hochstetter right there. "Alright, tell me."
"Roderich was here in Vienna a few hours ago. The radio department has proof."
Ludwig didn't bother to listen to the rest of what Hochstetter had to say. He marched off for the radio department, his thoughts choked out by rage. There was a lone man in the room where the audio records were kept, half-asleep and not at all interested in Ludwig's presence.
"I want to hear the tapes you have on von Wolffe from this morning," Ludwig barked. The man mumbled a curse, grabbing a tape from his desk and putting it into the reel-to-reel.
Music started playing over the scratchy speakers. Ludwig almost mistook it for Beethoven or Mozart or some other dead composer; everything sounded the same to him. He waited to hear Roderich's sickening voice, but all he heard was the same note played over and over.
Morse code.
He didn't remember the exact words to the message Hochstetter spelled out for him a few weeks ago. He did remember that Roderich put Morse code into his latest piece. And as the music kept going, Ludwig started to recognize the different melodies. He heard the first one that Roderich played in the bomb shelter, the swing piece he hated so much, the opera he wrote in 1941, the requiem he made shortly after his father's death, and the last piece he performed for Hitler.
It was undeniably Roderich von Wolffe's music. Ludwig had heard each of the individual pieces. He wrote one of them for Roderich when the man was sick, Roderich telling him what notes to write and Ludwig trying to place them on the lines. Ludwig even had a copy of one of the concertos at his house, one that Roderich made for him.
"Wait, is this Morse?" the man running the radio department asked, looking over at Ludwig. "I didn't hear this earlier."
"What is it saying?" Ludwig said.
"Francis Bonnefoy," the man said. "Natalya Arlovskya. Mathias Andersen. Lukas Bondevik. Eduard von Bock. Feliks Lukasiewicz. Lilli Zwingli. Basch Zwingli. Roderich Edelstein.
"Es lebe die Engel."
"Thank you, that's all I need to hear," Ludwig said in a surprisingly calm voice, walking out of the room. Hochstetter was there to greet him, his smile somehow not annoying anymore.
"So, what are you going to destroy next?" Hochstetter asked, giving Ludwig a slap on his back. "C'mon, make a scene! I'm dying for some excitement around here."
"I have to go home to get something," Ludwig said as he pushed past the man.
Ludwig wasn't mad as he walked home. He wasn't angry, but he wasn't anywhere near happy. He was more content than anything, strangely okay with the world and everything that was thrown his way that morning.
When he got to his house, Berlitz was waiting by the door for him. Ludwig mumbled a sort of hello to the old dog, grabbing his keys from the hook by the door. Berlitz started whining, realizing that Ludwig wasn't home to stay.
"I'll be back, you big baby," he said, kneeling down and ruffling the dog's snowy fur. Berlitz whimpered once more, licking at his face. "What," Ludwig asked, "Do you think I'd leave you here forever?"
Ludwig gave Berlitz a parting scratch behind the ear and went out to his car. He pulled the Mercedes out of the driveway, turning left instead of right to go back to Gestapo Headquarters. In a little less than a minute, he was in front of the familiar house. Ludwig killed the engine, got out of the car, and went right up to the door.
He didn't bother knocking before twisting the doorknob. It was unlocked – Roderich never left the door unlocked for fear of murderers.
"Roderich?" Ludwig called as he stepped inside. He turned the corner to go into the kitchen and stopped in the doorway.
The man that wasted Ludwig's life was sitting at his kitchen table, sobbing. There was a cup of either tea or whiskey next to him and one white pill laying on the table.
"I can't do it," Roderich choked, looking up at Ludwig with a tearstained face. "I can't kill myself."
The evening of June 7th was wonderfully quiet. Roderich closed his eyes, listening to the soft drum of the engine. It was like a lullaby to him, pulling him closer to sleep. He missed sleeping.
The car hit a bump in the road, and the sharp pain all over Roderich sprung to life. He gasped, clutching his bruised or broken or possibly both ribs. The cuts running across his chest cried out in agony and the bruise under his eye started throbbing. The taste of blood returned to his mouth. So much for a peaceful evening.
Before long, Roderich was back to being semi-conscious. He couldn't remember ever being this tired, this hurt in his life. Of course, he had a long life to look through. Perhaps he was forgetting an incident with his father.
No, he couldn't have forgotten a pain like this one.
He was brought out of his almost-sleep by a sharp slap to the face. When he didn't immediately move, a hand grabbed him and dragged him out of the car. Roderich found himself on the grass, a rock poking into his back.
"Stand up," a voice ordered, the same hand pulling Roderich to his feet. Roderich managed to stand up on his own, rubbing his eyes with his bloodied palm.
"Oh, it's you," he said when his vision cleared up again. "I was starting to think I was dreaming."
Ludwig was not in a laughing mood – just like the day before when he punched Roderich for so much as looking the wrong way. "I am required to give you a choice," he said with no inflection. "Would you like me to shoot you or do you want to take cyanide?"
"I've never been shot before," Roderich said. "I'd like to try something new."
"You have a good sense of humor for a filthy Jew." Ludwig took the pistol out of its holster, cocking it and holding it up to Roderich's head.
"Shame you're shooting me with a Luger. I'd like a classier gun. Basch could have given you this great pistol. It was ivory and gold and had a beautiful eagle carved into –"
Roderich was interrupted by another slap to the face. His weak legs gave out and he clung to Ludwig's uniform in a sad attempt at keeping himself upright. Ludwig kicked Roderich away, sending him down to the dirt.
"Don't touch me, you animal," Ludwig said, his voice not as strong as before. Did something change? "Stay in the dirt where you belong."
"Gladly," Roderich replied; he wasn't being sarcastic. Anything was better than standing at that point, even laying in the dirt beneath Ludwig.
"Do you have any last words?"
Roderich looked up at Ludwig. "I'm sorry it had to be this way, Ludwig. I think in a different time, we could have been friends. And I'm sorry I had to lie to you for so long. I'm sure you understand that I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Don't talk to me like we were friends," Ludwig said. "You were a mere tool to me."
"I was a happy tool with you, if that means anything."
"No, it doesn't."
"Oh, well. That's the way life is. Would you hurry up and get this over with? I don't imagine it will be painless," Roderich said with a smile. "And I'm dying to stop hurting."
Ludwig raised an eyebrow. "Was that a joke?"
"I bet you've never shot a man who was smiling."
"I haven't shot a man to begin with."
"Good, good. I'll be a wonderful practice round for you," Roderich said. "And then you can go kill some other Jews for doing nothing! You can shoot every single one of them until you feel content with your disgusting Nazi ideals. I'm sure Hitler will give you an Iron Cross for that."
Ludwig aimed the gun at Roderich's head, his lips curled into a snarl. Roderich screwed his eyes shut, praying that it would end fast.
He waited for the gunshot.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, he dared to open his eyes again. Ludwig was still aiming right for his head; his hands were shaking so badly he wouldn't have hit Roderich.
"You can't shoot me," Roderich said. "You cannot shoot me to save your life."
"Yes, I can!" Ludwig acted like he was going to pull the trigger, stopping short.
"What's the matter?" Roderich pushed himself up, standing upright to be eye-to-eye with Ludwig. "Why can't you kill a worthless Jew like me?"
Ludwig swallowed hard. "I trusted you, Roderich. I trusted you with so much."
"And I trusted you, believe it or not," Roderich said. "I trusted you with almost everything, save for my religion and the huge resistance movement I was running."
"I called a Jew my friend," Ludwig said in disbelief. "You were the one person I had here in Vienna."
"You were the one sane person I had. Why don't you put the gun down now? You're not going to be shooting me anytime soon."
"I'm not an idiot."
"I didn't think about that," Roderich said. "Sorry. I wasn't planning to attack you, anyway. I don't have it in me. So, how about you and I run away?"
Ludwig almost dropped the gun, keeping his trembling aim at Roderich's head. "What do you mean?"
"I have a free pass to Switzerland through a friend. I'll take you with me. From there we can go our separate ways and forget this Jew incident happened," Roderich said, although he wasn't sure why he was saying it. He was bargaining for time, pleading for a few final minutes.
"You're a Jew. The Jews must be eradicated. I'm not running away to Switzerland with you, you swine."
"So much for friendship," Roderich muttered, holding out his hand. "Well, then, let's end this civilly. It's been a pleasure knowing you, Kriminaldirektor Beilschmidt."
Ludwig took his hand. "I would say the same to you –"
He stopped short, looking down at Roderich's hand. Roderich took his hand away and held it up. The wedding ring's spike was sticking out, the tip stained red. Ludwig's face went white as he put together the pieces.
"Long live Jewish ingenuity," Roderich said with a grin.
There was a loud crack, a gentle tug in Roderich's chest, and then it went dark.
The final note in the symphony of Roderich Edelstein faded away.
A/N: Thank you's go out to ABCSKW123-IX, Guest, Killer Memestar, Fryingpangirl, EllaAwkward, HetaRosGirl, browsofglory, BetterThanLove, Celeste Everwhite, and everyone who stuck with me through this. This chapter is for Swing-Stole-My-Heart, my wonderful support system.
Please review.
I hope to see you all next chapter.