A/N: Thank you to the reviewers and the readers who are following along with this story. I'm really thankful for the interest. It makes me so happy to go to my author page and look at the hits and statistics on this story! By the way, I mention two songs in this chapter, and if you by any chance have those songs, it may increase the readability of the scene(s) once I mention the song to listen to the song until I mention the next one! I listened to them while I was writing the chapter because it sets the mood--I don't know how to explain it, but it made it much easier to write. However, I doubt that most people will have the songs I mention in their possession...
It made no sense for Hans Landa to be sickened over death. He alone was responsible for the deaths of hundreds, deaths that he took in stride without so much as a nightmare to remind him of the horrors he had unleashed upon so many innocents—let alone an immediate feeling of nausea!
He had ordered families to die—watched as families were gunned down right in front of him—through floorboards, through walls, even point blank. Children's cries being cut short as they were executed, their little bodies thudding on the floor. Screams, pleas for mercy, prayers in German, French, Hebrew… sometimes even English—ending abruptly with a hail of gunfire. Innocent eyes glazed over with death that stared blankly at him as he strode away from the bodies, the heavy heels of the Nazi boots the only sound to be heard; this was the true substance of nightmares. Yet here he was, having murdered a woman with his bare hands—a woman he knew had deserved it, a woman who had directly defied him—and his body was betraying him with pangs of nauseous remorse.
The trash can!—he leapt for it, landing on his hands and knees before his stomach promptly emptied its contents into the pail. His head swam, temples throbbing as he felt the rivulets of sweat snaking down his clammy reddened face, feeling another wave of nausea coming on strong. He couldn't move—instead remaining on the floor on all fours, his head hanging over the trash can. Letting out a groan of disgust over his own weakness in the matter, he again became sick, feeling utterly miserable as he then wiped off his chin. With that, he had been drained of all enjoyment of a job he looked forward to finishing for four months.
Sighing with disgust, he glanced up at the mattress, noticing the grayish tint to Bridget von Hammersmark's legs, which had been draped over the bed. Ignoring his nausea, he stood up haltingly, steadying himself on the mattress as he held the trash can, its contents sloshing about grotesquely.
He was now standing above her, looking down at her unblinking form, her body motionless. She looked much like a porcelain doll, save for the ugly purplish marks of strangulation about her neck. With a start, he raised the trash can to his mouth as soon as he again became sick. He had never been sick in such a way over anything but a tangible illness—and all happening in less than five minutes!
What is wrong with me? This is what I wanted.
He glanced again at her, at her swollen abdomen. Was it alive?
Is there nothing I can do? he mused, using his bloodstained sleeve to wipe off his mouth. Obviously I can't call a doctor. What else can be done?
He then remembered a technique he had learned in his early days in the military, artificial respiration. He'd have to breathe into her mouth and press down on her breastbone to get her breathing and heartbeat back. She'd have to be moved off the bed, however.
Within moments he had positioned her body on the floor and began chest compressions on her, the jarring of them causing her limp limbs to shake about in a doll-like fashion. He sat back on his haunches, fighting wave after wave of nausea as he watched her bluish-gray face for signs of life.
Suddenly it occurred to him to rinse out his mouth, which he then did. But why? She didn't deserve special treatment in the mouth-to-mouth respiration, and yet, he felt obligated to do so. It was an odd feeling, as unfamiliar to him as the nausea. He returned quickly, realizing every second that she didn't breathe there'd be less chance for survival.
After five minutes of compressions and breaths, he had not elicited as much as a single voluntary movement from the body of Bridget von Hammersmark. He felt a wave of anger sweep over him, at his inability to quit strangling her before it was too late. He had spared a Jew but had killed his child and the mother of his child—inconceivable!
With a growl of rage, he lifted his fist, bringing it sharply down in the center of Bridget's chest. His anger dissipating at the lack of response, he became lost in thought. Could doing something like that work? With a reluctant sigh, he placed both his hands on her chest, leaning his entire upper body onto his hands, repeating this several times. She didn't move.
But was it not possible that her heart could be beating so faintly that his human ear could not hear it—a heartbeat in the absence of a breath? He hastily pulled himself to his feet and retreated to the kitchen, finding a thick plastic funnel in her cabinet. When he returned to the room he promptly knelt down on the floor beside her, placing the funnel over her heart and his ear over the spout. Within half a minute he sat back up, looking perplexed but deep in thought.
Was that a heartbeat?
He leaned back down once more with his makeshift stethoscope. Faint, slow—but there! She was alive!—though barely. He lifted his head, looking incredulously at her face. Her eyes were still open, only the whites exposed. With utmost care he lifted his hand over her face, gently closing her eyelids.
But was she breathing? She hadn't moved or taken a large gulp of air after he had administered the breaths, but that didn't necessarily mean she wasn't breathing.
He returned quickly with a hand mirror, holding the mirrored side to Bridget's mouth. He waited, the seconds ticking by. A tiny puff of condensation. He waited a bit longer. Another puff of fog on the mirror. Yes!
A smile grew across his face, his expression one of pure relief, as he leaned back onto his haunches, watching her with a rare tenderness. He never expected to be so happy to see a victim survive, and yet here he was, feeling a rush of delight as he looked upon the unconscious mother-to-be.
Bridget von Hammersmark had seen the blindingly white tunnel as it became larger and larger, filling her entire field of vision, her mother and father materializing before her eyes, her long-dead grandfather still wearing that silly hat she used to tease him about—and then being yanked away as the light faded. It was all she could think about as she lie flat on her back, acutely aware that it was difficult to breathe and that her throat was sorer than it had ever been in her life. Even so, it was not the soreness that was felt with a flu or strep throat; it affected every level of her neck region, from the surface of her skin to deep beneath her jaw. Her chest and abdomen felt tight and cramped and her head throbbed from temple to temple, but it was her throat that held the brunt of the pain. She immediately thought of the being growing inside her, and moved a hand to clutch the swelling of her abdomen.
Comforted by the bulge still existing, she opened her eyes to gray darkness; adjusting her vision to what was most certainly the interior of her bedroom. She was in bed, though not clad in pajamas. She could hear a far-off sound; could it be that she had left her radio on? Blinking several times, she noticed that her eyes were sore and unusually dry.
She attempted to sit up, but couldn't, for it left her gasping for breath.
What happened to me? It feels like I was… strangled, but if so, why would I be here?
It was then that she turned her head to her left ever-so-slightly, met with the appearance of a brownish fabric protruding from the bedclothes, a line of brown that ran halfway down the bed ending with a shoe.
She looked to her immediate left, seeing what appeared to be the end of the brownish fabric, with a column of wrinkled blue fabric above it, and—turning her head back towards a more central position, saw the arms of the figure, the neck, the hair of the dangling head! It was then she saw the chin, the nose, the boyish lips of the man as slow, rhythmic breaths passed through them with a light pffff sound.
Colonel Hans Landa! Landa was in her house! In her very bed! Now the pain made perfect sense! He had choked her!... But then, what was he doing sleeping next to her in her very bed? What the hell was he waiting for? For her regain consciousness so he could further torture her? Or was he currently in the process of waiting for her to die?
Forgetting about the pain that had constantly plagued her since she had regained consciousness, she reached for the 0.38 special beneath her pillow, pulling the hammer back with utter care. All the while she stared at Landa's eyelids, still solidly shut beneath a curtain of boyish eyelashes. His evil certainly betrayed his appearance. She felt a primal hatred stewing inside her. Inhuman bastard. You tried to kill me and my child. Her hands were weak from her earlier efforts and it was a bit of a chore for her to lift the heavy yet compact weapon onto her body. Once the gun was resting on her chest, her right hand—the hand furthest away from Landa's sleeping figure—fumbled to right the weapon, taking off the safety and aiming at the only thing she was capable of aiming at with her one weakened hand—namely, his upper thigh.
She knew the gun was loaded. She had put the bullets in the magazine herself almost four months ago, picturing the scenario as each bullet slid into the clip: Landa would find her, corner her, explain to her how and why her life would now end. She would tell him of the pregnancy—this godforsaken, unexpected pregnancy that made getting hired as an actress even more difficult, not to mention the looks people would give her at her unmarried status. She had even taken to wearing one of her own rings on her left finger when she was in public just to create the illusion of marriage.
Though the pregnancy was highly inconvenient, it was a bargaining chip, a way to gain the upper hand with Hans Landa. She would of course inform him that it was his child and he'd at first be incredulous, but after her reassurances he'd believe her and reconsider killing her. As he turned away to leave, she'd aim the gun right between his shoulders, loudly cocking the weapon as she did so. He'd probably turn around, startled, and look at her, eyebrows raised with confusion.
She'd then propose her deal: you clear my name with the U.S. and British governments and I carry the baby to term. Otherwise, there's no telling what abortifacients I'll have to take in order to move on with my life.
She hated the idea that she'd be using her own flesh and blood as a bargaining tool, but if she were extradited back to Germany, that'd be no life she'd want her child to have. It was either a hero's name and a child here in America, or no child at all. She'd gunned down the defenseless new father that night at the tavern and slated her movie director and his wife for death via Operation Kino; Bridget von Hammersmark was not a tenderhearted woman. And now she wanted no more than to forsake her own plans and end Hans Landa before he could do her any more harm. She didn't need his help to begin a new life with a clean slate here in America.
There was no reason for her to let Hans Landa live. Her mind startlingly lucid, a grimace on her lips, she pulled the trigger.
The gunshot rang out in the small room, its sound deafening in the small space. Bridget couldn't help but involuntarily jerk as the pistol recoiled.
Landa, abruptly awakened, let out a throaty scream and fell off of the bed in a heap, landing on the carpeted floor with a loud thud. The bullet had certainly shattered his left thighbone to hell, and from the way his left leg also throbbed, it had passed through that leg as well. He was done for. He lie on the floor by the bed, biting on his bottom lip so forcefully that it bled, his breaths coming out in choked sobs.
He decided that he wouldn't fight it if she decided to end it with another shot; the pain he felt was unbearable to the point of him wishing himself dead, a torturous pain as horrible as the pain from that day in the forest—the day he had been given his mark by the Basterds. He'd underestimated Bridget von Hammersmark and now was paying for that mistake.
Though, how had he ended up in such a vulnerable position in the first place, falling asleep right beside her? Feeling his eyes well up involuntarily with tears at the utter pain, he shifted his body so that he was facing away from the bed and begin to think.
He had lifted her into the bed after he realized she was breathing, having rug-burned his raw knuckles on the bedroom carpet while snaking his hands beneath her body. Seeing the resultant blood on the beige carpet and ignoring it, he had washed and bandaged his knuckles in her bathroom and relieved himself. From her kitchen he had eaten a banana and some pre-peeled carrots she was probably preparing for a salad.
During that time, he couldn't help but stand around in her living room, listening to the easy jazz until the Mills Brothers came on. As he listened to the lyrics, a wave of nausea again resurfaced but he overcame it.
You always hurt the one you love
The one you shouldn't hurt at all
You always take the sweetest rose
And crush it till the petals fall
Her near-death wasn't his fault. Why had she been so defiant? Why had she not simply surrendered, begged him for mercy, fallen at his knees? Yes, it was her own fault, her own false confidence that had led to her being strangled.
The song, though extremely popular in the states, irritated him to no end. Before the war, in Austria; that was when he was in love—ehh, more like infatuation. But no longer. Every weekend that a Bridget von Hammersmark movie was playing, he'd bring a new date. During Bridget's scenes, he'd forbid his date from chomping on popcorn or slurping the drink. It had to be silent.
And later on that evening, beneath the sheets, sometimes he'd even picture the woman with him to be Bridget von Hammersmark herself. He'd caress the curves, his fingers and mouth working their magic on the woman until she'd cry out, her sweaty body tensing and relaxing under an entanglement of sheets, toes and fingers clenching as she moaned his name. "Hans, Hans! Oh, Hans!"
All the while he'd emotionlessly continue his mission, picturing Bridget's mouth forming the statements, her ruby red lips moving along his body as he moved away, smoothly and expertly applying a condom just before the woman could get a release. Having mastered foreplay with his subjects, he'd then get his reward—his face still expressionless, perhaps biting his lip with concentration, he'd roughen up the situation in a hurry: promptly unfastening his date's garters, ripping the woman's undergarments down off of her legs, and then ravaging her until he was spent.
He had been commissioned by the Nazis for a singular, sinister purpose: to hunt Jews. He attained the rank of Sturmscharführer in less than six months, rising quickly to the rank of Standardtenführer in another half a year due to his ability to do his job to perfection—essentially, because he never let emotion or morality cloud his judgment. He had a knack at relating to the survival instincts of his intended victims, finding individuals and families as easily as if he had hidden them himself.
The immorality of his job didn't bother him, for the perks were far better. Good pay, lots of sex, and the respect he'd always wanted. Another perk of his high status was that he was able to rub elbows with famous Germans.
Germany's sweetheart Bridget von Hammersmark had become even more popular with the advent of the war. She was, in a word, perfect—a blonde, blue-eyed unmarried Gentile with an abundance of grace, class and humility not expected of someone so in the public eye. The budding infatuation of his pre-War days did not relent, blossoming to the point that he'd actively seek her out in high class social gatherings of which he was an invitee.
When they'd first met, he'd introduced himself to her as Standardtenführer Hans Landa, Waffen-SS, and she'd responded with a humble little bow of her head, an extended blink. It was then that he had delicately taken her glorious hand in his own, his lips turning to fire where they kissed the flesh. And when he looked back up at her, he could almost swear she returned the sentiment. Her smile wasn't exactly a friendly smile—it hinted at something more. It was as if her eyes were drinking him in, but that her mouth wasn't exactly sure what it was supposed to be doing—teetering between discomfort, friendliness and outright desire. His imagination was not one to run wild, but here his idol was, in front of him, being a bit more than polite in his opinion. He was an expert at reading people, and this woman was not merely being friendly—she was attracted to him so much as to be a bit unnerved by the encounter, for she was certainly unnerved.
And if his toothy megawatt smile and sparklingly pleased eyes were any indication; he was certainly not disappointed by her.
The song continued to play on the radio, though he had all but phased it out during his reverie. With a grumble he unraveled his sleeve and opened the glass door, turning the tuning knob to a classical music station, hearing the swellings of strings mixed with light woodwinds. Ah, the Adagio movement of Mozart's Clarinet Concerto in A Major.… He had grown up on this music, the music of a fellow Austrian, a musical prodigy at that. With all his faults, musical taste was not one of them.
Feeling overcome by the familiar melody, Landa reclined back on Bridget's sofa, closing his eyes as the clarinet solo began. The support given to the clarinet by a seamless set of strings was enough to elicit a sigh. Such a soft, peaceful feeling it gave, a calming aura that made him smile. It wasn't an unabashedly joyous song by any account; it was to him as if one individual, in smiling at a rather hopeless situation, altered the perceptions of the rest, convincing them to make good of the situation. It was almost enough to make him laugh. The atmosphere of the music so pleasing and harmonious, so all-encompassing, while a bruised and battered woman lay unconscious in the next room. A smile spread over his lips. He so loved irony.
After listening to the music for a minute or so longer, he had then returned to her bedroom, squatting down so that her chest was at eye level as he watched it rhythmically rise and fall.
As he now lie in utter agony on her bedroom floor, a piercing thought ran through his head: why had he not checked for any weapons then? Did he really presume that a double agent wouldn't have any weapons at her disposal?
Maybe it was her appearance, her angel-like innocence in sleep that swayed him from his usual method of search and seizure. An angel didn't need weapons, especially an angel as beautiful as the one lying before him. An angel he had punished severely, he noted, for encircling her neck was a rather symmetrical necklace of ugly black and blue finger prints, the vicious bruises extending towards the collar of her dress, which had been spattered with blood from his knuckles. Her skin was no longer grayish or bluish in tint; rather, gaining a slight pink tone from the blood flow that had been restored to it. Her lips and eyes were devoid of all makeup, pale and natural, the only sign of life on her face a mere blush of color to her cheeks. To Landa gazing down at her, she looked just like Juliet awaiting Romeo in the Capulet crypt.
Having noticed no change about her, Landa crossed to the other side of the bed, ever so gently taking a seat on the pillow next to hers. With a grunt he kicked off his loafers and leaned his body against the backboard, now focusing his gaze on her swollen belly. There'd be no way to tell if it was alive—the only sign of its death would be a gush of blood from below. His nausea had only just ended; he'd check later. It was then that he'd inadvertently fallen asleep--a dire mistake on his part. The woman beside him may well have been as sweet as a rose at first glance, but she certainly had thorns and was not afraid to brandish them.
A/N: Sorry for the unforewarned bit of background in this story. So far I've been setting this story up to be more than current actions and flesh it out a bit more than my last IB story. Please let me know what you think of this chapter! I'm trying to decide if I want more on the spot, current actions and feelings oozing in details (like the last story) or a story with some background flashbacks and setup before any real nitty-gritty pours into the story… But what do you prefer? One or the other? A combination of both? Neither? Your feedback can make this story more tailored to reader needs because I don't want my story to be difficult or boring to read. If you by any chance had either of the above-mentioned songs, did you listen to them and did they alter the chapter in any way? I think it's kind of cool to set up an audio mood at the same time your mind sets up a picture of each scene as the chapter progress. I dunno, that's just how I perceive it...