#and a handful of jews in my town are facing a year in prison for protesting genocide. make it make sense

[doikayt]

So beyond frustrating to see the term "antisemitism" co-opted to manufacture consent and stifle dissent for the genocide of Palestinians, all while real antisemitism carries no consequence whatsoever for the many, many American celebrities and billionaires who peddle it. Deeply radicalizing to watch Palestinian-Americans demonized for protesting the genocide of their people, to watch scores of anti-zionist Jews arrested for standing with Palestine, only for genuinely antisemitic voices to be propped up and bolstered because "censorship is bad" and "they have a point."

[eugenesmorphine]

Hiii, can I request something of Ronald Speirs and maybe a German girl that was found in the eagle’s nest or some abandoned buildings just like that?😊 it just come through my mind haha

Happy holiday💕💕

Seeking Refuge // Ronald Speirs Imagine

Taglist: @alienoresimagines @ricksmorty @punkgeekcryptid @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant @valterras @adamantiumdragonfly

Word Count: 3,036

    Ronald walked the edge of the destroyed practically destroyed Nazi base. The crunching of the snow beneath his Army Issued boots. His firearm held tight;y within his beaten and calloused fingers. The face paint slicked onto his cheeks as he kept a stern eye. Nazi prisoners walking past them in a long line, their hands up above their heads. Stripped of any weapons and any valuables. A cigarette balanced between his lips. The nicotine slipped down his throat. It was calming things for him.

    Peering in rooms, searching around for any Intel. Any prisoners. Really anything to be honest. It was a large base. Multiple large buildings with bunches of small buildings here and there. Soldiers searched all the buildings. Shuffling with papers needed to be translated, snagging things of value of course. Flags, medals, maybe even some pieces of clothing from the prisoners taken and or from the dead that lay around.

   Ronald had sat within a building, his feet propped up on the desk in front of him, picking his teeth with a toothpick. His weapon lay on his lap, and his helmet rested on the same old, and beaten wooden desk. Humming to himself, enjoying the small moment of somewhat relaxation. Watching the paratroopers of all types of ranks bustled in and out of the building. The commanding officers stayed within the building, making it their headquarters. 

   Papers began to pile up, Soldiers coming in to report what the new POWs had told them. Everything was going rather smoothly. It made Ronald a little uneasy. Nothing for these paratroopers ever went easy for them it seemed. And of course, that uneasy feeling seemed to be true when Liebgott, Martin, Perconte and Randleman all came in to stand in front of the officers. The Captain stood and looked to the men. Raising an eyebrow. 

  “Sir, there is only one last building that has yet to be searched. But we believe there could be some Krauts in there, sir. Men have reported some banging around, some footsteps. We were in need of an officer to be present, sir,” Martin spoke up. Standing at attention of course, along with the rest of the men. Speirs crossed his arms over his chest, as much as he didn’t want to get up, he was going to. It was his job after all.

   “All right, let’s head over there then to get it done and over with. We need to get on the move soon anyways,” he responded, Already beginning to make his way past the men. The small group already followed his lead.

///

   The old German home the small squad approached was just as worn down and partially destroyed as the others. It was quiet, just like the rest of the town. That was merely a ghost town without the American Military within it.

   Speirs took a few steps forward, approaching the front door. “Have you men even been within this home yet?” he asked. Turning to look back over his shoulder at the four paratroopers. All of them shaking their heads. Making the officer scoff slightly and carrying on walking within the building, stepping through the doorway. The old house smelled of mildew and was damp all around the inside. The rainstorms had definitely gotten to this home over it’s time of use. The old furniture matched the disarray of the home. Chairs knocked over. A small table broken to pieces. Shattered plates and cups spreading across the floor and crunching beneath their boots. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen something like this. The German’s had no care in the world what they did to people’s belongings. Especially within the smaller German cities. They took what they wanted. Valuables, women, lives. Anything. And if they didn’t want it, they merely destroyed it.

   Ronald picked up a few silver spoons and forks that spread across the creaky, wooden floorboards of the home. Stuffing them in his bag. He never could turn down some more silver to send back home. Sticky fingers of course. Continuing to search the one floor home. It wasn’t too big, and it wasn’t too small either. It was a good family home, and Ronald imagined what it would look like if it was still normal. No broken furniture, or shattered plates and cups. A happy family merely walking around and enjoying a nice meal at the table. It was something Ronald secretly always did. Imagine what life within these towns and cities would be like if there was no war. What he would do if there was no war. Where would he be?

   Ronald and the men were all pulled out of their thoughts and searching when a crash of a pot shattering rang from the basement below. All of their heads snapping to the worn, wooden door that was the only thing that could possibly lead to the basement below. Ronald’s eyes narrowed at the door as he motioned for the men to move up. Liebgott took point and made his way towards the door. Pointing his firearm down at the door. Reaching for the doorknob slowly. His hand only centimetres away.

    Leibgott didn’t even get a chance to grab the doorknob, the door flew open and a woman came out screaming. A knife within her grasp. “Fahr zur Hölle, ihr Nazis!” (Go to hell, you Nazis.) She screamed. Knocking Joe right off his feet and slashing his bicep with the knife. Randleman jumped to action and grabbed onto her. Wrapping her arms around her stomach and hoisting her up and yanking her back. Bull fell back against a small table causing the rest of whatever else was on it to fall and crash onto the ground. The woman kicked and screamed while Joe stood and pressed a hand on the new gash on his arm. Ronald went and snatched the knife from her hand and threw it to the side.

   “What is she saying, Leib? Gah! Calm down, woman!” Martin yelled, while Ronald went to help Joe stand and grab a random cloth and pressing it against his arm.

   “She thinks we are the Germans,” Joe grunted. Looking towards the H/C woman. Approaching her and watching her heave within the arms of Randleman. “Wir sind Amerikaner, keine Nazis,” (We are Americans, not Nazis). Showing the American flag patch on his arm. 

   Ronald watched as her emotions changed greatly. Staring through the mess of her hair as she panted. “Put me down. I have no more weapons, I will comply now,” the German woman spoke through a heavy accent. Everyone fell silent for a moment. The junior enlisted and NCOs turned towards their Captain for an answer. Ronald thought for a moment and stared at the woman who seemingly relaxed. His eyes meeting hers. He could almost read her with just the look on her face and her eyes.

    Her skin was pale, skinnier than she should’ve been. Bruised littered her arms and legs. Her dress was torn and worn down greatly. “Let her go, she needs to go to Doc Roe. Maybe she could give us some information,” he stated. Watching as Bull placed her down gently. She wobbled slightly.

   “I’m sorry I cut you, I thought you were the Gestapo. I will give you the little food and medical supplies I have left,” she offered. Her hands folding in front of her. Joe looked down at her and shook his head. He was frustrated, he always had a short temper. But he cooled down.

   “It is fine,” he trailed off. He noticed a familiar symbol that rested on a necklace around her neck. A silver Star of David. “You are Jewish? I am too,” he told her. The woman just nodded as they began to walk out.

   “How long have you been hiding there?” asked Ronald. He was amazed she held up that long. How the Germans never looked into that basement. The flats she wore were practically worn away. 

  “I stopped counting after about a month, they never saw me there. And when they searched the basement when they first showed up, I hid in a crawl space my father had made for me when the entirety of the Gestapo began to go around Germany. And when they raided my town, my parents sent me down there. I heard them be taken away, and I hid and stayed quiet. They never found me,” she spoke very quietly. It made her voice harder to understand in a way due to her accent. They all merely listened as they walked. “And when you soldiers came into this home again, I heard all the gunfire, and I thought you guys lost against them. So when I heard footsteps, I knocked that pot over. I thought I was done for. The only weapon I had was that old knife my father gave me,” she paused for a moment. “I would rather die fighting then to be sent where the rest of the Jews in this area went,” the young woman finished.

///

   Ronald and the men brought her to Doc who got the small wounds she had and treated them carefully. Along with Leib’s arm wound. Ronald turned and his heart nearly softened at the sight of her. It was clear she knew what really happened to her parents. And now she was alone in this big world. “Martin, run and get her some food. Try to get some warm grub,” he told the NCO that stood besides him. Martin merely nodded with a quick ‘Yes, sir’ and ran off to get her some food. Going to stand in front of the woman while Roe still wrapped up one of her ankles.

   “So, what is your name?” he asked. No matter what Ronald Speirs said, or how he said it, he just seemed too intimidating. To anyone really. But the young woman didn’t seem fazed by it at all. He understood it though. She had probably been through, and seen things, more than anyone could ever understand, or even think of in that matter.

  “Y/N. My name is Y/N L/N,” she answered tiredly. A steaming cup of coffee within her hand. He watched as she slowly brought it to her lips and tilted it back. It was freezing this time of year, and all she wore was a torn dress and some flats. “You know, I never did like coffee all that much. I usually tea, but this American coffee is just so warm, it is perfect,” Y/N spoke with a chuckle. And without even thinking, the Paratrooper officer began to pull off his field jacket. 

  “Here, take this for now. I can probably get you some warmer clothes,” Ronald said as he gently draped the jacket around her shoulders. It seemed rather bigger on her no doubt. The young woman was frail, not dangerously skinny, but clear to the eyes that she was definitely underweight.

   Y/N hugged the jacket around her body. Looking back up at Spiers. “Thank you. You Americans are so kind to me. I am still very sorry for attacking one of your men,” She stood and walked in front of Ronald. “I am at service to you men, I might be able to help you on where the Germans are and are going to. I believe they have a base just a few miles from here,” Y/N offered. Ronald merely just nodded. 

   “That sounds good, but why don’t we find you a place to rest first. We are going to be stationed in this town for a little while. I can get you situated where the rest of the officers are staying,” Ronald responded, tossing a thumb over his shoulder. “You can talk to our officer in charge, Major Winter,” he told her. 

   Y/N just nodded. “That will be fine, should we head over now?” she asked quietly. Her eyes batted at Ronald, her face was tired and you could almost see the sadness she hid just sitting within her eyes. It made Ronald feel something he thought he would never feel for a long time. Remorse.

   Ronald nodded and turned on his heels quickly to face away from her. He couldn’t let emotions end up getting in the way of the mission. But, this was different. Was it? Or was he actually feeling for the young female he had just met. Something about her, even though meeting her just a few hours ago, made her stick to him almost. He just tried to push away the feelings all together, or the thoughts. 

///

   Speirs had gotten Y/N within the officer’s HQ, finding an empty room. It wasn’t much. An old, rickety bed with a thin mattress. It wasn’t much, but with a few extra blankets he had found for her, it would make a halfway decent room until they could find Y/N a way to get into a new city to start over.

    Y/N entered the room and looked around. “This was the Rabbi’s home,” she spoke up. Sitting on the bed. “It is a shame I’ll never see them again.” it shocked Ronald at how calm she was saying those words. Her eyes were still soft and sad as she smoothed out her skirt. A sigh escaping her dry and cracked lips.

   “How do you know you won’t ever see him again, or the rest of your family?” Ronald asked. Everyone had heard about the work camps. But nothing really solid. But Y/N seemed to understand at least one thing that came out of them. Evil.

  “We weren’t the first ones to be deported from here. First they took the foreign Jews. Some were excited to go, but then we realized that they weren’t coming back after seven months. There were rumors that the Hitler had ordered his soldiers to kill them all. And some rumors that they were just working within factories. But when they came to gather the rest of us, it was different. Forcing us out of our homes, pushing and shoving men and women. I watched a woman be hit by the butt of some soldier’s gun. And then a few boys I knew, they were only about nineteen. Making them just four years younger than me, they fought back against a few of the Nazi soldiers. Merely just shoving them. And they shot them. Without hesitation,” taking a shaking breath, she looked back up to Ronald. “We know now that whenever a Jew goes with the Nazis. They aren’t coming back,” she whispered.

    Ronald, a man of harshness and lacking the ability to show emotions in a time like this for a civilian. He didn’t exactly know how to respond. He just watched her facial expressions change as she told him the truths of what she saw. And after a few minutes of just silence, Ronald slowly placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. 

   “We had prayed you Americans would come. And at least you did now. I think I would freeze to death if I stayed in that basement another week,” she commented. Ronald just nodded and still didn’t have anything to say to her. “Thank you, Captain Speirs. Thank you for your men’s services,” her eyes were soft, and a smile soon appeared on her lips. It was the first time he saw her smile, and Ronald would never forget it. She was pretty. More than pretty, but Ronald just couldn’t find the right word to call it. Even covered in dirt and sweat. 

   “It.. don’t worry about it,” he said with a nod. “Why don’t you get some rest, we can get you some chow- I mean some hot food in a little while,” he offered. And Y/N merely just nodded. Picking up the blankets and getting beneath it all and rolling onto her side. Hearing one final yawn come from the woman before finally falling asleep. 

   Ronald stood there in the doorway for a few minutes. Making sure she had actually fallen asleep. That was until Major Winters came and placed a hand on Speirs’ shoulder. Making the Captain turn to look at him. 

   “Sir,” he said with a nod. Winters returned the nod then went back to the sleeping female. 

   “So what is the deal with this civilian?” Winters asked. Ronald turned back to the sleeping female. A part of him didn’t want to see her go, and he was kicking himself for it. A small shrug he gave as he took a moment to think.

  “She seems to have a lot of information. About the camps, the German forces, even about a base nearby. She is fluent in German and English. In my personal opinion, sir, I think she could be a good help to us,” pausing for a minute to collect himself and place himself in check for a moment. “Then bring her to a refuge center, hospital, or something. There isn’t anything left of this town. And she says her family is most definitely dead,” he added.

   Winters just nodded slightly, and a quiet chuckle fell from his lips. Causing a confused look from the officer that stood besides him. “If you believe that is what we must do, we will do it. Just never see you to be soft,” he said with a pat on his shoulder. Ronald’s eyes widened slightly and his mouth opened, wanting to defend himself. To which Major Winters just shook his head slightly, and Ronald closed his mouth. Turning his head away in slight embarrassment. “I won’t say anything, but we’ll take good care of her. You can’t be all tough all the time. I knew you would feel soft for someone eventually,” he snickered. Turning on his heels to walk away from the room.

   While shaking his head, Ronald turned back to the woman sleeping in front him. Waiting for Winter’s boots to fade completely. A sigh he made while watching Y/N breathe within her sleep. “Damn,” was all he said. Staring down at the floor then rubbing his face quickly. Looking at the woman once more before turning around and just walking off. Letting her sleep and wanting to figure out how to get himself out of the rut he had placed himself in.

    One that made his heart skip a beat.

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

23rd February >> Mass Readings (USA)

Saint Polycarp, Bishop, Martyr

    on 

Wednesday, Seventh Week in Ordinary Time.

Wednesday, Seventh Week in Ordinary Time

(Liturgical Colour: Red)

(Readings for the feria (Wednesday))

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Wednesday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading

James 4:13-17

You have no idea what your life will be like. Instead you should say: If the Lord wills it.

Beloved: Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we shall go into such and such a town, spend a year there doing business, and make a profit”– you have no idea what your life will be like tomorrow. You are a puff of smoke that appears briefly and then disappears. Instead you should say, “If the Lord wills it, we shall live to do this or that.” But now you are boasting in your arrogance. All such boasting is evil. So for one who knows the right thing to do and does not do it, it is a sin.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 49:2-3, 6-7, 8-10, 11

R/ Blessed are the poor in spirit; the Kingdom of heaven is theirs!

Hear this, all you peoples;    hearken, all who dwell in the world, Of lowly birth or high degree,    rich and poor alike.

R/ Blessed are the poor in spirit; the Kingdom of heaven is theirs!

Why should I fear in evil days    when my wicked ensnarers ring me round? They trust in their wealth;    the abundance of their riches is their boast.

R/ Blessed are the poor in spirit; the Kingdom of heaven is theirs!

Yet in no way can a man redeem himself,    or pay his own ransom to God; Too high is the price to redeem one’s life; he would never have enough    to remain alive always and not see destruction.

R/ Blessed are the poor in spirit; the Kingdom of heaven is theirs!

For he can see that wise men die,    and likewise the senseless and the stupid pass away,    leaving to others their wealth.

R/ Blessed are the poor in spirit; the Kingdom of heaven is theirs!

Gospel Acclamation

John 14:6

Alleluia, alleluia. I am the way and the truth and the life, says the Lord; no one comes to the Father except through me. Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

Mark 9:38-40

Whoever is not against us is for us.

John said to Jesus, “Teacher, we saw someone driving out demons in your name, and we tried to prevent him because he does not follow us.” Jesus replied, “Do not prevent him. There is no one who performs a mighty deed in my name who can at the same time speak ill of me. For whoever is not against us is for us.”

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

------------------------------------------

Saint Polycarp, Bishop, Martyr

(Liturgical Colour: Red)

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Wednesday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading

Revelation 2:8-11

I know your tribulation and poverty.

“To the angel of the Church in Smyrna, write this:

   “‘The first and the last, who once died but came to life, says this: “I know your tribulation and poverty, but you are rich. I know the slander of those who claim to be Jews and are not, but rather are members of the assembly of Satan. Do not be afraid of anything that you are going to suffer. Indeed, the Devil will throw some of you into prison, that you may be tested, and you will face an ordeal for ten days. Remain faithful until death, and I will give you the crown of life.    “’”Whoever has ears ought to hear what the Spirit says to the churches. The victor shall not be harmed by the second death.”‘“

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 31:3cd-4, 6 and 8ab, 16bc and 17

R/ Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

Be my rock of refuge,    a stronghold to give me safety. You are my rock and my fortress;    for your name’s sake you will lead and guide me.

R/ Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

Into your hands I commend my spirit;    you will redeem me, O LORD, O faithful God. I will rejoice and be glad because of your mercy.

R/ Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

Rescue me from the clutches of my enemies and my persecutors. Let your face shine upon your servant;    save me in your kindness.

R/ Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

Gospel Acclamation

cf. Te Deum

Alleluia, alleluia. We praise you, O God, we acclaim you as Lord; the white-robed army of martyrs praise you. Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

John 15:18-21 If they persecuted me, they will also persecute you.

Jesus said to his disciples: “If the world hates you, realize that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, the world would love its own; but because you do not belong to the world, and I have chosen you out of the world, the world hates you. Remember the word I spoke to you, ‘No slave is greater than his master.’ If they persecuted me, they will also persecute you. If they kept my word, they will also keep yours. And they will do all these things to you on account of my name, because they do not know the one who sent me.”

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

You Only Live Twice (HugoxReader)

Requested by @redroseedits​

@owba-chan​ @war-obsessed​ @inglourious-imagines​ @tealaquinn​ @struggling-bee​ @frozenhuntress67​ @kwyloz​ @sodapop182​

Let me know if you wanna be added to the IB or OUATIH taglists! :)

A/N: (p/n) here means your pronouns :)

A/N 2: If dialogue is in italics then the characters are speaking to each other in German

________

"Oh, come now, Herman. This is serious!" Hans Landa was in no mood for jokes.

The basterds had just broken Hugo Stiglitz out of prison.

Landa was tasked to find him.

Find them all.

Herman shook his head, "What you're looking for...it’s something only one kind of person can do."

"Herman...enlighten me. Who?"

Herman grinned, "What you're looking for, sir, has no allegiance. No uniform."

"And what is this anomaly? Now and days everyone's got something to die for." Hans sputtered as he shuffled through his files of contacts. "I can’t trust just anyone with this."

Herman laughed, "Oh please Hans. There are things that are beneath us. Squandering our time to find some yank GIs and some runaway in the forest? It's insulting."

"It's a classified case given to us by high command."

"Send one of their own after Stiglitz. A common criminal after a common criminal."

Hans narrowed his eyes, "What are you proposing, Herman?"

"The Lion's Den."

Hans sputtered with disbelief and waved him off, "A rumor spread by petty thiefs and drunks. Unbelievable, Herman. How could you even believe-"

Herman smirked, "Follow me."

*****

Herman showed Landa the way to a hidden oasis. A tavern, reserved for the most ruthless, bloodthirsty criminals, all hired for some heist or high stakes murder or other.

Landa was amazed, seeing that the den was a real place.

He immediately shook his head, and thought, to hell with it.

He stood in the center, and practically demanded as he waved around his insignia, "Bring me the best killer you have."

People sneered, spat, and laughed, then carried on with their usual dealing, betting, and...well, business.

Herman shook his head, "Are you out of your mind? That could've gotten us killed!"

He scoffed, "Do they know who we are? If anything happened to us-"

Herman and Hans' disagreement was interrupted by an abrupt silence.

Followed by footsteps, and murmuring.

"Your rank means nothing here."

The constant, incessant word on everyone's tongue was 'Vier'. 'Four.'

Your name.

The name everyone in that tavern feared and the streets feared.

Herman managed to stutter, "We-we're here t-to see about a-a job?"

"Anyone who comes in here is. Sit."

Herman nodded to Landa, and they both sat.

You leaned over the table, pressing your palms down on the corners, overshadowing them. "I assume you have payment."

Herman nodded, and held up the briefcase. In it, was millions, meant to cover the cost of the operation.

It was then, that Landa looked up, and saw your face, which nearly stopped his heart.

Upon further inspection...it made him smirk. "Ah...look what the cat  dragged back from the dead. Y/n L/n."

You spoke with ease, as if nothing he said held any weight. You ran your fingers on the blade of your knife, and remarked, "Now, now, Landa. People will think you mad for speaking to spirits."

He nodded, understanding.

He remembered it well.

He was a detective.

In fact, he held your case once.

You were a common, petty thief from a young age.

But, by 17, you were on the rise.

Young, skilled, smooth talking, with all the right connections for all the wrong things.

By nineteen, it had gone to your head.

And...after a series of misfortunes, you were presumed dead, not but two years ago.

"So you faked your death. Is that it, Y/n?"

"Y/n is dead," you guaranteed, slamming your mug of beer on the table, causing hearts to stop around the tavern.

Landa was the only one not shaking.

He didn't understand the danger.

"My conscious is not haunted by what happened two years ago. Therefore, I wouldn't see a ghost of you. So, it must be you."

You pushed the briefcase back to them, which stole the breath from Landa, and you whistled, which stopped Herman's heart.

A group of assassins rose from their game of poker, only two tables away, and surrounded the table.

"Alright. Alright. I apologize to the vengeful spirit," Landa teased, then nodded once, "Vier..."

You sighed, and called off the team.

"Name."

Landa grinned viciously, pushing the money back to you. "Hugo Stiglitz." "Fuck off." You huffed and turned around, "Leave with your head on your shoulders, before I change my mind." "I can tell you where they buried your brother and sisters, if you do this one thing." You stood up, without taking another look at the money. "It's a deal." Landa looked around, confused for a moment, until Herman pulled him outside, to the safety of the city, and explained that when a deal was struck, the money remained on the table until the kill was done. If it wasn't, or the hitman backed out, the money would be sent back to the contractor. Hans Landa looked up, and watched you, and smirked as you disappeared beyond the alleys. For once in his life, he was happy to give a case away.

**********************

Days later, you were sitting on the roof top of a building older than anyone knew, sometime between dusk and dawn, somewhere between Germany and France.

Then, you spotted them.

Ten men.

Ten basterds, sneaking down the alleys, attempting to move back into nazi-occupied France.

Then, between the broken light of the moon, and that of a flickering street lamp, you spotted him: Sergeant Hugo Stiglitz.

Shrouded by the heaviness of the night sky, and the very essence of surprise, you dropped among them, and attacked Hugo.

But...for the record, you were only human.

You, like any other  soldier, criminal, basterd, or any other human that ever lived, had an off day.

You made a mistake. You looked into his eyes for a little too long, and he looked at yours while you were on top of him. For the record, Hugo had never been so startled, in his life...

or confused.... As a matter of fact, strange as it was, he hadn't been as attracted to anyone in his life, as he was to you, the moment he looked at his would-be assassin. But....it was a mistake, nonetheless.

And...as a result, the basterds took you down.

It happened every once in a while. You'd get too cocky, and then this happened...

But, you didn't really mind.

You always found a way out, this wouldn't be any different.

They uncovered your face, and you appeared to be in an abandoned hostel in a run down town nearing the border between Germany and Belgium.

You knew it only 'appeared' that way.

Why?

Well, you'd run a few deals there before.

You left the blood stains and hidden escape routes to prove it.

But...they didn't need to know that.

They didn't even give you time for your vision to focus.

"Who are you?!" demanded a man with a scar on his neck, his hands at his hips, almost seeming disinterested in your answer.

Another man, a bit older than the others, spoke. From the accent you could tell he was from Munich. Somewhere you had contacts...once... He looked to you, and translated, "Wer bist du?"

You looked up, still feeling a slow drip of blood from your nose falling onto your lap. "I speak English."

The scarred leader nodded, "Alright then. Who the hell are you?!"

You felt something press against the back of your neck. The familiar cold press of the barrel of a gun.

Before you could give an answer, the gun pressed even more forcefully against your skin, and you heard a voice behind you, "You a nazi?" This time...you couldn't quite identify the accent. At least their leader, you knew from old smuggled western radio shows, was from somewhere in the American south.

This one,...you weren't quite sure. But you could feel his looming presence.

Still, what struck you wasn't that...it was the fact that they'd even dared to accuse you of being a nazi.

"Bite your fucking tongue, basterd." You lifted your head back to take a look at him, and felt blood trickle down your throat.

You heard another voice, confused, angry, sarcastic and...short. "Why else would you attack us?"

"For the record, I wasn't there for you, little man." You  looked past them all at the man crouching on a dusty overturned mattress, in the corner of the gloomy room. "I was there for him."

The leader spoke again, "Yeah? And why might that be?" He really wasn't amused, as he reasoned "Other than the fact that youre a na-"

You shook your head. If you heard that accusation again, you'd go berserk, and all hell would break loose.

"I'm a paid assassin. A hitman."

There was an errie silence overtaking the room, one of the basterds, who you'd later learn was called Omar, looked back and forth between his officers and you, his mouth open.

Someone choked on a drink.

Other than that, the room was still.

The leader, who in a few hours would remember his manners and introduce himself, crouched before you, studying your face carefully in  the light they had.

You could be no older than Utivich and Hirschberg, their youngest troops.

To hear that you were a hitman...and the skills you'd shown, well, it was surprising. In a strange way, it was impressive.

He looked up at you, and asked, "What's your name, kid?"

"Vier."

Aldo raised his eyebrow, "Fear?"

You shook your head, "Vier."

He struggled with it for a moment or two, batting between "veer," and  "beer".

Wicki was confused for a moment as well, as he repated under his breath, "Vier?" Vier? Wie die Nummer..." "Like the number?"

You nodded once at him, and looked to Aldo, "Just say Four. That's all it means."

Smitty cocked his head, "That's a weird name."

Omar rolled his eyed, "Obviously an assassin's gonna have a codename."

"Riiight..."

The man holding a gun to you, who you'd learn in a few moments was the famed Bear Jew, muttered, "Ain't you got more important questions to ask?!"

Aldo cleared his throat, and sniffed some tobacco, "Who do you work for?"

"Whoever pays," you chuckled, with a wink, and Donny murmured, "So you're a hook-"

Wicki muttered to get him to shut up in time to save his life, "Donny."

Hirschberg was losing his patience. You felt another gun press against the flesh beneath your ribs as he uttered, "What the fuck are you talking about."

You weren't scared.

You hadn't been scared in years.

You looked at nothing as you said, "The Lion's Den."

Hugo finally looked up, and looked at you directly in the eyes.

The more you said, the more he connected.

Wicki may have been old, but he knew a thing or two. "Oh shit..."

Hirschberg said what was on everyone else's mind, "What the hell is happening?"

Wicki quickly explained, "Everyone's heard of it...it's supposed to be a myth. It's not-"

You shook your head, feeling beads of sweat rolling fown your back, though you weren't nervous. At least, not because of the basterds. "It's hot. Can I take my jacket off?" You sounded nicer than you should have, "No tricks. I promise."

Everyone held their weapons, ready for anything, but Aldo nodded.

You were wearing a tanktop undernearth. Trails of ink telling the story of your life over your arms, and what was visible of your back.

You twisted your shoulder a little, there on the upper side of your back and shoulder, was a black ink lion, its mouth open, tearing apart a chain.

Wicki's mouth dropped.

"It...it's real?"

You nodded, with a slight smirk, "It's just good business."

Aldo looked at the boys, then back at you. "Who paid you for this?"

Hirschberg muttered, "Who do you think?"

You nodded, "He's right, you know."

Aldo grunted, "Alright. Tell us everything we want to know, or-"

You sighed, "You'll blow my brains out, and/or scalp me. I know, I know."

Aldo nodded, "Good, so you get it. Alright, question number one-"

Hirschberg muttered, "We're wasting time. We're gonna kill this asshole anyway."

You shrugged with a sighed, "He has a good point again."

Then, your intended target stood up. He spoke suddenly, which made everyone uneasy. "Don't kill the kid," he muttered as he stepped up, beside all the basterds.

All of them were incredulous, each murmuring some form of "why not?"

He repeated again, a little harshly, "Don't kill the kid."

Somehow, Hugo Stiglitz had enough heart to show his attempted killer some form of mercy.

"Let me alone with (p/n)."

The basterds all looked at each other, then, on Aldo's word, filed out of the room.

"Why did you do that?" You asked, genuinely confused.

"Do what?" He spoke in German, signaling you to shift as well. Even if they were listening, which they most likely were, only Wicki would understand. Meaning, you had some buffer time.

"Save me..." You slouched in the chair pensively, resting your elbows on your knees.

He raised his eyebrow, and was silent.

"You don't know me, Stiglitz. You don't know what you've just done..."

"What?"

"I'm a psychopath! A threat to society. To you. To-"

"I know who you are." He sat back down on the mattress, directly across from you, seeming as though he had nothing to worry about.

You clenched your teeth, "You have no idea who I am."

He was silent again.

So much so, that it frustrated you into saying a little more than you should have. "You were sanctioned by the OSS, but I was sanctioned by a very angry detective."

"And who might that be?" He was sharpening a knife, but somehow you knew that blade wasn't meant for you.

It was meant for whoever sent you.

But you shook your head, and you lied. Because Hans Landa was your personal target. "Don't know. I don't ask."

He was silent again, then looked up at you for a moment, and spoke softly, so even if Wicki was listening, he wouldn't be able to hear, "You're not a psychopath." before resuming sharpening his knife.

Just before lowering his eyes back down to his blade, they flickered over a specific tattoo on your arm. One you'd tried to cover up with another, but still, the older ink's fangs sank their teeth into what remained of your soul. Somehow, even Hugo Stiglitz could see that.

He was a silent but observant man, and it took just half a moment to know what it was.

A series of numbers etched onto your skin by a nazi.

At that moment, it was clear to him you really weren't a nazi. It would've been clear to anyone who saw it.

But now he was sure he knew exactly who you were.

He spoke again, "They branded you. They took your eyes and your soul."

You jumped to your feet. Anyone back at the lion's den would be shaking in fear, but he didn't even flinch. He didn't even look up as you reproached "Who the hell are you to say-"

"I was there."

You pretended you didn't know what he meant, but it was so painfully clear to both of you that you did know. "What are you talking about."

"I was there the day they killed you, Y/n."

That name...

Your breath caught in your throat, your voice locked in your heart.

All you could do was shake your head, and mumble as the shards of a painful lifetime stripped you of your courage, "Don't..."

He did, though. He told you what he knew. "I was just starting out, too. You do know why I joined the gestapo?"

Everyone knew about Hugo Stiglitz.

You nodded.

"It was my very first day. I had my gun aimed right at you, and I missed on purpose." He remembered that day, only two years ago. Even then, he looked at you in awe. He expected to find a hardened criminal, not a kid shielding three others so much younger than that.

You shook your head, recollecting yourself. "You know nothing about me, Hugo."

"They killed your brother and sisters that day, before they took you away" his eyes glanced over the hidden tattooed numbers, hastily scratched out with darker ink. Sending you to a camp wasn't enough. Only weeks later, you were being transfered to be publicly executed in Berlin.

He went on, "They killed everyone you cared about." He looked back at you, "You're not  a bloodthirsty serial killer, you're not psychopath. You cared about somebody, once. Three of them."

"Mind yourself, sergeant." You spoke fiercely, though your eyes gave you away.

He looked directly at you, "Your name is Y/n. You still have some good in you, somewhere. I don't care where you work, who pays you to do what, there's a reason you didn't take that luger out of your boot and take half of us out earlier."

How did he know about that?

"That's where you started. You killed nazis, and only nazis once. You used the money to give people a way to run away."

"I still do."

"You do more than that now."

"They were only six years old, the twins..." You didn't know why you were even speaking to him, but you were. "Johan," You sighed as your heart broke a million times over, "He wasn't even thirteen yet."

That was when you snapped. Petty crime turned into a rampage.

Hugo Stiglitz may be a bit questionable, but he was a good man. You knew that, and you knew he deserved some sort of explanation. "If I killed you, they'd tell me where they buried them."

Hugo related what he knew about your 'death,' "You were being moved to Berlin. There was an accident. You were dead."

"I still am, as far as anyone is concerned."

"Three people died in that accident."

"Four."

He raised his eyebrow.

"Three guards. One for Johan. One for Emma, and one for Inga. And me? I died twice."

Once with them, and once when the nazis believed you were dead.

It was then that he understood, "Vier..."

Four...

Four lives lost. Four burdens you always carried.

You turned to all you had left. A life hidden underground, where everyone was just as damned as you, covered in blood, without a cause, morals either grayed or gone. Reefer and lugers, francs and gold...

Hugo knew the rumors.

He once heard stories of a nameless crime lord, protected by the lion's den, a blood thirsty hitman, with a penchant for blood and an unknown revenge.

But, that wasn't what he saw before him.

What he saw was someone who'd never known mercy before the moment he stood up. Someone with four reasons to chase after a feeling of justice that would forever be a horizon away.

Someone who's stomach was grumbling.

"You're hungry." he noted, back in English,  as he opened the door, letting three or four eavesdropping basterds who leaned against the door tumble in.

***** They got you something to eat, while the basterds were filled in by Wicki on the heavy rumors surrounding you. Nazi killer turned crime lord turned hitman, never losing an appetite for blood and murder.

It wasn't all true...

Anyway, they got sidetracked when they realized Utivich, "Gave the fUCKING TRAINED ASSASSIN A KNIFE?!"

They quickly turned to find you at the rickety table, everything untouched, the knife in the exact place where Utivich left it.

You smirked, "Oh please, I have some decency...and some self control....Also I can hear you."

Donny raised his eyebrow, "Self control...Wh...whaddya mean?"

You grinned, "If I picked that knife up, I may not put it down until it was in somebody's artery."

"You're joking, right?"

You shrugged, "Whatever helpd you sleep at night, soldier."

Aldo sighed,  "We're running out'a time. It's almost dawn. If we gotta stay in Germany another night, we're gon' get caught. Especially since you haven't gotten back to your boss, ain't that right, kid?"

You shrugged, "Boss isn't the...you know what, yeah. You could just...send me," you grinned cheekily, and they all muttered.

You sighed, "Ok, ok. Where you taking me anyway? OSS? Oh! Interpol might give you a pretty penny," you winked, half joking...but considering a few negotiations you'd made with the Serbian, Russian, and Italian mafia....maybe they would get a pretty penny...or two....or...

They all started grumbling, and dragged you along as they slunk around in the shadows. You looked down at your left wrist, on your now cracked watch,  realizing they had two hours tops before sunrise, which wasn't enough time to stealthily cross into France.

"This also might not be great timing...but...I haven't eaten in about thirty hours, sir..."

Aldo spoofed, "So?" as he cleared them to  sneak down another alley.

You shrugged, and bluntly said "Hypoglycemia."

Donny scowled, "Don't care."

"I know you don't now, sure.... But since you're trying to stay under cover, if you're dragging a bloody, bruised, tattooed person down the back alleys of a city, that wouldn't be much help would it?"

Hugo couldn't help but smirk a little, though Aldo grumbled, "Oh for fuck's s.... Utivich, get (p/n) some bread or somethin'. I don't care what, let's just move."

Utivich scrambled around his pack, and pulled out an apple, and hastily handed it to you.

You smiled kindly, "Dankeschön." You raised the apple, and threw it across the alley, toward a shady figure walking down the street, undoubtedly going to a block away you knew well. There were people there you owed, and this would just about cover it.

Before any questions were raised, Omar scurried over to the screaming man, "You broke his eye socket in!"

You shrugged, "Good."

"What the fuck is happening?!"

You turned to the rest of the basterds, "That man is a nazi. There's a bounty on his head right now. I owe a few people down that way, where he was headed to anyway and d-"

You looked down at Omar, "Do shut him up, please. He'll blow your cover."

Omar found some papers in the man's pocket confirming he was a nazi.

Aldo nodded to him, clearing the kill.

You looked at the awe struck basterds. "Now then. He was heading down that way which is what you'd call....a red light district? Is that it?"

Donny asked, "Hookers?"

You nodded, "Hookers. Reefer. Anyway...I have....friends in this city. That clear?"

Omar, who had grown up in Hell's Kitchen in New York, knew a thing or two about how it worked. "We're fucked....we're fucked...we're-"

You smiled a little, "Maybe, if we...cash this in, per se...arrangements can be made."

Aldo muttered, without many alternatives, "Fine."

Hugo smiled a little, only enough for you to see as he commented, "So you do have redeeming qualities?"

You laughed a little, this time, without a sign of cynicism, but sincerity, and it captured his heart.

About halfway there, you started stumbling, and instinctively leaned against the wall.

Smitty's eyes narrowed, "Wait, you're actually hypoglycemic?"

It was then, that Hugo noticed your jacket tied around your waist, even though it was cool night, some sweat over your back, and your hands still slightly shaking, "Why the fuck would I lie about that?"

They were all silent, looking around at each other, when they heard glass shattering. Hugo emerged, with a pastry he'd taken from a bakery they just so happened to pass, and he handed it to you.

You smiled, again kindly, and this time with the intention to eat, "Dankeschön"

He held it out until you took it, "Essen." 'Eat.'

It wasn't much, but it was enough to get you to where you needed to go. Along the way, you lightened the mood a little, as Donny dragged on the dead nazi, and Hugo stabilized you, "Utivich?"

He turned around, and you knew you had the right name, "Didn't think of a criminal as a real person, huh? All those radio shows you Americans listen to."

"Ok, look," Donny chuckled, and you shrugged, "Did you know that Al Capone has syphilis?"

Donny turned to you, "The Al Capone?"

"Syphilis as in....syphilis?"

"Al Capone-Al Capone?!"

You nodded, "Mhm! Syphilis."

"How the hell you know that?" Hirschberg demanded, and you smirked, "I know a few people." And then, you arrived at your destination. Which appeared to be no more than a risque, run down cabaret.

"Can we...come in?" Donny was just about halfway through the door.

You rolled your eyes, "Ten men carrying a dead German local? You'll scare away the regular people, and snitch yourselves out. Wait here." Donny grumbled something, and you chuckled, "Just remember about Al Capone."

And so they did...

And once it was a moment too long, once they started questioning your honesty, you emerged, followed by two rather large fellows, with their faces hidden by the remnants of the night.

They took the dead nazi, and disappeared down the alley.

You carried a box, and held it out to them, "For your troubles, boys."

It was full of brand new weapons and bullets for them. "We can stay here until tomorrow night."

Donny grinned, "Alright," he started making his way to the front door and you cleared your throat. He turned, and you gestured to the alley where your two associates had disappeared down, "This way." You mumbled something under your breath that made Wicki and Hugo chuckle. And just like that,  when the sun set once again, you guided them to France, keeping them safe, which convinced at least Aldo that you were telling the truth. The attack was nothing personal. Odd, but he understood. Still, you were unsure of your fate once they reached their point in France. You knew either way, it didn't bode well for you. "I know what I deserve. No less than a six foot ditch, no name, no marking." You sighed, and looked at Hugo, and you raised your eyebrow, "Don't make that face," You nudged Hugo with your elbow, and smiled to encourage him. He looked down. He heard stories, once, not too long ago, of a rebel named Y/n. A face only locals knew, and the gestapo searched for. Back then, every hit, every deal made you a dime. And every single dime went to helping innocent people escape the nazis.

But one day, you snapped. Since then, every penny was used to cover tracks in your pursuit of revenge. In the process, you got a taste of blood, and it would never be enough. The  basterds didn't know that. They were just thankful you'd gotten them relatively safely out of Germany. Aldo sighed, and nodded, "Maybe...this kid here, maybe Four's got some merits." Wicki grinned, "So, we're letting Vier go?" Donny chuckled, "Look, Four might be a hitman...but did you say how p/n took out that nazi? That's gotta be the best goddamn pitcher I ever saw. Aldo's right." So, it was decided, you were free to go. They weren't saying anything about the attack, as long as you didn’t come back. But, you pulled Hugo back, just before he joined the rest of the basterds, and you basically pleaded, "Don't let me go..." He shook his head. "Go home, Vier." "You don't understand!" He looked you in your eyes again, and said, "I trust you, Vier." "You don't get it... I like it. I like the blood, the rush. I'm a fucking assassin. I can't leave that anymore. I fucking like it. I'll kill again. I'll-" He nodded but said, "Then use it for good." "How?!" He said something he never thought he'd say.He sighed, "I believe in you." It had been a long time since Hugo believed in anything.

He didn't need to say anything else, but  you knew what he wanted to say. He wanted you to do what you did in the past, and nothing more. Only take hits out on nazis. Nothing else. "There's still a soul in there," he tapped on your chest, "A soul with a name." He turned his back on you, and you watched as the basterds disappeared into the forest. You turned around, and marched back to Germany, and his words stuck with you, each day, after that. You did the best you could... Two years passed. Hans Landa came back. Two years before, when the money was sent back to him intact, he tried everything to get back to the Lion's Den, but the case on Hugo passed on to other hands, which stained Landa's reputation as a detective. But, the case made its way back to him, and he was willing to make a deal with the devil. So he did the next best thing. "If you don't kill them, every single basterd. Every last one, and bring me their cold dead bodies, I will put a bounty on your head." Your hands grew clammy, but not  because  you cared about what he said. You looked at your still cracked watch, and sighed. You had given Landa a chance to walk away with his life before. He didn't seem to get that. "Time's running out Hans." You looked at the case he was carrying. It was bigger than last time, and you needed quite a bit to help a few more families. "Show me the money." It caught him off guard, but he grinned cynically as he looked at you, at your scars, your tattoos, at the skilled, nameless ghost that got away with it all. He admired you. In a way, you were one of the only cases that slipped his hands, without him knowing. After all, who looks for the dead? He opened the briefcase, and revealed it was lined with millions of dollars instead of reichsmark. You sneered, "Oh, you remembered?" He smirked, "I will guarantee your safe passage to wherever in America you'd like to go to. I hear that Nantucket Island is nice this time of year." You matched his cynical twist, and grinned yourself as you mused, "And if I decline this offer?" "I have the entire high command, the SS, the Gestapo. You have a few mongrels with rusty knives and old lugers." "Hm..." You chuckled, and remarked "I raise you to...I know where your mother lives, Hans. Beautiful retirement home." He stopped smirking. "Oh don't bother asking  her about me, she won't remember. Poor old woman. Dementia, right? I did speak with her, Mausezähnchen." You grinned. Only his mother called him that, there was no other way for you to know that. You weren't bluffing.

And you weren't done, either. "Oh, so that is you! She gets a little confused between you and your brother, Heinrich. He's in that veteran hospital in Munich, for that bullet to the knee, that so?" Landa scowled, but you weren't done. You wanted to make it clear that you'd take everything from him if you wanted to, just like the nazis had done to you.  "At least that beautiful sister of yours, Greta! Yes, yes, she lives nearby to take care of him, and visit. Shame about her husband, though, isn't it?" Landa glanced up at you, and knew at that moment what you were talking about. His brother in law was in the gestapo, and died about a year ago under strange circumstances. He was also there the day you were arrested, and your brother and sisters were killed. At that moment, Hans knew it was you who killed his brother in law. He couldn't help but laugh. He laughed to hide his rage, and to block out the absurdity of circumstances... Somehow, sick as it was, he admired you. But you weren't the only one who could raise the stakes. "Ah, Vier...you don't know what you've just started." "Nothing can hurt the dead, Hans. I thought you'd know that." "Vier, Vier. What pains you the most is the fact that you're still alive. You're not really dead." He grabbed your wrist, "Late for your insulin shot?" You pulled your arm away, and signaled for all your allies to sit back down. You looked back at Hans and he said, "I will keep you alive. I can send you back." His eyes fell over the numbers that were hastily covered on your arm, "I can track down each and every person you ever helped, and everyone you're going to use this money for." You glared at him. You had to admit, he had an excellent poker face, and you couldn't tell if he was blluffing or not. He as not... "Few of them are still hiding in Bavaria, right? Three Romani couples, and a Jewish family. Seven still waiting to move from occupied France to the other side?" He leaned over the table, and spoke lowly, "You're not the only one with contacts, Vier. I know about Iowa." Your heart stopped... You'd gotten a few families land and homes there years before. "No one will look for them. No one will know where to begin. Clever, Vier. You've been very clever until now." He stood up, and started walking away. He hesitated for a moment, he half turned and remarked, "What is it you always say? There is a price for everything?" and flipped a piece of gold onto the briefcase. "For your troubles."

Once he was gone, you grinned, closed the briefcase, and carried it as you made your way out the door. On the way, you saw one of your allies, "Elise," you smirked, you were always one step ahead than you let on, "Get back to that British officer for me, please? Tell him I agreed to go to the movies." *********** But....you did have terrible timing, and that was maybe another off-day. Still, you made your way back through France. Late as you were, you weren’t too late.  Hugo was covered in blood, but there was still time. "Y/n?" You raised your eyebrow, but nodded nodded hesitantly, "Y-yeah...It's me....It's...Y/n..." He smiled, "So the soul does have a name..." He took your hand in his and you shook your head, "There's no time, Hugo. Come on, where's your friend?" You looked around, spotting Wicki. "They left you both behind?" Wicki mumbled, "We told them to go on without us." "Stupid. Stupid..." You muttered as you started tending to their wounds. Suddenly, you heard shuffling upstairs. You looked at them, "Play dead." "Wh-" "Do it." You jumped behind an overturned table, just as a herd of nazis walked into the tavern."Ah...Hugo...You've moved up on the world. Look at you, Lieutenant First Class. And with your record of insubordination, truly remarkable..." He had just pointed out the odd scene, "It appears somebody is missing. Somebody  fashionable." Then...you made another one of your infamous mistakes. You'd been leaning against the overturned table, and it fell over with a loud, bellowing slam. "Fuck." You scrambled and pulled out two guns, acting as if it were all planned,  shot down Landa's companions, and faced him. "Everything has a price, Hans." You aimed your gun at him before he even had time to let go of von Hammersmark's shoe, "And the price for being a nazi is your head." A moment and a gunshot later, there was one less nazi in the world. In that moment, for the very first time in years, you felt some sort of peace. You looked down at your cracked watch. Without Landa...the basterds just might make it as planned. The war would finally end... You looked at Hugo and Wicki, and smiled a little, wiping blood and sweat off your forehead, "Let's get you boys out of here, huh?" So you helped Wicki out first. You sat him in a car you'd hijacked and left waiting outside. "You're a good kid, Vier." "Y/n." He nodded, "You know the rest of the boys think you're nuts?" "They should," You laughed, and Wicki smiled, "You're a good kid, Y/n." You went back downstairs, and pulled Hugo up. You both looked down at Hans Landa, a long time scourge. Both you and Hugo were blemishes on his record: two unsolvable cases. Two threads that unknowingly were spun together by fate. As he gargled a wordless, bloody farewell to the world, his eyes went wide with realization. You'd double crossed him... He was able to say, "Bravo, Vier... Bravo..." He took his final breath, his eyes dead set on you and Hugo, two ghosts that haunted him to the very end. Hugo raised his eyebrow, suddenly realizing, "I still owe Aldo one more nazi scalp." You laughed, "Everything has a price, Hugo." "According to you, the price of being a nazi is his head...but what's the price for a nazi's head...or scalp?" You chuckled, "What do you have to offer?" Hugo smiled, genuinely, for the first time since the war began, his shoulders eased up, and he looked at you. He knew you'd listened to him, you changed again. He carressed your cheek, though his hand was covered in blood, it didn't matter to either of you. You'd given him a second chance to live two years ago. And in return, he gave you a second chance...Or a third chance. True, he'd spared your life once on the day of your arrest.  But gave you a chance to live again when you were face to face, not as a ghost. You both understood that. He softly kissed you, and murmured, "Whatever you ask for," he winked and you giggled, as you helped him up the stairs, "It's a deal."

[thorniest-rose]

“When you kiss me, I want to die” interlude #1

A while ago I said I wanted to rewrite the scenes from IT Chapter 1 as if they took place in my “When you kiss me” verse, looking at how Eddie and Richie’s relationship develops when they’re kids. So here’s the first one! Once these are all done, I’ll compile them and add them as a bonus chapter on ao3.

Class is out, the blessed sound of the bell signalling the end of the school year, when the three boys push their way into the hallway, giggling about what Stan’s upcoming bar mitzvah entails. 

“So it’s this church full of Jews, right?” Eddie says. “And Stan has to take like this super Jewie test-”

“But how’s it work?” Bill asks, still confused. 

“They slice the tip of his dick off!”

“But then Stan’ll have nothing left!” Richie says, making Eddie giggle. 

Stan catches up to them in the hallway and patiently explains what a bar mitzvah actually means, with no mention of dick slicing at all. 

As he’s talking about the Torah, Richie slips behind the group so he can insert himself between Bill and Eddie, using his elbow to nudge Bill to the side. Bill gives him a curious look but Richie’s too busy looking at Eddie to notice.

“Talking of becoming a man, Eds,” Richie says, bumping Eddie with his shoulder. “When were you planning on inviting me to your wedding?”

Eddie scowls at him. “What are you talking about, Richie?”

“I read that Catholic kids like you get to dress up in these little white dresses and go to church so they can be married off to God!”

“I’m Methodist, Richie, not Catholic,” Eddie huffs. “And that’s for girls!”

“Awww, but you’d look so cute in white,” Richie says with his customary goofy grin. “Maybe you should ask if you can do it anyway.”

Eddie looks like he’s about to snap at him when they see Henry Bowers and his goons standing by their lockers. They all go silent as they walk by, trying to avoid the weird smile Patrick gives them and Bowers’ pale, shark-like eyes.

“God, I hate those creeps,” Eddie mutters when they’re out of sight. 

Outside, they dump their books into the trash, this one act freeing them from the prison of school for months. It already makes Bill feel lighter.

“Best feeling ever,” Stan declares.

“Oh yeah? Try tickling your pickle for the first time,” Richie teases.

“What are we doing tomorrow?” Eddie asks, as he rolls his eyes at Richie.

“Summer training starts,” Richie replies, voice deathly serious.

“Training?”

“Yeah, for Street Fighter.”

“Is that how you want to spend your summer? Inside of an arcade?” Eddie gives Richie this little smile, the tip of his tongue pushing against his teeth, and usually Richie is lightning fast with a comeback, but he just stares at Eddie.

“What?” Eddie asks, smile faltering.

“Nothing,” Richie says, though he looks a bit dazed, big eyes blinking behind his thick glasses.

“Stop staring at me then, weirdo,” Eddie says, looking suddenly insecure as he fiddles with the strap on his backpack.

“We could go to the Quarry?” Stan says.

But Bill shakes his head. “No, we have to go to the Barrens.” Because they had to look for Georgie. He’d talked about it before and they’d all agreed.

After they look at Betty Ripsom’s mom standing anxiously at the school gates, they start to wander away. And Bill’s about to ask if they want to hang out or do something in town when Patrick appears out of nowhere, pulling Richie by the backpack and sending him flying back into Stan.

“Hey!” Eddie says, small mouth set in a snarl, but he freezes when Bowers saunters over, leering down at him as he gets up in Eddie’s space. 

“Hey Kaspbrak, suck any big dicks today?”

Eddie’s entire face goes pink and he hunches his small shoulders like he’s trying to disappear inside himself. Bill’s about to tell Bowers to get lost but Richie gets there first, scrambling off the ground and squaring up to Bowers. 

“Don’t fucking talk to Eddie like that!” he says, fists clenched at his sides.

“Richie, don’t!” Eddie says, sounding frightened, his eyes wide. He reaches out and tugs on Richie’s wrist to stop him getting any closer to Bowers. But Bowers just laughs at Richie’s bared teeth, like he’s nothing more than a wild cat.

Bill is just as angry, at the way Bowers has treated them all year, at the way he sauntered around like he owned Derry High with his stupid asshole friends. And he can’t stop his mouth as he stutters out, “You s-s-s-s-uck, Bowers!”

“Oh my god, shut up, Bill,” Eddie moans, one hand still on Richie’s wrist and his other hand on Bill’s backpack, holding him back. 

And as Bowers turns to look at him, Bill thinks this is it. This is when Bowers will finally kick the shit out of him like he’s been promising for years. Except Bowers sees something that spooks him and he backs off. But not before giving Bill a final ominous warning. “This summer’s going to be a hurt train, Denbrough. For you and your little faggot friends.” His eyes drift over Bill’s shoulder at that last bit and he winks at Eddie, who sucks in a quivering breath.

They all watch as Bowers and his cronies head toward his car.

“I wish he’d go missing,” Richie mutters angrily.

“He’s probably the one doing it,” Eddie says, mouth bunched up in a pout.

Eddie rounds on Richie the second they’ve driven away.

“What the fuck were you thinking anyway? Bowers is going to have it in for you now! You’re so stupid sometimes, Richie, I can’t even believe you!”

But Richie doesn’t answer because he’s staring down at Eddie’s hand, where it’s still wrapped around Richie’s wrist. Eddie follows Richie’s eyes and notices too. He pulls his hand away fast, as if he’s just been bitten. 

Bill watches as a fresh blush bursts across Eddie’s face like a crushed fruit, and for the first time that day he realises something feels different.

“Just don’t do it again, okay?” 

Richie gives him a crooked grin. “Hey, if he beats me up, you can just patch me up, right? You could come over and be my personal nurse.”

If anything Eddie just goes pinker. “You’re an idiot, Richie.”

Richie gives him a little salute. “At your service.”

With the adrenaline slowly ebbing out of his body, Bill goes back to thinking about how it’s summer again.

“Hey Eddie, do you want to come over?”

Eddie opens his mouth to answer, but Richie cuts in first. “Sorry Bill, Eddie’s hanging out with me today,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Oh?” Bill looks at Eddie, who looks strangely shy, scuffing his sneaker against the ground. Stan just watches them silently.

“If that’s okay, Bill? Richie and I could hang out another day instead?”

Richie gives Eddie a look. “What the fuck? No we couldn’t.”

“It’s alright, you guys can hang out. I don’t mind.” And he really doesn’t. They’ll all be hanging out tomorrow anyway. And they have all summer.

“Cool, we’ll see you guys tomorrow then. We’ll meet you at Eddie’s in the morning, yeah?” Richie says, as he tugs Eddie away. 

Eddie waves at them as they walk down the road. “Call me tomorrow, Bill!” he yells, before Richie tugs on him again.

Stan looks sideways at Bill. “Have you noticed they’re being weird recently?”

Bill turns to look at him. “Weird? Eddie and Richie have always been weird.”

“I know, but... since when has Eddie ever wanted to hang out with Richie alone?”

Bill thinks about it. It’s true. Eddie and Richie only became friends because Bill had been friends with Richie first. Had invited him to be part of the club a couple of years ago. And it always seemed like Eddie had only barely tolerated Richie for the sake of Bill and Stan. Had something changed over the last few months? Bill’s been so taken up with Georgie going missing, he doesn’t know. 

He shrugs at Stan. “It’s nice though, right? Them being friends.”

Stan looks dubious. “I guess? And Richie’s been doing this thing.”

“Thing?”

“Yeah, like looking at Eddie.”

Bill blinks at him, and Stan just shakes his head. “I don’t know, I can’t explain it. It’s fine, anyway. Just Richie being a freak. Want to get a soda?” 

Bill says hell yeah, he does. And as the summer afternoon unfurls in front of them, he doesn’t think about Eddie and Richie again for the rest of the day.

[eretzyisrael]

Lies Palestinians Tell at Christmas. Great piece by Barry Shaw.

When Israel relinquished control of Bethlehem to Yasser Arafat and the Palestinian Authority as part of the Oslo Accord agreement in 1995, 85% of this prosperous town were middle class Christians. Business and life was good when it was part of Israel.

By Christmas 2019, Christians are less than 10% of the population in an economically stricken town.

How did this come about?

In 1995, Elias Freij was that the last Christian mayor of Bethlehem. He appealed to Israeli Prime Minister, Yizchak Rabin, not to withdraw from the city as part of the Accords due to his fear for the future of Christians in Bethlehem. Rabin wanted an official and public statement from the mayor to that effect to take into his negotiations. Freij and the church authorities refused Rabin’s request, and the rest is a tragic page in Christian history.

The Palestinian leadership blame the “security wall” for the current situation. They talk of Israel turning Bethlehem into “a prison.”

The British artist, Banksy, has advanced his reputation in left-wing circles by promoting propaganda graffiti scrawled on walls throughout Bethlehem. He has even built a hotel in Bethlehem called the Walled-Off Hotel which is full of imagery of Israeli negativity such as a nativity scene in front of a section of security wall with a shattered bullet hole which he calls “The Scar of Bethlehem.”

All this propaganda scandalizes Israel and projects Palestinians as oppressed victims.

Nowhere in Banksy’s work is there a mention of Palestinian terror promoted and rewarded by the Palestinian Authority, a prolonged terror campaign that has murdered hundreds of Israel and made the security barrier a necessity, or the threatening behavior of Palestinian Muslims that has driven out most of the town’s Christians.

Today, at Christmas 2019, Bethlehem is a once Christian town, with important churches, holy relics and sanctuaries, and a few Christians that live in fear not of Israel, but of Muslim Arabs.

The Christians I once knew had businesses such as tourist shops selling olive wood carvings and religious symbolism to tourists. They are gone. Their homes and the shops now occupied by their Muslim neighbors.

The Palestinians will tell you it’s all Israel’s fault. They are, after all, the perennial victim. It’s become and industry for them. This image sells as much as Banksy’s souvenirs in Bethlehem.

But is this the truth?

The Palestinians wanted a separation from Israel and when Israel gave it to them, they used the vacated territories to relaunch their terror campaign against Israeli civilians, killing thousands.

In the name of peace, Bethlehem was the sixth town that Israel vacated and put under Palestinian rule following its withdrawal from Jericho, Jenin, Tulkarm, Nablus and Kalkilya.

Initially, there was a free flow of people. Palestinian Arabs worked in Israel. Israelis visited the Arab towns to buy and enjoy the services of the local Arabs. Everything was cheaper than in Israel and the interchange was buoyant and good for everyone.

That was until Arafat commanded his troops to engage in what they called “the Second Intifada,” a brutal terror campaign. This was a repeat of an earlier Arafat-inspired killing spree against Israelis civilians that killed and injured many thousands of Israeli Jews.

The Oslo Accords was but a way-station on the road to the total destruction of Israel according to the Palestinian plan of Jewish elimination by stages.

After the slaughter, Palestinians complain when Israel put up barriers to prevent the incursion into Israel of Palestinian suicide bombers, gunmen, and other forms of crude terrorism.

I am witness to the change, the division, between Israelis and Arabs who want to call themselves Palestinian. In the past, we also enjoyed visiting Tulkarm to buy household goods and enjoy their cafes. I even had Palestinian Arabs work on upgrades to my apartment. That was before Tulkarm became a hotbed of competing Palestinian terrorism.

Killers representing the PLO, Tanzim, Hamas, Palestinian Islamic Jihad, even Lebanese Hezbollah have emerged from the hellhole that once was peaceful Arab Tulkarm to kill Israelis, including women and children. I know. I became the co-founder of the Netanya Terror Victims Organization. Over 50 Netanya victims were killed, many more injured, some badly, in my small hometown.

Since Israel constructed a security wall bordering Tulkarm, no Israeli has been blown up by Palestinian suicide bombers.

The Palestinians of Tulkarm, Nablus, Hebron, and Bethlehem can complain about restrictions as much as they want. They have only themselves to blame.

Peace was once an option. They killed it. Deliberately. Let them blame their leaders, not ours.

One deceptive fable Palestinians tell the world is that they are trapped in Bethlehem behind oppressive walls and checkpoints, that it is a prison with no exit, that it is a form of apartheid, ethnic cleansing. Yet, it is a strange sort of ethnic cleansing prison in which the Christian population has fallen dramatically while the Muslim population has increased exponentially! It’s a checkpoint where Christians leave and Muslims enter.

Some ethnic cleansing! Some apartheid!

Christians are not trapped in Bethlehem. Neither are Muslims. They can go through checkpoints after an obligatory security clearance. Israelis, on the other hand, are advised not to enter Bethlehem. Road signs warn Israeli drivers that it is dangerous to travel on certain roads under Palestinian control, and are prevented from doing so in certain sensitive areas.

Contrary to Palestinian claims of Israeli “oppression,” in Bethlehem the major problem still facing the few remaining Christians is the duress posed by Islamic extremists and Palestinian bullies. They are the ones that are driving them out of that town.

The former Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, reported a few years back, “I have spent two days with fellow Christian leaders in Bethlehem. There are signs of disturbing anti-Christian feeling among parts of the Muslim population, despite the constant traditions of co-existence. But their plight is made more intolerable by the tragic conditions mads by the security fence.”

Both of these tragedies are the responsibility of the brutal and uncaring oppression of the Palestinian leadership and the emboldened Muslim population who have exploited the Palestinian-inspired turmoil.

In a televised report for Fox News by Pete Hegseth called “The Battle in Bethlehem,” Hegseth found it difficult to find a Christian willing to go on camera to tell him what they told him privately. He had several booked to appear. They all backed out at the last minute, even after he promised to hide their identity.

When Hegseth mentioned this to law professor, Eugene Kontorovich, the professor smilingly told him, “They are not going to tell you they live in danger, because they live in danger.”

Among the Palestinian Christians there are a radical minority that perpetuate an anti-Semitic Kairos doctrine of replacement theology. They help generate a relatively new Palestinian lie – that Jesus is a Palestinian.

Jesus has been hijacked by the Palestinian cause. Obscene conferences are held in Bethlehem including ‘Christ at the Checkpoint’ in which Jesus is presented as a Palestinian messenger.

In my role helping our terror victims I sadly recognize a Palestinian messenger when I see one. They usually come attached to an explosive belt, carrying a rifle or a hatchet. They also have a penchant for sending their messages attached to a rocket or mortar shell. We are still waiting for them to come with a message of peace. These Palestinian messengers are the antithesis of Jesus.

Hegseth went in search of what is going on with Jesus in Bethlehem.

He sat with Adnan, owner of the StarB Coffee shop. “Jesus is a Balestinian.” Most Palestinian Arabs cannot pronounce the letter “P.” “If you study all three books,” referring to the Old and New Testaments and the Koran, “he is a Balestinian.”

When Hegseth protested by saying, “But, for Christians, Jesus in the New Testament is a Jew and he went to the holy temple,” Adnan smiled and said, “He was born here and the Jews tried to kill him.”

Hoping for a more intelligent answer, Hegseth went to speak with Bethlehem University professor, Mazin Qumsiyah. According to the professor, “the word ‘Jew’ and the religion came in the 3rd Century AD, long after Jesus. I am Judaic,” said this Palestinian academic explaining it thus, “The Judaic people came from Judea. This is Judea. Jesus is not from Judea. He came from Nazareth two thousand years ago which was not a religious place.”

Continuing the myth, and contradicting himself in the process, Qumsiyah told Fox News, “If you are asking if Jesus was a Jew from a geographic designation, the answer is no. If you talk from a religion, only in the 3rd century AD does Judaism as a religion come.”

Astonishingly, or maybe not, this is what professors are teaching students in Palestinian universities.

Hegseth took this anecdote to Dr. Naim Khoury from the First Baptist Church of Bethlehem who shook his head.

“That is not true. You cannot find this anywhere in the Bible. How can you deny that Jesus is born from Mary of Nazareth and that her family was known as Jewish people?”

Everyone knows the pastor is right. Everyone except the Palestinians and their obsessed supporters. And maybe UNESCO and the majority of the UN General Assembly.

This then is part of the Palestinian conflict.

Hegseth asked Dr. Khoury why they deny the truth.

“Politics. It’s a very dirty game. When bad people play politics they can say what they want.”

Dr. Khoury is a courageous Christian. According to his bio, he has been shot four times and the Palestinian Authority refuse to grant his church authority to function as a religious institution, but the brave pastor continues to care for his dwindling congregation. His church has been firebombed and defaced, his members attacked, not by Israelis but by Palestinian Muslims.

The pastor’s son, Steven, told the 700 Club, “Christians are leaving because they are seeing that nobody is standing with them. They are seeing that extremism is growing, that an anti-Christian agenda is growing. Their ultimate goal is to put fear and submission into the heart of every Christian in the Middle East.”

First they came for the Saturday people. Then they came for the Sunday people. And shockingly, they are supported by radical elements among the Sunday people and a few of the Saturday people.

In a hundred-year conflict, ever since the anti-Semite Haj Amin al-Husseini set out on an incitement rampage exhorting Muslims to kill Jews. He was followed by Mahmoud Abbas his “Pay to Slay” incentive to kill Jews, Hamas and Palestinian Islamic Jihad.

We cannot build a path to peace, or a future, on the assumption that the Palestinians will stop their lies, their hate campaign, and their obsessive desire to kill Jews, and persecute Christians.

In Bethlehem, they are doing to the Christians what they did to the Jews. They are driving them out.

The lies that Palestinian tell at Christmas is an indication of the root cause of the conflict.

Likud-Herut UK

[boogiewrites]

Choking On Sapphires 80

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Title & Song: 505

Summary:  Genevieve comes home from the hospital. The journey to her recovery begins, but there are so many more things besides bruises and broken bones to worry about healing. Alfie tries to push back his own trauma from the event he's in denial over, and the whole house has to watch as things get worse before they get better. Song is 505 by The Arctic Monkeys.

Warnings/Tags: Language. Canon typical violence. References to assault and violence. Near death experiences. PTSD. Suffering/Physical Pain. Fluff. 

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.) Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

Alfie had kept his word so far. Every time Genevieve would open her eyes to escape the mixture of horror and fantasy that kept circling in her subconscious in her sleep he would be there.

When the memories of what had happened would become less fuzzy, would creep into her dreams, he’d be there holding her hands as she fought out of the drug-induced slumber she felt held prisoner in to keep her from hurting herself. She’d make unsettling noises during her fits. Feet kicking and arms twitching and flailing as her face pained and winced, eyes rolling under their purple lids in the misshaped sockets for the violence she was reliving.

Sometimes the dreams would be pleasant though. An escape to another timeline where none of this had happened. She’d make hums of approval in her sleep, nuzzling into her pillow and it would make Alfie sigh with relief. She deserved some respite from this reality he thought, and he was happy she could find it. If she stirred his hand would always find hers. Even on the rare occasion, he’d be able to fall asleep, back aching and twisted in the chair by her bed he’d keep hold of her as if someone could steal her away without him knowing again. When she would wake from her pleasant dreams he’d be there with his ruffled hair and haggard face, a soft glance she’d meet as he’d stroke her swollen hands. She liked to touch his face in these tender moments they shared. The back of her hand, the knuckle of a finger lightly against his scaled features and wiry beard. She’d give him an affectionate smile, one he’d seen in the mornings before her eyes would close again, him placing her hand back onto the bed as it started to slowly lower when she fell back into her peaceful distraction.

Within a few days with no seizures or signs of internal bleeding, she’s given the go-ahead to be released. Instructions for her care are given to each Alfie, Claire, and Aggie as they were life-threateningly important. She was out of immediate harm from some things, but plenty could still go wrong. Alfie schedules home visits with the doctor ahead of time and even has Ollie hear the orders for her medicine. He was taking no chances at anyone that would be near her not knowing what the fuck they were doing.

With the state of her still being so very fragile, still multicolored from injuries and barely breathing without pain, although the morphine did help that part, she couldn’t exactly walk out on crutches for her twisted ankle. Alfie commandingly insists on being the one to handle her. She did admittedly respond best to him. He has her taken out of the hospital by a back entrance via wheelchair. He wanted all the details of her situation to remain a secret for now. No one that didn’t already know, needed to know how bad it was. He didn’t want word getting out to the community they were a part of, her students, here children at the home. He wanted to keep that ideal version of her alive and well, as he still had faith she would return to it one day.

Despite the fog she found herself in, she tried to keep her head up as they drove out of town. There was a distinct smell to the air and as they were on their way out of the city, the swirls of smoke could be seen in the rear view mirror.

He sees her focusing, her nose twitching like a rabbit. She raises her hand, a single finger pointed behind them with a subtle tilt of her head in question as she could still not speak.

“The smoke?” He asks.

She moves the pointed finger up and down as an indicator for her answer of yes so she didn’t have to nod.

“That was me, love.” He says with a noisy exhale, turning her head from it gently. “I had everything he owned burnt down and everyone in it killed.” He has no remorse and a fling of hunger for the day left in his eyes. “Seems me 'n Tommy’s men burnt down near half of fuckin London. For you, love. No one is gonna mess wif a Solomons. ‘Bout time us Jews started remindin’ these goyim what we’re capable of. Didn’t survive this fuckin long through slavery and oppression to lay down on the cusp of birth of fuckin' Nazi’s.” He shakes his head, brow low and lips tight as his mind only thinks of more things to worry about. He closes his eyes before turning back to her and kisses her forehead. “I’d set the whole fuckin' world ablaze for ya love. If I had to have ya live on a fuckin' island somewhere to escape the flames yeah? Nuffin else but you and ours matters now, eh? Now you lay your head down darlin' and have ya little lie down and I’ll keep ya steady 'til we get ya home, yeah?” He offers, having her place her head on his shoulder, his large hand cradling it and her hip like a baby in his arms. He rests his cheek against her hair and breaths her in, keeping his lips to her when he’d inevitably get emotional with her in his arms all small and helpless now. With the lack of sleep and the strain of the events of the past few days, he’d been a mess. He’d been moody, even more so than usual. He'd neglected himself entirely. Not eating or sleeping of his own doing, always thinking, always worrying. It was starting to take more of a toll on him than he would admit to himself. But he was blinded by his compulsion to protect his love. Following the advice to be delicate with her the best he could.

Her home wasn’t exactly wheelchair friendly, but Alfie certainly didn’t mind carrying her back into the house, the chair brought in behind them as he keeps his eyes on her in his arms, anyone else not existing as far as he was concerned when she was within his eyesight. He has pillows brought and piled high on the bed for her, a little bell for her convince on her nightstand. He leaves his cane by the bed to aid her when she would inevitably need to use the loo.

The time spent with her unconscious he’d spent wisely with Ollie. Preparations of his own taken for the business to keep moving along without him. Despite the always nervous young man’s suggestion to keep his affairs as usual to keep up appearances, he was met only with a  smack to the face as he was reminded he needed to understand that Alfie's word was rule and the rules would be changing now. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about his business, the tracks, the money, he still very much did. But for now, there would be a noticeable lack of Solomons around. He’d had his close call and it wasn’t going to take another one to make him see where he was needed. Ollie was a big boy and had been his second for years now. Ollie could handle it. At least until the threat against Gen’s well being was passed. But as the doctor had said, it was one day at a time.

The first step was to get her comfortable again. The bath proves difficult for both of them. He wanted her to feel clean, to smell like she had before the hospital, flowers instead of sterile. Neither of them spoke, Genevieve still having much difficulty doing so, and Alfie not wanting to say the wrong thing. His usual approach with humor to serious situations with her wouldn’t work his time and he didn't want to confuse the poor dear. As it turned out it was very easy to do in her currently still unstable state. She only makes sounds of pain when he touched her and his hurt shows on his face. She doesn’t meet his expression as she feels varied, swinging emotions as she’s faced with her naked body for the first time since being rescued. The bath water helps distort it, but she can tell even with her blurry eyes that there was plenty of distortion without the filter of waves from the water. Her swollen joints and skin that held reminders of the events that were still hazy to her, they were both left with undeniable proof that even if they didn’t know exactly what happened, that it had clearly been worse than either knew. For the first time in their relationship, they sat alone together in a heavy, uncomfortable silence. The things unsaid about the events that had unfolded sat like an invisible barrier between them, neither wanting to share how it truly made them feel. For the first time there was a disconnect between them, even Gen in her hazy mindset knew he looked at her differently, just as she was looking at herself. With a confusing mixture of pity and guilt.

Alfie does his best as the gentle touch she needs doesn’t come first nature to him. He brings her one of her favorite gowns, all silk and lace and slight enough to be able to keep watch on her injuries. But she makes a small sad noise and pushes it away when he brings it to her. She would’ve said she didn’t want something so lovely on this body, that it would only remind her of how she was before, but she couldn’t, and Alfie's expression remained puzzled. She didn’t need to try to be who she was before just yet. That version of herself was so far away, possibly even unobtainable now she felt. She wanted simple, to keep her mind calm. She needed comfort to offset the pain. She tugs on his shirt, damp from carrying her to bed. His intuition has never been such a highly valued skill to him as he retrieves one of his shirts from a chest of drawers and puts it on her gingerly, limb by limb. It smelled like him, it felt like him rubbing against her skin and let her chest bindings breathe. This is what she needed, not her silk and frills. Alfie sees a calmness take over her face as she strokes the fabric over her thighs. His darling needed him, needed comfort now. He had to attempt to let go of trying to do things his way. But that was never his strong suit.

After getting her set up in bed, she falls asleep quickly from the full day she’d already had in comparison to barely moving in the hospital. She sleeps soundly, seemingly heavy as she lies in a nest of pillows like a little bird.

He’s called from the bed, a phone call from Ollie already. He’s hesitant to leave her, but he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. He’d had the phone removed from her room to make sure her rest wasn’t interrupted by it. He wanted her in quiet and calm with nothing that could disrupt or startle her. So he agrees to leave for only a moment.

When he returns, trying to shed his annoyance for Ollie’s tendency to panic and over question his own decisions he finds the bed empty and panics. Flashes of the night she disappeared come to him, his heart in his throat as all the hairs stand up on his skin, an anxiety attack on the verge of blooming like a boy after the war. He had his own issues from the abduction to deal with it seemed.

He hears a pained sound, something like a hurt animal, and as he approaches swiftly he finds just that. His little kitten on the floor and struggling to breathe, the cane by her side. Her arms shook and failed time and time again to hold herself up as she cried with croaked grunts from her bruised neck.

He calls her name over and over, she keeps her eyes screwed shut, teeth clenched in pain as her hands cling desperately to his forearms. “Gen you stubborn thing.” he sighs. He shushes and coos, pulling her up against his chest and setting her back on the bed. His big warm hands on her face and hair, wiping away tears and he instructs her to slow her breathing. “That’s it love breathe slow. It’s only pain. Don’t let it make you afraid.” He says in a kind tone,  a hand to her wrist to feel her pulse.

At last she opens her eyes, her breathing wheezy and her posture slumped from the pain in her ribs. She opens her mouth and tries to speak and he shakes his head, putting his thumbs over the rough, broken skin.

“Don’t try to talk.” He instructs sternly. “Catch your breath and I’ll fetch the paper after. No rush now is there?”

She gulps and continues moaning with every exhale, feeling overwhelmed. Her hand reaches out and points to the bathroom as her head spins.

“You were trying to get in there, eh?” He asks, brushing her hair out of her face and she wiggles her finger to indicate he was correct. “I had a call and left for just a moment, thought you were deep asleep. You know better than to try to walk yourself in your condition.” He voice grows weaker with his pushing back of his frustrations, feeling another wave of guilt wash over him. “You wait for me to help you, yeah? Don’t go tryin’ so hard alone. We’re not there yet.” He plants a kiss to her forehead, lingering there as her hands move to his forearms. He feels her breathing steady, her hands stop trembling and her rest her weight against him. “That’s a good girl, yeah?” He says with an affectionate and very light stroke to her back. “Ya needed to take a wee love?” He says with a more playful tone, holding her chin up as she answers with her eyes looking to the bathroom doorway. “Well, we can manage that now can’t we? Right. Let’s get ya up. Ya ready for your Alfie to carry you?”

She mouths yes and raises her arms slowly to around his neck. The soft nuzzle into him as he grunts and lifts her, babying her the entire way makes her feel better in the moment. He was there. He was staying through every ugly bit of it and she didn’t need to worry about him right now, only herself. Whoever that was presently. She felt like a different person or no one at all at times. The mix of head injury and medicine leaving her confused, disoriented, bewildered and to say the least, spacey most of the time.

After settling her back into bed, he can tell she’s hurting badly, little whines with every exhale as he settles in next to her. He gives her another small dose of medicine to take the edge off. He couldn’t stand seeing her in pain and knew inside her was nothing but. It was only the first day of her being home, of the official start to the road of recovery and he knew it was going to be harder than he had initially imagined. But what he hadn’t expected was for it to be far worse before it got better.

Sleeps takes her quickly. She’s sucked into a dark undertow and deep into a very vivid dream. She comes to with a blink, as if she had been plunked into this new place. The first thing she notices is that there is no pain. A warm sun hits her skin which after inspection looked to be blemish free, her hands only wearing a wedding band and diamond ring and no bandages.

“Papa!” She hears, her head quickly turning towards the sound and having no dizziness from it. She’s surrounded by large green hedges that are dotted with flowers. They rise too tall for her to see over, but she can clearly hear the laughter of children beyond them. With fingertips dragging on the surface of the thick bushes as she walks, she follows the path before her and hears the laughter, sprinkled with the sound of birds throughout it. “Mama!” She hears called out, and she somehow knows the happy sound is for her. Her bare feet move quickly over the well-kept paths, a sense of happiness, of joy as she moves to a jog, her dress soft against her legs as she moves.

She emerges from the maze to a wide open garden of grass, trees and ivy wrapped lattice, bird baths and statues along the space that was nestled in the valley of a yellow-green rolling hillside the tall grass swaying in the distance. A young child runs in front of her, catching her attention.

She quickly hitched up her dress and chases after, running through the garden. One child disappears behind a corner, to reveal two as she rounds it as well.

“Mum!” She hears an older girl laugh, her long dark hair swishing and a crown of flowers atop of her head as she moves with the small child. Another corner, another child, all seeming to be different. All in their own little clothes, varying heights, hair colors, and styles. She chases around the hedge maze until there are five of them, then they move as a small herd, the older ones helping the younger as they fall and squeal.

She calls out for them in her pursuit. But their faces stay hidden from her. Even she stumbles, the soft, dark auburn hair of a little boy in shorts moving just out of reach. She comes back into the clearing, a white house now at the other end of the stretch of grass and an easily recognizable man standing with his little glasses on his nose, cane in hand, and a lovely booming voice calling out for her.

———

“Genevieve!” Alfie shouts as Aggie rushes out of the room and to the phone. “Wake up love, come now, stay with me.” His voice breaks as he holds her in his arms, his panic pulsing through his exhausted body.

He’d noticed her fall so still, not resting himself as her little tumble earlier had shaken him up. As the night went on she grew far too still for his liking, he could no longer see her chest moving up and down and that had sent the shouting and panic throughout the house that they sat in now. Her pulse was there but weak, his eyes wild and voice so angry as Aggie told him the doctor was on his way.

————

“Chanah!” Alfie's warm voice calls out to her. A sense of rightness, of contentment, follow as the small herd of children also hear him and let out their various sounds of approval as they head towards him ahead of her.

“Ari!” She calls out with a beaming smile.

“Papa!” One of the boys responds as he stumbles on his still young legs towards the inviting outstretched embrace of Alfie.

————-

“Ari.” Genevieve’s voice is a whisper, if he hadn’t been holding her head to his he would’ve missed it. He chokes back tears as he kisses her face and holds her hand, once again not thinking about having to let her go once the doctor arrived.

———-

The five children like broken stair steps range from an older girl, probably a teenager to a young boy and girl who looked to be barely even 6. The girls had bows and flowers in their hair and the boys had grass stains on their pants and messy hair. They looked a portrait of perfect to her. They kept moving just out of reach of Genevieve’s hands, the dreamscape making the run to meet Alfie go on for so long, and her frustration grew. She began feeling desperate to touch them, to feel them and know they were real, to see their faces and tell them sweet, loving things. But they kept out of her reach and she kept stumbling towards them with now filthy feet from the ground.

With the edge of the back porch of the house reached by the kids, Alfie ruffles their hair and looks a picture of a proud father. A little girl in his strong arms, her face buried in his neck as he laughs at another small boy wrapping his little arms around his leg. For a moment the thought crosses Genevieve’s mind that this might be heaven.

With the thought the oldest turns, her face coming into view now. She was strikingly beautiful. With dark hair dotted with flowers, the same Genevieve had been chasing earlier, and similarly, as the girl just a touch shorter than her who stood next to her, face still toward her father.

“Mum.” The girl says with a sweet voice that came from lips that looked like Alfies, Gen’s large eyes looked back in their mirrored image over the same rounded nose with Alfie's stormy blue pupils looking back at her.

“Yes, cheri?” Genevieve responds with a fluttering of her heart in her chest as the girl steps closer.

“I’m sorry.” She says with a kind smile.

Genevieve is confused, their hands reaching out, just a hair's width from touching.

“Chanah!” She hears Alfie shout, her head whipping fast to him as he motions her to come towards him, children still swarming him.

She gives a nod and a smile and moves to turn back to the girl but as fast as she’d turned her head, she was gone. She could almost feel the heat from her hand when it had almost slid into her own. She looks around, startled and upset, wondering where the lovely girl had gone.

“She’ll be alright, love.” Alfie says, motioning her towards him, he's missing his usual assortment of jewelry. Only a gold wedding band on his aged hand with it's faded crown tattoos. The little girl in his arms puts her own around his neck and squeezes. “Not time to meet her yet.” He says with an almost cheerful disposition. “You’ve still got to meet the others.” He says, turning and bouncing the girl, the boy now sitting on Alfie's foot as he walks with a waddle. The older girl that was left now walks with the older boy under her arm, rubbing his back affectionately as they move toward the house. Gen turns to look around the garden, still worried about the girl who disappeared. “Chanah!” Alfie calls out and she ignores it, feeling her heart race and her breath shorten. “Chanah love, come back to me!” His voice sounds different now. More demanding. “Chanah!” He shouts again with anger and she turns to look his way, a sharp dizziness taking her over as it feels like an omniscient hand yanks her from where she stands.

Her eyes open back into the reality Alfie had been dealing with while she was having her most curious experience.

“Chanah! Fuckin ‘ell girl ya gonna kill me wif 'is.” He says bending over her body on the bed.

She tries to say his name and only gets out “Ah-“ as is standard.

“Shhhh catch your breathing up love. Ya medicine put ya a bit too far under. Had to pull ya out of it dinnit I?” He holds her like a child as her eyes with their mixed pupil sizes loll around in her head.

“W-wuh-“ She grunts out.

“Hand us the paper there Agatha.” Alfie instructs, holding the ice water they’d been applying to her skin for past few minutes. “Ya need somethin'?” He asks, putting the pen gently into her hand.

“Ch-chi-“ She stutters and rasps, writing ‘children?’ On the pad.

“What are you on about love? There’s no children.” He doesn’t hide the confusion on his face as he turns to the doctor for answers.

“She’s most likely having trouble distinguishing real life with dreams as she comes out of it. Fairly common occurrence.” He says with a flat delivery.

“There’s no children, love.” Alfie whispers softly.

She whimpers, writing ‘where are the children?’ again as Aggie starts to cry at the state her lovely Genevieve was in. She thought of her as her own and seeing her suffer in any way, especially in a way she could not help hurt her deep down into her soul.

“There’s no children, love.” Alfie says with a more stern delivery, as she sweats and groans in his arms, wanting to struggle to get back to that lovely place but she’s so weak. Each toss of her head sends nausea flooding over her, her eyes showing white as the room spins. Nausea gives over to actual vomiting as Alfie leans her over the side of the bed where a bucket sat just for such an occasion. He shoots another questioning glance to the doctor.

“Also very common.” He nods. “Could be her stomach rejecting the excess medication, could be from the head injuries. Severe dizziness is common in cases such as these. It will pass.” His bedside manner wasn’t the best, but his reputation was and Alfie could easily forgo a  sugar-coated delivery for fast facts.

“Let it out, love.” He says softly, rubbing her back and keeping her hair out of her face. This was worse than any other time he’d seen her sick whether from drink or violence. The sounds that escaped her were gruesome and churned his stomach just as much as hers was.

But the sounds faded, she passes out again, limp in his arms like a classical painting of tragic lovers. He holds her close, keeping her warm as she chills, speaking to her as she groans and shifts in her unrest. All this was reminding him of the war. The constant feeling the other shoe was going to drop at any moment, the tension and paranoia. He couldn’t sleep, he could barely allow himself to blink, lest she take a turn for the worst. Deep sleep and shallow breathing were part of the new medication she was on. He could’ve been told that one hundred more times but it didn’t make the terror that shot through his core when he thought her dead any easier to handle. Or the frustration he felt at the strong rise and fall of his own emotions he was not accustomed to.

She sleeps, but it is not peaceful. Her mind trying to rewire and heal, skipping and making missed connections, leaving her in a disturbing mix of memory and dream inside her own head. He stays up, swearing to himself she would not fail because of him. He kept watch like an ancient guardian relic over her. A slumped and bent, red-eyed and scaled skin gargoyle over her in the dark of the room, the fire casting them in uncanny low light. The sight of them was frightening, and only Agatha and Claire dare enter the room.

The two women, shunned by Alfie in his slow descent into madness it seemed watched on helplessly. Claire was by far the most optimistic of them all. She recalled Gen’s brother after the war and knew things like this happened. Setbacks were all part of the road to progress.

“Although you might think it insensitive of me to say so, I can’t help but look upon this scene as she would if she were us right now.”

“What do you mean dear?” Aggie says with a wrinkled nose.

“The lighting, the love, the tragedy. She’d be a big enthusiast of this would she not? The drama and aesthetic. I only wish I could capture it for her.”

“Why on earth would you want to recall this hellish night?” Aggie’s confusion clear in her voice.

“Because I know she’d think it would make a lovely painting,” Claire replies with a sigh, an almost happy look on her face as she watched on from the darkened hallway. “Gen would find the beauty in this madness. Since she can’t...we must.” She says confidently with a nod.

“That’s a beautiful point dear. We would all be best to keep it in mind the coming days. I fear this is not the end of the ugliness of recovery.”

“It is not. And we will. We will tell her of this when she’s better. And she will be. But healing from this will be unpleasant. She’s strong but not inhuman. We know what those men did to her, and when she remembers I don’t know how she’ll respond. We could be looking at another wave of rebellion again like last time.” Claire’s lips pursed.

Agatha sighs and slumps. “I hope for everyone’s sake you’re wrong.”

“Oui. So do I.”

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[sunflowerseedsandscience]

Au Cafe Pequod, Chapter Five

Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE EARLY JANUARY 1944

Mulder stands frozen in the parlor doorway, the arm holding the knife hanging limp at his side, horror-struck and heartbroken at the scene before him. He feels like a complete and utter fool. He had been certain, completely certain, that Scully cared for him, that it was possible she was even in love with him... but he should have known, he should have realized that there was nothing a woman like Dana Scully could possibly see in a man like him. He feels no anger, only a familiar sense of shame and self-loathing, a sudden remembering that he is not now and never has been deserving of love and kindness. The rug has been pulled out from under him, but he should have seen it coming: all happiness is, for him, fleeting.

He thinks it would probably be best if he were to back out quietly and try to leave without her seeing him, rather than interrupting and creating a scene. But just as he reaches this conclusion, the man on the sofa shifts his gaze to Scully's right, and he catches sight of Mulder. The man's eyes fly wide open in panic, and he tries to sit up. Startled, Scully turns, following the man's gaze, and when she sees Mulder, all color leaves her face, and her eyes fill with terror. Even in his state of absolute and total dejection, Mulder finds the fear radiating off of Scully painful. Could she really think so little of him that she believes herself in danger from him?

"Mulder!" she gasps. "What are you doing back here?" She's speaking English, which seems strange to him under the circumstances. They occasionally speak English together because Scully says she misses speaking it with her childhood friends, but right now hardly seems the time for nostalgia. He supposes she might be trying to keep the man, who is trying valiantly to rise from the sofa in spite of Scully's best efforts to stop him, from understanding them. He doesn't want to make things more difficult for her, and he obliges.

"I forgot my hat," he says, also in English. "I used my key to let myself back in to get it because I didn't want to wake you. I heard a noise... I wanted to make sure you were all right...."

"What's a German officer doing with a key to your flat?" demands the man on the sofa suddenly, having given up trying to stand. He is speaking English, is clearly British, and Mulder realizes he had it backwards: Scully wants the man to understand them. That's why she's not speaking French or German. "What are you trying to pull?" The man looks terrified. "Are you turning me in?" Scully turns back to him.

"No, Mr. Nelson, of course not," she says. "This man is no threat to you. Now will you please sit still before you tear your stitches?" The man obliges, but he continues to look at Mulder with wary distrust. And now, Mulder begins to notice things he overlooked before, in his shock: the needle and thread in a dish on the end table, the basin of bloody water on the floor, the damp cloth in Scully's hand. This man, disguised in ill-fitting civilian clothing, is clearly a British soldier.

The wheels in Mulder's head are turning, gears shifting, puzzle pieces falling slowly into place. The reason Scully pretends, to all but Mulder, that she only speaks limited German. The strange orders placed and picked up at the cafe daily, no money ever changing hands.

"You're with the Resistance," he says. Scully closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Mr. Nelson," she says to the man on the sofa, "I want you to rest here for a bit. Close your eyes and try to sleep, all right? I need to speak with my friend for a moment." She takes Mulder by the elbow and leads him across the parlor, down a short hallway, and into her bedroom. She closes the door and turns to him. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The horror Mulder felt earlier, when he thought that the man out in the parlor was Scully's lover, is nothing compared to what he's feeling now.

"What group are you with?" he asks, finally. "The Gaullists? The SFIO? French Forces of the Interior?" Scully looks ready to argue with him, to refuse to answer, but after a moment, she sighs deeply, all the fight going out of her. She looks down.

"I'm not with any particular group," she says. "I help whichever group comes to me... I assist them in moving people, arranging their transportation and their hiding places. The man out there is a pilot who was sent to me by Dutch-Paris."

"How have I not noticed you've been hiding people in your apartment until now?" asks Mulder. "I'm here every night. Late."

"They only actually come to my apartment if they need medical attention," says Scully. "Most of the time I only make the arrangements and provide information." Another piece of the puzzle slides into place in Mulder's head.

"The pies," he says. "That's how you communicate, isn't it?" She nods.

"The flavor of the pie tells me who needs to be moved- if it's Jews, Allied soldiers, or political refugees. The number of people the pie is for tells me how many people are in the group, and the date the order is due is when they need to be moved by. I make the arrangements and put their instructions inside the box with the pie when the person helping them picks it up." It's an ingenious system, but Mulder is not in the mood to be admiring just now.

"Scully," he says quietly, "what will you do if they catch you?" She says nothing, but really, she doesn't need to. Mulder knows full well what will happen, because he's seen it happen many, many times over the past three years.

If she is caught... they will kill her.

"You can't do this, Scully," he pleads with her. "It's too dangerous. If they find out... if they catch you... I can't protect you then, Scully, I'd never be able to get to you in time. You'll be put to death before I even know you've been arrested."

"I know that, Mulder. I'm not asking you to protect me."

"But why, Scully?" he asks. "Why are you risking this much?"

"I have to. I have no choice."

"Yes, you do," he insists. "You can survive this. If you keep your head down, if you keep yourself safe-"

"At what cost, Mulder?" she asks. "How many people can I help to save who would die if I just kept my head down? People keeping their heads down, minding their own business and keeping themselves safe, that's how men like Hitler win, Mulder. Evil things can only happen if good men- and women- stand by and allow them to happen, and I refuse to do that."

"But why you, Scully?" he asks. "Why do you have to be the one to do it?"

"Because I'm here, and because I can," she says. "I can't stand by and allow innocent people to suffer when I have the power to help them, Mulder. I don't know how to do that. It's just not who I am." She fixes him with a steely blue gaze. "And I don't think it's who you are, either."

-----------

Mulder does not sleep at all that night. Lying on his cot in his tent amidst the untroubled snores of his tent mates, he replays his argument with Scully in his head over and over. She had told him, at the end of it, that she needed him to leave, that someone would be there early in the morning to escort the British pilot to his next hiding place. She needed the man to relax and sleep, to regain his strength for the coming journey, and he couldn't do that with a German officer a room away.

"If I don't see you here tomorrow, Mulder," she had said as they stood at her door, her voice soft and sad, "I'll understand. But..." She had taken his hand, squeezed it briefly, and let go. "I hope you'll be here."

He didn't know if he would. Not yet.

It wasn't a question of whether he approved of what she was doing or not. He understood- God, he understood- the anger at the injustice, the desire to change it, to fight back. It was her suggestion that perhaps he should be fighting back, possibly at her side, that unnerved him.

Shortly after dawn, when Mulder is thinking to himself that he should really just give up on sleeping and prepare for morning roll call, he hears the sound of boots, many boots, rushing by outside. He sits up and begins to dress. As he's buttoning up his uniform jacket, another soldier from his company rips back the flap of his tent and sticks his head inside. He sees that Mulder is awake, and bellows at the other two men until they, too, are sitting up, rubbing sleep out of their eyes.

"The night patrol caught a family of Jews on the western edge of town," says the man, excited. "It's too long before the next transport train to send them to a camp, so Oberst Spender is assembling a firing squad. We're all to assemble immediately." Mulder and his tent mates exchange nervous glances as the soldier lets the tent flap fall back into place and departs. The three men splash water on their faces, dress, and lace up their boots, all the while saying nothing. Mulder has met many soldiers who take delight in executions, who clamor for the "honor" of taking part in them... but he has also met many soldiers who are troubled by them.

He has yet to meet any willing to try to put a stop to one.

They receive word that they are to muster outside of the encampment, instead of next to the mess tent, the way they normally would. The men line up by company, and when Mulder has found his place, in the front row of his company, just behind where Hauptmann Skinner stands at attention, counting his men as they assemble, he looks beyond Skinner's shoulder, to the open patch of ground the unit is facing. Three rough graves have been dug at the edge of a field where this farm's previous owner once grew wheat. Mulder is familiar enough with the proceedings: the prisoners will have been made to dig their own graves, and when the firing squad is ready, the condemned will stand facing their executioners, the guns will fire, and the prisoners will fall neatly into the graves they themselves have prepared.

It's all very efficient.

Mulder has time to wonder whether Scully knows the prisoners who are about to be executed, whether or not she has tried and failed to arrange for their safe passage, whether she knows they've been caught. And then they're brought out, clothing torn, hands bound, shivering in the bitter cold, and he doesn't have to wonder anymore. It would appear that Marguerite Scully's Sunday dinner guests were perfectly within their rights to be terrified of Mulder.

Before him stand Albert, Sophie, and Helene Marchand. Only little Christine is missing.

The horrified gasp is half out of Mulder's mouth before he can stifle it, and Skinner turns to look at him, frowning. He stares hard at Mulder with something like warning in his eyes, before turning to face front again. Oberst Spender is standing in front of them now, his son at his side. He congratulates the night watch on their capture, recites the dangers the Jewish people pose to the Fatherland and to good, upstanding people everywhere, and quotes extensively from Hitler. Or, at least, Mulder thinks that's what he does, because that's what he's done at every execution Mulder has seen since the war began. He's not listening, though, because Helene Marchand, whose eyes have been roving over the crowd before her in absolute terror, has recognized him.

Her frightened blue eyes lock on his, beseeching, pleading with him, begging him wordlessly to do something, to stop this, to spirit her away to safety... but he does nothing. There is nothing he can do. The girl sobs, once, a horrible, tearing sound that claws its way deep into him, so that Mulder knows he'll be hearing it in his nightmares for the rest of his life. Then Spender steps back, his son barks out an order, the guns fire, and as the girl's eyes go wide, it's as though ten years haven't passed at all, and it's Samantha's blue eyes he's looking into, Samantha's eyes that are glazing over, closing, closing, as the girl and her parents fall.

There's a silence throughout the assembled men; then, someone whoops, and there's a smattering of nervous laughter. Mulder suddenly feels a hot swoop of nausea in the pit of his stomach, and he knows he needs to get away, immediately, but his feet are frozen in place. Just as he thinks he's going to be sick right here, now, in front of the entire company, he feels a hand at his elbow, forcefully guiding him away.

"Let's go, Mulder," says Skinner's voice in his ear.

"Where?" asks Mulder, moving his mouth as little as possible, not trusting himself to keep from vomiting.

"You know where," says Skinner shortly.

----------

Scully answers Skinner's knock before Mulder thinks to mention that he has a key. She takes one look at Mulder, whose face is an alarming shade of green, and steps back, granting them entrance.

"It's over?" she asks Skinner, and he nods shortly. A look of terrible sadness passes over her face, and she closes her eyes for a moment. Then she takes Mulder's arm, her eyes full of compassion, and leads him back towards the kitchen. "Come on, Mulder," she says. "Let's go upstairs." Mulder nods numbly and follows her up to her apartment, Skinner behind them. She brings him to the sofa, and he sits next to her, just like he has every night for a week. Skinner takes an armchair next to them. The three sit in silence, not looking at one another. Scully holds Mulder's hand, rubbing her thumb gently across his knuckles.

"I thought you said he was your mother's hired hand," Mulder says finally.

"He was," says Scully. "We obtained forged identity papers for the entire family and arranged for them to live on the farm. We don't know how their true identity was discovered."

"Where's the youngest daughter? Christine?" asks Mulder, not sure he wants to know the answer.

"We were able to hide her," says Skinner. "We had very little warning, but we managed that much. She's on her way to safety now." Mulder feels his stomach unclench very slightly, but then the full meaning of Skinner's words settles on him.

"We, Sir?" Skinner nods. And then Mulder remembers something from the very first time he and Scully spoke: Skinner had already known that Scully spoke German, had addressed her as though they had spoken many times before. Which, it turns out, they had. "You're with them." It's a statement, not a question, but Skinner still answers.

"I am."

"Why didn't you stop it today, then?" Mulder asks.

"By that point, Mulder, there was nothing I could do, not without giving myself away. And there are people still in hiding who are counting on me to help them. All I can do is try to keep things from getting as far as they did this morning... but once it gets to that point, it's out of my hands." He looks hard at Mulder. "And out of yours, too. If you and I tried to intervene today, they would have shot us, and then shot that family anyway."

"You don't know that," says Mulder weakly.

"I do," says Skinner, "because I've seen it happen before. It doesn't sound gallant or honorable, I know, but that's how it is. If you want to help, there are ways, but an ill-conceived one-man suicide charge is not one of them." He stands. "I need to get back. Mulder, you're sick and excused from duties today, understand?" Mulder nods, unwilling to fight Skinner on this. The last thing he wants is to spend the day shoulder-to-shoulder with the men that watched that little girl die and then laughed about it.

"I'll see you out," says Scully, standing. She puts a comforting hand on Mulder's shoulder. "I'll be right back, all right?" He nods, and she strokes his cheek and goes downstairs. When she returns, she takes Mulder's hand and pulls him up from the sofa. "I want you to lie down for a bit," she says, leading him to her bedroom and settling him on her bed. He expects her to leave him to rest, but instead, she lies down beside him, cradling his head to her chest. He wraps his arms around her and closes his eyes, listening to the steady beat of her heart.

"Mulder," she says finally, stroking his hair, "I know you've seen more than a few executions. Skinner says you've always been stoic before. What happened this time?" He says nothing, but the words are climbing up his throat, constricting it, threatening to choke him. "Is it because you'd met them before? Had dinner with them?" He tries to take a deep breath and discovers he cannot. "Mulder?" He has to speak or he'll drown.

"It was the girl," he says. "Helene. She saw me. She-" His arms around her tighten. "She recognized me. She was looking at me like she was begging me to save her... and I didn't. I just stood there." She holds him tighter. "And... she looked so much like Samantha, Scully. Her eyes... it was like I was looking at Samantha, the moment before-" He cuts himself off. This, he cannot speak of, has never spoken of, but he wants desperately to speak of it to her, to release the horror from where it's been poisoning him for ten years.

"Mulder," says Scully gently, "how did your sister die?" The part of Mulder's mind that has fought to keep this under lock and key for so long is tired, and Scully's presence is so soothing.... She loves him, he is sure of it, it shows through her eyes every time she looks at him, bleeds through her fingers every time she touches him. He is safe in her arms. He doesn't need to have any secrets from her.

He opens his mouth and begins the story.

--------------

It was February 1934, and the sky was clear after three days of snow. Mulder and Samantha had walked to a park down the street from their house to meet Mulder's friend Rolf. He and Mulder had met at school the previous year, when Rolf's family had moved to Berlin, and the two young men had become fast friends. Rolf had also recently, unbeknownst to Mulder's parents, become Samantha's boyfriend, a fact that both annoyed and amused Mulder, depending on the day (and on how disgustingly the two of them were behaving).

Samantha Mulder at fifteen was headstrong and opinionated, passionate about her beliefs, and vocally critical of Hitler and his policies in a way that both embarrassed and frightened their parents. Mulder, ever the rebellious pot-stirrer, had encouraged her endlessly, enjoying his parents' shock whenever Samantha eloquently expressed her views during one of their many dinner parties.

A casual onlooker would have assumed that Samantha said these things just to be contrary, to defy her parents like any normal teenager, but Mulder knew her better than that. Samantha was a deeply empathetic person who could not stand to see people wronged, and was driven to real fury whenever she witnessed any act of deliberate cruelty. She did not buy for one moment that any single ethnic or political group could be blamed for all of Germany's woes, and she was not at all afraid to engage those who did in heated debate. Mulder introduced her to Rolf, who was of like mind and was also frightening his own parents out of their minds with his political ranting. He often joked that if Samantha and Rolf got arrested, at least they'd be together.

The three teenagers walked along the freshly-shoveled paths of the park, occasionally throwing snowballs, but mostly talking. Rolf and Mulder were both deciding where to go to school the following year, and Mulder was leaning towards Oxford, but Samantha hated the idea of him living so far away. She was just launching, for the third time that week, into her well-rehearsed list of reasons why her big brother should go to school closer to home, when a sudden loud crack rent the air, and Rolf crumpled to the ground. Samantha screamed and Mulder's head snapped around, looking for the source, when there was a second crack, and when he turned back, a red flower was blooming across Samantha's chest, and she was falling, her blue eyes locked on her brother's, begging him mutely to do something, anything, to save her.

She was dead before she hit the ground.

Mulder's mother found them there shortly after. When her children did not show up for lunch, she followed the sound of approaching sirens to the park, where she discovered her son holding his sister's dead body in his arms, sobbing wildly, while a policeman struggled to pull him away.

Mulder's mother crawled inside a bottle that day and never came out.

Mulder, by contrast, crawled inside himself. He shut out everyone, refusing to so much as say his sister's name, much less discuss her death. He was too much in shock to give a statement to the police that day... not, as it turned out, that they would have done anything anyway.

In the weeks following Samantha's death, it came to light that Rolf had been involved in an underground network of propagandists who were working to discredit Hitler. Rolf had been writing articles for a subversive newspaper, and Samantha, eager to help in any way she could, had been delivering them to secret drop-off points all over town. The double murder was never investigated; it was merely forgotten about, but Mulder was certain, beyond any doubt, that Rolf and his sister had been killed as punishment for speaking out.

Whether because Mulder had always encouraged Samantha's rebellious nature, or because he had introduced her to Rolf, or even simply because the walk in the park that day had been his idea, Mulder's parents, though they never came right out and said it, blamed him for his sister's death. To confirm it would have been to talk about it, which they certainly did not do, but the mute reproach in his mother's eyes, his father's determined avoidance of him, made it perfectly clear that they held him responsible. Mulder still does not understand why his mother wanted him to come home so badly when he finished at Oxford. The best hypothesis he's been able to form, six years later, is that if she could not escape the house of misery in which she was trapped by marriage, then she didn't want him to escape, either. She would rather make sure he was under her thumb, suffering as she felt he should.

And he has suffered. There is no doubt about that.

-----------

When Mulder finishes speaking, Scully is silent. Tears are running down his face, and she must be able to feel them soaking into her shirt, but she says nothing, only holds him. After awhile, she moves down a bit, shifting so that they're lying face to face. She draws his chin up gently with her fingers, making him look her in the eye, and she wipes the tears from his cheeks.

"Mulder," she whispers, "it wasn't your fault. Not today, and not ten years ago. The fault lies with the men who pulled the trigger, with the men who ordered them to do it, with the men who put the idea in their heads."

"I encouraged her, Scully," he argues. "I pushed her to say what she thought. I should have known it was dangerous."

"That's what big brothers do, Mulder," she says. "They push their sister's buttons. They try to get them in trouble with their parents. Believe me, I have an older brother, I know. You never meant to put her in any danger. You introduced her to your friend out of kindness, because you thought they would like each other." She strokes his cheek with infinite tenderness, and the love in her eyes makes him want to cry all over again. "Nothing you did was meant to hurt your sister. Nothing you did should have hurt her, if the men in charge of your country were anything resembling reasonable. It wasn't your fault, Mulder. You couldn't have known." She kisses him, holds him close, strokes his hair. And as he realizes that she means it, that she truly believes what she's saying, that she doesn't think any less of him, he is filled with such a depth of love for her that he can't help but hold her as close as possible. She buries her face in his neck, and he can feel her smiling against him.

"You know, I've been dreaming of having you in my bed for weeks," she says, chuckling. "Just... not quite like this." He can't help but smile at that.

"For weeks, huh?" he says. "I'm that irresistible?"

"You have no idea," she says, and she kisses him again. But after a moment, she grows serious. "I'm going to need to go downstairs and open the cafe soon. I want you to stay up here and rest, all right?"

"I'll be fine," he protests, but she shakes her head.

"You didn't sleep at all last night, I can tell. You look completely exhausted. Stay up here, sleep if you can, and just try and relax if you can't. And... Mulder?"

"Yes, Scully?"

"I want you to think about what Skinner told you, all right?"

"Which part?"

"That if you want to help, there are ways. There are things you could do, Mulder, that could help stop what happened this morning from happening again. I want you to think about it and decide if that's something you're interested in." He flashes back to the conversation with Skinner, the revelation that his captain has been going behind Spender's back, trying to subvert his will at every turn. He thinks of how proud this makes him to know the man, to count him as a friend. And he thinks further back, to what Scully said to him last night.

"I can't stand by and allow innocent people to suffer when I have the power to help them, Mulder. I don't know how to do that. It's just not who I am. And I don't think it's who you are, either."

He's not sure that he really is the man Scully thinks he is, but he does know he'd like very much to be. He has to try. He meets Scully's eye... and at last, he nods.

"Tell me what to do."

Next Chapter  >

[historicity-was-already-taken]

Fierce Historical Ladies post: Vladka Meed

Part 6: The Labor Camps

Part 1: The Ghetto • Part 2: The Aryans • Part 3: Vladka, on the Wall, with Dynamite • Part 4: Uprising • Part 5: Aftermath

After the Uprising, the Jewish Coordinating Committee turned its efforts to providing aid and attending to the welfare of ZOB survivors, Jews in hiding inside and outside of Warsaw, and Jews interned in forced labor camps.1

Vladka once more undertook dangerous and harrowing missions in support of these efforts, traveling across the city smuggling false identification documents to underground Jews, posing as a smuggler to bring relief to Jews in hiding outside of the city, and working to set up covert aid networks in the labor camps. 

Vladka on one of her missions, 1944. Image courtesy of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.

Still struggling with feelings of hopelessness in the aftermath of the destruction of the Ghetto, Vladka often turned to Benjamin Miedzyrzecki—her Coordinating Committee comrade—for strength. His "words of comfort," she wrote, "dispelled my despair more than once…It was only thanks to him that I did not break down."

Benjamin Miedzyrzecki on the “Aryan” side, 1943. Both images courtesy of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.

One of the missions she undertook in this period was the reinstatement of Coordinating Committee contact with a group of twenty-three survivors of the Czestochowa Ghetto Uprising hidden in the town of Koniecpol.2 

To begin, she boarded a train—sans travel permits—to Koniecpol. With her, she carried a smuggler’s sack full of “merchandise,” and letters and paper money from the Coordinating Committee concealed beneath her belt. Over the course of fifteen hours of travel, she’d had to dodge Nazi inspections, and bribe several Polish officers to make them forget that she was traveling without permits.

After arriving in Koniecpol, Vladka walked to the group’s hideout. Their landlady—an elderly Gentile woman—led Vladka to a dark barn where thirteen young Jews lay hidden beneath piles of old straw stored on the tiny hayloft; the other ten Czestochowa Jews were dispersed across two other hiding places.

The group was in desperate need of blankets, medicine, food, and money. When Vladka reached them, they were overjoyed to learn that their comrades in Warsaw had not forgotten them. She spoke to them one by one, noting their needs, distributing the money and letters, and taking down the information of those in need of false documents. “Don’t forget about us!” they called out as she left.

Vladka returned to Koniecpol twice a month with money and supplies. Later that year the Coordinating Committee experienced problems receiving their funds from overseas. Without money, Vladka could not travel, and she lost track of the Czestochowa group. When the Committee resolved its pipelines issue, Vladka returned to Koniecpol to find that the group's landlady had evicted them when they ran out of money.

Once out of their hiding place, the group was almost immediately subject to harassment at the hands of the Polish police and hostile members of Polish partisan groups. They retreated deep into the woods, and when Vladka found them, they resembled “living skeletons, bags of bones who could hardly stand.” Luckily, Vladka, newly arrived Committee funds in hand, quickly located new hiding places for the group, and secured documentation from the Armja Krajowa stating that the Koniecpol group was officially under their protection. She remained in contact with the group through the end of the war.

Three Jewish partisans in Wyszkow forest near Warsaw, 1944. Image courtesy of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.

Meanwhile, across Poland, the Nazis were slowly working pockets of isolated Jews to their deaths in forced labor camps. It was Vladka’s mission to infiltrate these camps and set up covert aid networks.3

One major labor camp was in Czestochowa; it held approximately 10,000 Jews.4 Vladka traveled to Czestochowa by train and walked to one of the factories known to exploit Jewish labor. Trusting her instincts, Vladka stopped a few workers as they passed, asking them to deliver a note to a party inside the factory in exchange for money. Eventually, an elderly Polish worker took her up on the offer. Three days later, he returned with a response.

In it, the Jews of Czestochowa wrote that they could hardly believe that Warsaw had not forgotten them. It was signed 'Jacek'—the code-name of a young Zionist working in the factory. Jacek included in the response the address of a contact: Jan Brust, a Polish factory worker who could serve as a liaison between the Coordinating Committee and the Czestochowa Jews. Vladka easily established contact with Brust, and went back to Warsaw. A few days later, she returned to Czestochowa with letters and money. Jan Brust smuggled them into the factory, and then collected responses and other communications for Vladka on his way out.

Vladka visited Brust every few weeks with money and letters. Through Brust, she also smuggled medicine, food, and illegal publications into the labor camp.5 Her skill at covert operations was so great that many of the aid recipients never even knew that the supplies were coming from outside the camp. Vladka maintained this aid network until the Red Army liberated the city in January 1945.

The military center of Radom, however, posed more of a challenge. The Jews of Radom, ghettoized beginning in 1941, lived in wooden barracks on the outskirts of town.6 Every day armed guards escorted groups of Jews from the barracks to their work assignments, typically at either the print shop or the munitions plant. Vladka had no contacts in Radom, and there were too many Nazis in town for Vladka to be able to simply recruit a messenger from outside a factory. This time, she would have to make direct contact with the Jewish workers. 

When Vladka arrived in Radom, money and letters concealed on her person, she walked straight to the printing plant. Finding it closed and its entrance guarded, she began to walk the perimeter of the factory. Finally, she located some Jews.

To her luck, the guard on duty was neither a German nor a Ukrainian, but a member of the Jewish police.7 Vladka hurried over to him and asked for a woman named “Meltzer.” When he returned with the woman in question, Vladka whispered to her that she had letters and money from Warsaw. Tears sprang into the young woman’s eyes as she realized the meaning of Vladka’s words: the Jews of Radom were no longer alone.

Meltzer ran to fetch her husband and his brother, and the four of them discussed the organization of a clandestine relief pipeline. Vladka gave the Meltzers the money and letters from the Coordinating Committee, and they wrote a letter back to the Committee stating the community’s needs.

Vladka returned to Warsaw with their letter, and the next time she traveled to Radom she brought 50,000 zlotys, illegal literature, and more letters from the Coordinating Committee with her. That day, there were no Jewish guards on duty. So, Vladka hid her contraband, hitched a smile onto her face, and approached one of the Ukrainian guards to ask permission to buy something from the Jews.8 Though initially brusque, the guard quickly thawed, becoming increasingly chatty and, apparently, into it.

The guard allowed her to approach the fence. She asked the nearby Jews for someone with the surname "Meltzer." The guard joined her, loudly inquiring as to whether anyone had any shoes to sell. When Meltzer appeared, Vladka sent another Jew over to distract the guard. When his back was turned, Vladka slipped Meltzer the contraband. He hid it beneath his prison clothes, and promptly vanished. As he disappeared, another Jew approached with a pair of shoes for sale. Vladka tried them on, continuing her cheerful flirtation with the guard. When his attention was called away, one of the Meltzers slipped Vladka a letter. With this, her mission was complete.

As she left, the guard stopped her to ask if she wanted to hang out later that night. She said yes, but obvs she ghosted. The network she set up with the Meltzers supported the Jews of Radom through the end of the war.

about me ask me a question twitter

1 To support these activities, the Coordinating Committee received money from the Polish government-in-exile in London and contacts abroad. These parties sent them American dollars through the Polish underground and Gentile allies in Warsaw, and the Committee then converted the dollars into zlotys on the black market. 2 The Czestochowa Ghetto too staged an Uprising, this one on June 27, 1943. The Nazis put it down after four days. Two-thousand died in and from the fighting. The Nazis sent 3900 to labor camps, 1200 to death camps, and shot 400. 3 Slave labor was a large part of the German war economy, and Nazi use of Polish Jewry as slave labor began almost immediately following the occupation of Poland. Though at first, Jewish labor gangs marched to and from work assignments, by 1943 the Germans set up camps specifically for Jewish laborers, generally on the sites of liquidated ghettos, or in barracks set up near major factories and industrial plants. Living and working conditions in the overcrowded camps were harsh, dangerous, and filthy. Jewish laborers were treated in line with the Nazi policy/ideology that Jews, and therefore Jewish workers, were expendable non-humans to be treated in accordance with the goals of the Final Solution; even as the Germans realized that Jewish labor was essential to the war economy. 4 Approximately 28,500 Jews lived in Czestochowa before the War. The Germans established the Czestochowa Ghetto between April and August 1941. At its height, the ghetto contained close to 40,000 people between its walls, comprising both residents of the city and Jews from surrounding areas. The Nazis liquidated the ghetto from September through October 1942, leaving behind some 5,000 male laborers and their families, all deemed capable of work. These laborers lived in a camp built on the remains of the ghetto. They worked in ironworks, ammunitions, textile factories, and a variety of smaller factories and workshops. In late 1944, early 1945, the Germans “evacuated” the Jews to Buchenwald and Ravensbruck ahead of the Soviet lines. 5 Unfortunately, a German guard caught Brust in the act of smuggling, and Brust sustained a fatal wound. Vladka located a new Gentile contact, named Mendzec, who continued to smuggle letters and supplies to the Jews of Czestochowa. 6 The Nazis set up two ghettos in Radom between March and April 1941: the 27,000 person “Main Ghetto” in the city, and the 5,000 person “Small Ghetto” in a nearby suburb. The Nazis liquidated the ghettos between February and August 1942. By the end of August, 2,000 Jews remained in Radom. The Small Ghetto then functioned as a labor camp. In November 1943, the Nazis transferred the surviving workers into 20 shacks, holding a total of 2,450 men and 400 women. The Nazis deported most of them to Auschwitz in June, 1944, and only a few hundred of the Jews from Radom survived the war. 7 The Jewish Police were a Thing that I can’t properly address within the confines of this post. 8 By this point in the war, it was known that a wide variety of clothing items could be cheaply purchased from Jews. It was illegal, and one of the few remaining means by which Jews could make money.

[just-another-book-blog112]

#Bookie-Challenge TBR

Hey everyone! Here is my TBR for the #bookie-challenge. Below i will have the blurb for each book if any of you are interested in my list. 

A Book over 300 pages. The Knife of Never Letting Go by Patrick Ness. (479 pages)   

Imagine you can hear everything the town of men say about you. And they can hear everything you think. Imagine you don't fit into their plans. Todd Hewitt is just one month away from the birthday that will make him a man. But his town has been keeping secrets from him. Secrets that are going to force him to run. 

The second book in a series. The Ask And the Answer by Patrick Ness. (516 pages) 

We were in the square, in the square where I'd run, holding her, carrying her, telling her to stay alive, stay alive till we got safe, till we got to Haven so I could save her - But there weren't no safety, no safety at all, there was just him and his men... Fleeing before a relentless army, Todd has carried a desperately wounded Viola right into the hands of their worst enemy, Mayor Prentiss. Immediately separated from Viola and imprisoned, Todd is forced to learn the ways of the Mayor's new order. But what secrets are hiding just outside of town? And where is Viola? Is she even still alive? And who are the mysterious Answer? And then, one day, the bombs begin to explode... "The Ask and the Answer" is a tense, shocking and deeply moving novel of resistance under the most extreme pressure. This is the second title in the "Chaos Walking" trilogy 

A book with the colour blue on the cover. All the Bright Places by Jennifer Niven  (378 pages)

Theodore Finch is fascinated by death, and he constantly thinks of ways he might kill himself. But each time, something good, no matter how small, stops him. Violet Markey lives for the future, counting the days until graduation, when she can escape her Indiana town and her aching grief in the wake of her sister’s recent death. When Finch and Violet meet on the ledge of the bell tower at school, it’s unclear who saves whom. And when they pair up on a project to discover the “natural wonders” of their state, both Finch and Violet make more important discoveries: It’s only with Violet that Finch can be himself—a weird, funny, live-out-loud guy who’s not such a freak after all. And it’s only with Finch that Violet can forget to count away the days and start living them. But as Violet’s world grows, Finch’s begins to shrink. This is an intense, gripping novel perfect for fans of Jay Asher, Rainbow Rowell, John Green, Gayle Forman, and Jenny Downham from a talented new voice in YA, Jennifer Niven. 

A book with romance involved. Finding Sky by Joss Stirling (308 pages)

You have half our gifts, I have the other . . . When English girl Sky, catches a glimpse of bad boy Zed in her new American high school, she can't get him out of her head. He talks to her with his thoughts. He reads her mind. He is the boy she will love for ever. Dark shadows stalk her past but a new evil threatens her future. Sky must face the dark even if it means losing her heart 

A short Story. A Deeper Love by Cassandra Clare and Maureen Johnson (Pages=unknown)

It is only three years since Tessa Gray lost her beloved husband William Herondale, and she is searching for a reason to live, trying to find the path of being a warlock with the guidance of her friend Catarina Loss. World War II rains down destruction on their world, and Tessa and Catarina become nurses who make bargains at the Shadow Market for enchantments to help suffering mundanes. But can Brother Zachariah bear to see the woman he loves risk her life, or might he consider breaking sacred vows to save her from loneliness?

A Historical Novel. The Tattooist Of Auschwitz by Heather Morris (228 pages)

The Tattooist of Auschwitz is based on the true story of Lale and Gita Sokolov, two Slovakian Jews who survived Auschwitz and eventually made their home in Australia. In that terrible place, Lale was given the job of tattooing the prisoners marked for survival—literally scratching numbers into his fellow victims' arms in indelible ink to create what would become one of the most potent symbols of the Holocaust. Lale used the infinitesimal freedom of movement that this position awarded him to exchange jewels and money taken from murdered Jews for food to keep others alive. If he had been caught, he would have been killed; many owed him their survival. 

A Classic. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak(553 Pages)

Trying to make sense of the horrors of World War II, Death relates the story of Liesel--a young German girl whose book-stealing and story-telling talents help sustain her family and the Jewish man they are hiding, as well as their neighbors.

So that is my TBR List for the the month of August. I don’t know how many of these books I will get around too or in what order I will read them but I will do my best to get as many finished as possible

[theliterateape]

The Racetrack

By Wayne Lerner

“And they’re off!”

Those are words I have only heard on TV, not in person, as I have never been to a race track except when it is closed.

Let me explain.

In college, I worked for my grandfather who owned Acme Heating and Air Conditioning, the second oldest HVAC firm in Chicago. Why was it called Acme? Because then it would be first in the Yellow Pages when people looked up air conditioning firms.

It wasn’t a big union shop, but busy enough that, every summer, Gramps employed many men to service home and business air-conditioning systems. Most were local technicians but many came from Mexico to work and send money home each week.

Gramps had an interesting and diverse staff and a fascinating set of clients.

One was a tall, slender man with sloping shoulders whose eyes sparkled with kindness, most of the time. Underneath, he had a mean streak emanating from his pores from growing up on the streets. He was born in Little Italy of Jewish parents who had emigrated from Russia. My great grandparents had little control over him. In sixth grade, he was sent to Montefiore, a school for students with severe emotional disorders, aka juvenile delinquents. 

He never had any formal education beyond sixth grade but was as street smart as any person I had ever met. While Gramps had some latent racist tendencies and was known to make offending comments, he put his arms around all kinds of people, anyone in need. They loved him for his generosity and were loyal to him. That was the trait he valued over all others.

As a teen, he was the leader of the 16th Street Gang and tooled around the city on his motorcycle. He was known for his brutal toughness. His knuckles were scarred, his hands callused. There were marks on his arms where cuts were stitched up from fights long ago. More than once, I would urge him to tell me what it was like growing up at that time.

“Was it as dangerous as they say?” I would ask.

“It was not easy being the only Jew in the neighborhood gangs,” he said. “I got called all kinds of names. My friends reminded me that I didn’t belong there. Why? It was a religious thing. After all, they said, ‘the Jews killed Christ, didn’t they?’” 

“Did they beat you up for that?” I asked, seeking the details behind his injuries. 

“We made a peace treaty because we had bigger fish to fry than who killed Christ. We all needed money, we were dirt poor. My father, your great grandfather, worked as a tailor and your great grandmother cleaned houses. My friends’ parents were in the same boat.”

My mother would tell me stories about her father’s misadventures when he was young. She said that he was a part of the Capone gang.

She said that, in his twenties, he got a job delivering booze for Al Capone. Gramps drove a cab six days a week but, on Sundays, he took his mother for rides so she could get out of the house. The problem was that he would only take her through the alleys of Chicago and nearby suburbs.

The family legend goes that his mother called Capone and demanded that he be released from his service.

Every so often, he would ask her to get out of the car. 

“Ma, you need to stretch your legs.”

“Why, Leo?” 

“Because the doctor said that you shouldn’t sit too long.”

“If the doctor says so, I’ll do it.” 

When she left the cab, he lifted up the backseat where the booze was stored, unloaded the illegal products and delivered them to big Al’s clients’ back doors.

When his mother realized what he was doing, she was apoplectic. 

“Leo! You have become a criminal, a goniff, a thief, a no-good-nik! What am I going to do with you? You are going to get caught and be sent away again. This time you are not coming back!”

You don’t piss off an old woman who sacrificed all she had to get her family out of Tsarist Russia and away from the pogroms.

She wanted Gramps to get an education and become a professional-a doctor, a lawyer, even an accountant.  That would have been her idea of success. That wasn’t in the cards for young Leo. All he wanted to do was fool around, make money delivering booze, and gamble. Leo didn’t use the money he made to play cards, dice or the horses. He bought vacant property, sometimes alone and sometimes with his Uncle Herb, another alum of Montefiore. How they got the sellers to agree with the prices they offered is a story unto itself.

The family legend goes that his mother called Capone and demanded that he be released from his service. I can just imagine that conversation. 

“Mr. Caponey, I want my Leo out from your terrible business. It’s illegal. And if he gets into trouble one more time, the authorities will send him to the labor camps, not to a prison. Please, Mr. Caponey, find another putz to deliver your liquor. Just leave my Leo alone!”

Capone—who’d never been talked to that way, certainly not by an 80-year-old Russian woman with broken English—would have roared. 

“Mrs. P,”  he would reply, “Calm down. I have a proposal. How about if he works for me just one day a month. You see, he is quite good at his job and nobody gives Leo any trouble. Not never. What do you say?”  

I am sure the call was not long, but still one for the books. In the end, Capone relented. He respected her family values, the old woman’s guts and her commitment to her son. And he knew if he didn’t let Gramps go, my great grandmother would never stop nagging him.

These events can’t be validated but were told quite often as I was growing up. Whenever the story came up, all Gramps would do was give a sly smile and a twinkle would come into his eyes. He would never say a word about those days or the stories. Just smile.

His choice of staff and customers reflected his upbringing. The latter included bookstores that sold racy material in their back rooms, special town houses where suspect illegal activities were going on night and day, most of the City of Chicago police and fire departments and libraries. And the tracks, Sportsman’s and Hawthorne. Gramps never had any trouble with the police. Ever.           

My job at Acme was to take apart the window A/C units, fix their problems and then put them back together. More often than not, I ended up with more parts on the bench than in the unit. But the unit worked, kinda. What can I say? I was a college boy with no technical skill whatsoever. 

One Monday morning, I heard Gramps holler from the office in front.

“James, get up here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Coming in from the back, I saw a gentleman talking to Gramps in heavily accented English about a job just assigned to Acme. 

“I want you to meet Juan,” Gramps said. “He will be your boss from now on. Just follow his directions and you will do just fine.” 

Gramps assigned me to work with one of his most trusted employees. Juan worked for Acme for over twenty years. He would arrive from Saltillo, Mexico every April 1, like clockwork, in his beat up but reliable truck.  A touch over six feet, a solid two hundred pounds, Juan knew how to handle himself. With a perpetual 5 o’clock shadow and muscles bulging from his work shirt, Juan was my protector and tutor. 

Over four years, Juan unsuccessfully tried to teach me Spanish and eat foods that were quite spicy as he watched over me like a second father. He made sure I didn’t mess up the jobs we were on or the guys didn’t give me too much trouble. I had to learn to stand up for myself, but sometimes things went too far. That’s when Juan stepped in. A quiet, commanding presence who made his point of view known in both Spanish and English, with emphasis added.

Juan knew I was not cut out for the air-conditioning business and that my grandfather was doing me a favor by giving me a job. 

“James, why you cut yourself so many times on our jobs? A good repairman finishes the day with no cuts, no blood. It no good to go to bars after work looking like you lost the fight!” Juan’s laugh was long and hearty matching the smile on his face. “We have to stop at Walgreens before we go home to get you more band aids!

Daily, I would nag my grandfather to be assigned the more risqué places to service.

“Why can’t I go to that bookstore on Rush Street or that house on Cedar like the other did guys last week?” 

“First, you are not old enough. Second, You’re my grandson and I don't need shit from your mother who will certainly find out where I sent you. Third, why do you need to look for trouble? You’re a smart boy, you're in college. Get a fucking education and leave those calls to someone else.”

So Juan and I serviced home and apartment units, corporate clients like Solo Cup in Ford City and the tracks.

At the race tracks, my job was pretty simple, but potentially dangerous. A flat-bed truck delivered large heating and air-conditioning units to the site. A crane with a large boom was brought in, a big hook attached. The hook had to be put in the eye bolt which was fastened to the top of the unit. Once the connection was made, the person attaching the hook to the eye bolt had to scamper down a ladder and get off the flatbed truck before the crane began to lift the unit to the roof. That was my job. I guess I was considered expendable because I was the only non-union guy around.

Over the course of a week, we would install ten to twelve rooftop units. In between the installations, we would trudge through the race track with our footsteps echoing down the hallways as it was empty of any patrons, only service workers present. We would walk by the betting windows, watching the cashiers stock their drawers full of cash under the close scrutiny of the floor bosses, for the races later that day. 

One afternoon, after doing an install and before going to another job, Juan and I went to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. We were sitting there when one of the guys who worked at the track, recognized us and came over and sat down. 

“You guys work for Acme, for Leo?” he asked. “Oh yeah, my name’s Rocco. I like Leo. He doesn’t bullshit around. If he likes you, great. If he doesn't, you better watch out. I don’ want to be on his bad side. I heard the stories, you know, and they weren’t pretty.”

 Juan just nodded his head. I sat there staring at the guy like he was an actor out of the gangster movies.

Rocco was a presence at the track. Dressed in high waisted black pleated slacks, a colorful shirt and pointed Italian shoes, always polished.  No one knew what he did. He was not one of the service guys, not dressed like that. 

Juan and I were well aware of the rumors of who worked at and financially benefited from the track. We did our jobs and that’s all. We were not there to make waves, new friends or enemies.

Anytime we were at the track to install or service the units, Rocco was there. He would always seek us out to sit and talk. 

Rocco had a hard edge to him, but seemed to be a pretty good guy underneath. He treated Juan and me with respect. In turn, we respected him. Whenever we got together, however, Rocco did all the talking. 

He told us stories of his family and how hard his dad was on him.  How he really couldn’t make it in school.

“I don’ like all that reading and writing. I like doin’. Ya, know what I mean?”

He would laugh and then tell us about his escapades with girls he was trying to get into bed that week.

“You ought to see Betty Ann. What a looker and built! Like a brick shithouse, she is!”

And a little bit about his siblings. But only a little bit, like he was trying to hide something.

We never saw Rocco pay for any of his food or drink. He always had a full tray of refreshments with him and would bring it to our table when he wanted to talk with us. 

“I’ll buy,” he would say as we walked in. “Whaddaya want? A date with Betty Ann? You Acme guys can’t handle that broad.” Rocco had a laugh which bounced off the walls of the cafeteria and brought everyone’s attention to him. 

As a gesture of friendship, we would offer to buy him lunch or something to drink if he ever came over empty-handed.

Most of the time, my job was to get Rocco black coffee which he had with his ever-present cigarette. He carried his pack of unfiltered Pall Mall’s in a folded up portion of his shirt sleeve, under which he wore his white Dago tee. Rocco was always in uniform and played his role perfectly.

One day, towards the end of the summer, Rocco was moaning about his brother who, he said, was going to be gone a long time. 

“Me and my older brother take care of each other. Nobody fucks with us. He’s the only guy I can trust, the only guy I can lean on.”

“What about us?” I asked. “You can trust us. We can keep our mouths shut.”

“Sure,” he said. “Like you, college boy, and your Mexican friend here are going to do the shit we do. No fuckin’ way. You don’ have the fegato to do our kind of work. Capisce? Do you understand?” 

Rocco laughed loud and long, then stopped as if the reality of the situation he was going to face entered his consciousness. 

Rocco’s face contorted as it moved from laughing to concern, fear and then terror. 

“I got to go,” he said as he got up from the table. “I gotta get out of here before I talk too much.”

“Wait,” I said. “What’s with your brother? You started to say something about him, then you stopped.”

Rocco paused as he stood over us, looked around and said in a quiet voice, “He killed a cop who was staking him out. The cop figured it out what our business was and was goin’ to take us in. My brother didn’t know that the cop had friends with him. They nabbed him after he shot the cop in the head. They took him to court. Now he’s in Joliet for murder one. And he ain’t coming back.”

I remember nothing more about the rest of the day. My mind went blank. Throughout the rest of the summer, we saw Rocco several more times before I had to leave for college but he never came over to talk or sit with us again. 

Once he told us the story about his brother, it was clear he needed to avoid us. He was never the same after the day of the big reveal. His appearance got sloppy and he no longer had a swagger in his walk. He shuffled from place to place, looking like a man with no future. Once, I heard one of the pit bosses hollering at him. If Rocco’s brother was still around, that would never have happened. Rocco’s protector was gone. Now he was on his own.

The next summer, I went back to work for Gramps. When we got to the track, Rocco wasn’t there. No one knew what had happened to him or they weren’t saying. Just then, the head of the pit bosses came over with his coffee, sat down and lit a cigarette.

“You guys from Acme?” he asked with smoke billowing from his nose as he spoke.

“I got a few window air conditioners in the apartments I manage which could use a tune up. They’re making funny noises. Think you can do me a favor one of these days?”

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

23rd February >> Mass Readings (Except USA)

Saint Polycarp, Bishop, Martyr

    on 

Wednesday Seventh Week in Ordinary Time.

Wednesday Seventh Week in Ordinary Time

(Liturgical Colour: Red)

(Readings for the feria (Wednesday))

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Wednesday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading

James 4:13-17

You cannot know what will happen tomorrow.

Here is the answer for those of you who talk like this: ‘Today or tomorrow, we are off to this or that town; we are going to spend a year there, trading, and make some money.’

   You never know what will happen tomorrow: you are no more than a mist that is here for a little while and then disappears. The most you should ever say is: ‘If it is the Lord’s will, we shall still be alive to do this or that.’ But how proud and sure of yourselves you are now! Pride of this kind is always wicked. Everyone who knows what is the right thing to do and doesn’t do it commits a sin.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 48(49):2-3,6-11

R/ How happy are the poor in spirit: theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Hear this, all you peoples,    give heed, all who dwell in the world, men both low and high,    rich and poor alike!

R/ How happy are the poor in spirit: theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Why should I fear in evil days    the malice of the foes who surround me, men who trust in their wealth,    and boast of the vastness of their riches?

R/ How happy are the poor in spirit: theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

For no man can buy his own ransom,    or pay a price to God for his life. The ransom of his soul is beyond him.    He cannot buy life without end,    nor avoid coming to the grave.

R/ How happy are the poor in spirit: theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

He knows that wise men and fools must both perish    and leave their wealth to others.

R/ How happy are the poor in spirit: theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Gospel Acclamation

John 14:6

Alleluia, alleluia! I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, says the Lord; No one can come to the Father except through me. Alleluia!

Gospel

Mark 9:38-40

You must not stop anyone from working miracles in my name.

John said to Jesus, ‘Master, we saw a man who is not one of us casting out devils in your name; and because he was not one of us we tried to stop him.’ But Jesus said, ‘You must not stop him: no one who works a miracle in my name is likely to speak evil of me. Anyone who is not against us is for us.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

------------------------------------

Saint Polycarp, Bishop, Martyr

(Liturgical Colour: Red)

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Wednesday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading

Apocalypse 2:8-11

I will give you the crown of life for your prize.

I, John, heard the Lord say to me: ‘Write to the angel of the church in Smyrna and say, “Here is the message of the First and the Last, who was dead and has come to life again: I know the trials you have had, and how poor you are – though you are rich – and the slanderous accusations that have been made by the people who profess to be Jews but are really members of the synagogue of Satan. Do not be afraid of the sufferings that are coming to you: I tell you, the devil is going to send some of you to prison to test you, and you must face an ordeal for ten days. Even if you have to die, keep faithful, and I will give you the crown of life for your prize. If anyone has ears to hear, let him listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches: for those who prove victorious there is nothing to be afraid of in the second death.”’

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 30(31):3-4,6,8,16-17

R/ Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

Be a rock of refuge for me,    a mighty stronghold to save me, for you are my rock, my stronghold.    For your name’s sake, lead me and guide me.

R/ Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

Into your hands I commend my spirit.    It is you who will redeem me, Lord. As for me, I trust in the Lord:    let me be glad and rejoice in your love.

R/ Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

My life is in your hands, deliver me    from the hands of those who hate me. Let your face shine on your servant.    Save me in your love.

R/ Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

Gospel Acclamation

cf. Te Deum

Alleluia, alleluia! We praise you, O God, we acknowledge you to be the Lord; the noble army of martyrs praise you, O Lord. Alleluia!

Gospel

John 15:18-21

The world hated me before it hated you.

Jesus said to his disciples:

‘If the world hates you, remember that it hated me before you. If you belonged to the world, the world would love you as its own; but because you do not belong to the world, because my choice withdrew you from the world, therefore the world hates you. Remember the words I said to you: A servant is not greater than his master. If they persecuted me, they will persecute you too; if they kept my word, they will keep yours as well. But it will be on my account that they will do all this, because they do not know the one who sent me.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[ukdamo]

KZ Sachsenhausen

One of mine... 

KZ Sachsenhausen ; there and then, here and now

In the summer of 1936 the posters on the underground in Berlin declaimed to every traveller, “Escape the big smoke. Come and enjoy the forests and lakes of Oranienburg". A forty-five minute train journey from S-Bahn Friedrichstrasse (1), in the heart of the city, brought sun seekers into the pleasant countryside to the north.

And why not? The dappled forest paths and clear lakes offered welcome relief from the thronged streets of the capital, streets filled with thousands of visitors who had come for the Olympiad being held in the new stadium, built to the west of the city.

People from all over the world had flown in to Flughafen Tempelhof, the airport whose buildings were a stone testament to the vitality of the l000 Year Reich. From there, visitors jostled along Swastika-hung streets to view the city sights: the Brandenburg Gate, the treasures of the Pergamon Museum, Schloss Charlottenburg; to climb to the top of the Siegessäule (2) not yet moved, on Hitler's order, from its home in front of the Reichstag; to stroll down the Unter den Linden  - although the crowds were no longer shaded by its eponymous trees since they had been felled so as not to obscure the vista of Nazi (3)  parades.

Few visitors, admiring the State Opera house, recalled the newsreels of 1933  which showed this building lit by the flickering light of a great bonfire - a bonfire of burning books heaped on the adjacent square.

Impressionable tourists lunched in the Café Schottenham, by the Anhalter Bahnhof (4), and then walked admiringly past the Bauhaus designed Europahaus en route to the splendid new Air Ministry building. Only a few years earlier the sightseers might have taken their coffee and cake in the Hotel Prinz Albrecht but this was now the HQ of Reichsfűhrer SS (5), Heinrich Himmler.

With every pavement, café and square teeming with tourists it was no wonder Berliners escaped to the relative calm of Oranienburg, to take a boat out on the lake, or to walk through the woods.

There were some city-dwellers, however, who travelled there under duress and for a more sinister purpose. To prevent the possibility of any embarrassing incidents in Berlin during the period of the Games, to disguise its anti-Semitism, and to forestall any negative publicity, some of the measures taken against the Jews by the regime were suspended.

Behind this façade (quietly, unobtrusively, diligently), the Gestapo (6) intensified its labours rounding up the enemies of the Reich - Communists, Social Democrats, trade unionists, liberals, Christians, Jews, Sinti and Romany peoples, pacifists,

Jehovah' s Witnesses, homosexuals, those designated 'anti­-socials' or criminals - and took them to the purpose built camp on the outskirts of Oranienburg. It was known as KZ Sachsenhausen. (7)

On a wintry day in February l996, I followed in their footsteps.

---------------

I was part way through my week in the city when I made my ‘pilgrimage’. After breakfasting, showering, and dressing in my most colourful clothes and dangliest earring,

I picked up the remembrance (8), quitted my Berlin lodgings and set out for Oranienburg. The journey that had brought me to this time and place had begun years before in quite another location. As a younger man, studying Modern History at the University of Liverpool, I had focussed my enthusiasm on nineteenth and twentieth century European history: Berlin was a pivotal place in the scheme of things. My perspective, particularly on twentieth century German history, was informed by the lived experience of being a gay man. There and then reached a spectral hand into the here and now.

The cold February sky was downcast; grey, lowering. pedestrians turned up their coat collars to insulate themselves and hastened to their destinations. Sometimes I drew startled looks - my appearance being somewhat conspicuous - opposing the bleakness of the morning as it did. It was the fluttering ribbons which attracted most interest though.

(Like the compelling image of the red coat in the film "Schindler's List"?)

      The train journey to Oranienburg was a journey in time as much as through a landscape. The train trundled across the city, heading northwards. Tenements gave way to light-industrial enterprises, these, in their turn, to detached houses with steeply-raked roofs. The houses thinned out and were separated by fields, wooded areas, little ponds and watercourses. As we clanked onwards, the landscape became more open. I could see now that the ground was waterlogged; crusty, muddy and frosted with snow. Even the larger lakes were frozen. Denuded trees pointed bony fingers to the sky. Somehow I had drifted into the winter of l944/45. The train reached its terminus and we few passengers reluctantly turned out of the warm carriages to brave the wind-scoured platform.

         Almost immediately, a gentle dusting of snow began to fall. (I am surprised to find that 1 feel glad it is snowing. It seems appropriate). I am possessed by the unshakeable conviction that no-one should visit at a pretty time of year. It would be  sacrilegious.

There is a mixture of buildings in the town, old and new, the streets are cobbled not asphalted. It requires no effort of imagination to see columns marching along this road. Straggly columns, sore-footed, threadbare.

        Oranienburg is a smallish town, similar to my own home town in NE Lancashire. There is some road traffic thudding over the cobbles; Trabbies and Wartburgs as well as VWs and Opels. Some kids look at me with unrestrained interest, older people with more reserve. Some of them even have a reproachful aspect.This is no longer Berlin, where people of unusual aspect arouse little notice and less comment. This is not even Manchester, where gays can be visible with a modicum of safety. This is the familiar, narrow, inhospitable ‘small-town’ Bronski Beat sang about with such eloquence.

I recognise it from my own lived experience.

I become conscious of many thoughts; "This building would have been there then"

"What must it be like to live here now, with such a legacy?"

"What do these little kids make of it?"

Practical considerations imposed themselves and I looked for a signpost. There was one. How sobering, how chilling, to see it written. No longer a name from the past but a place here and now: Gedenkstätte Sachsenhausen (9).

Following the directions indicated, I walked towards the camp. As I neared it, the monument became visible above the rooftops. It stands uncompromisingly  - a concrete grey monolith with pinkish triangles on the upper section. You could easily imagine that it was physically holding up the clouded sky, like Atlas.

At the corner of the Strasse der Nationen (10), which leads to the entrance, there is a small display board that remembers those who were killed on the 'Death March'. In the spring of l945, when it became obvious that all was lost, the authorities decided to march the camp inmates to the Baltic, intending to put them on ships and sink them.

Six thousand died before the column was liberated - they were shot, beaten to death, or killed by cold and exhaustion. It was a sombre marker for what lay ahead.

Before going into the camp proper visitors walk through an entrance gate and along a wooded way that leads past the information centre. Through the trees to the left (sparse, wintry and naked) glimpses of the perimeter wall can be had. I went in to the office and collected an English guide map. The room was dominated by a big, green-tiled stove that radiated masses of heat. It made the cold outside seem that much more intense.

"What must it be like to work in such a place?" I wondered,

"Do you grow used to the horror of it all? Can you afford to forget?" I quitted the building and felt very alone. There was just me, the remembrance, and the reality of Sachsenhausen. There and then, here and now. I feel strongly that Sachsenhausen is not history: history has no life in it. Sachsenhausen can never be mere history as long as there is someone who knows, who remembers, who lives in the light of that remembrance.

The first place that presents itself to the visitor is a modern exhibition centre (1961) which houses photographs, archive material, and an allegorical stained glass memorial window. The building dates from the original opening of the camp as a centre for national remembrance, in what was then the GDR (11). It focuses on the wartime history of Sachsenhausen. It stands in what was the SS barrack area, just in front of the gatehouse. Inside, I noted the brief descriptions of the photos in English. Many needed no explanation: the horrors were all-to-evident. Among the most harrowing were the pictures of those murdered on the march to the Baltic.

    Corpses were scattered along the route - in fields, in ditches, in the woods, by the roadside - killed by a single pistol shot to the head. From under makeshift coverings (which those who found the bodies had used to try and afford them the dignity denied them by their tormentors) poked emaciated limbs, bruised and disfigured faces, unshod feet. Other photographs detailed those who were left behind, the three thousand in the 'hospital', found when the Russians entered the camp on April 22nd 1945.

On that April day, some few miles to the south, Hitler was in the bunker beneath the Reich Chancellery. He had celebrated his last birthday two days previously. The sounds of the strife above ground were muffled and did not disturb the delusions of ultimate victory he cherished. In the cold reality of day, Flughafen Tempelhof was about to fall to the advancing Russians.

Within a week Hitler would be dead.

Some of the prisoners in Sachsenhausen made slow recoveries and joined the sea of 'Displaced Persons' trying to get home in post-war Europe. For others, death's grip was too tight for liberation to make a difference.

Leaving the photograph collection, I turned toward the entrance to the camp proper and walked through. Arbeit Macht Frei (l2) said the mocking inscription on the gate. By the end of 1944, over 204,000 people had read that sentence as they passed under the lintel and in to the Appellplatz (13). Once inside, more than 100,000 of them were systematically put to death. Others met death in camps they were transferred to. It would be invidious to try to describe the sufferings endured by camp inmates in a purely statistical way; in any case, the destruction of records means that an accurate total can never be known. The information in Sachsenhausen suggests that some 30,000 gay men were sent to the camps under the Nazis. Estimates vary. A figure of 60,000 or more may not be unduly high. Perhaps as many as 2/3rds of these men did not survive.

Standing there, 1 felt as if I had ought to remove my boots and go barefoot. A stupid idea but an almost overpowering feeling. I gazed across the open courtyard, at the monument towering beyond, and was filled with unutterable sadness.

The camp is laid out like a gigantic triangle, with the gatehouse in the centre of the baseline. Emotionally, I felt this to be an obscene joke. Apparently, it was simply the result of Nazi thoroughness and the exigencies of security - a shorter perimeter, fewer watchtowers, fewer unobserved corners, better sightlines. All so easily calculated.

The courtyard presented a large semicircle - the placement of the first row of huts being indicated by a latticed wall. Behind me, to my left and right was the neutral zone (actually a killing field); a wire boundary marker, a few yards of bare earth, then an electric fence.  Finally, and almost superfluously, there was the perimeter wall with its barbed wire crown. To step over the marker invited being shot without warning. Photographic evidence shows that some prisoners chose this. Still others crossed the death strip and embraced the electrified wire.

I looked down at the map in my hand. It was difficult to use it nimbly because of the cutting wind and my chilled muscles. My eyes were watering, too, but I could not blame the wind for that. The ribbons on the remembrance fluttered; the only colour in the landscape.

Immediately in front of me was a great concrete roller that weighed three metric tonnes. The Häftlinge (14) were forced to run pulling this and were beaten if they moved too slowly. A semicircle just in front of the first row of huts was identified as the Schuhprűfstrecke (15), Here, in a broad arc, were nine sections - each of a different surface - gravel, flint, broken stone, sand etc… Prisoners had to walk over these for ten hours each day (about 25 miles, carrying 35lb in weight) to test the durability of shoe/boot soles. I looked down. The frost-frozen ground cracked beneath my own booted feet and I sank into the mush. Scattered snowflakes flitted by. A few rooks called, screechingly.

A party of British teenagers came in through the gatehouse. They were chatty, boisterous, as kids are. But their voices grated on my ears even more than the shrill rooks. Some places in the world must only ever be silent places. Not because noise is a bad thing.

No, Act Up is right when it says that Silence = Death. But in Sachsenhausen the silence is needful. It is what makes it permissible to be noisy elsewhere. If the potent and clamorous silence of that place is ever trodden underfoot, then the laughter, songs, protests, whistles and dancing that enliven and affirm us wherever we are will be themselves in danger of being silenced forever.

There are those who wish it so.

In September of 1992, a number of individuals broke into the camp and burned down two of the huts (known as the Jewish Barracks). It is thought that this act was a deliberate desecration of the memorial and was an indication of the resurgence of xenophobia and anti-Semitism in the recently re-unified Germany. In Berlin itself, on Oranienburger Strasse, stands the recently restored Neue Synagoge (16). It is guarded by three armed policemen and is protected by stringent security measures. Inside is an exhibition that focuses on the history of the Jewish people in Berlin, even so, it acknowledges that racism and prejudice have deep roots are widely prevalent.                      

Closer to home, there is a latent racism abroad on the streets of my own town. The National Front has contested, and continues to be active, in local elections. Dispersed asylum seekers meet with thinly veiled hostility. In 1994 an NF candidate was successfully elected in local council elections on the Isle of Dogs, London. Jewish cemeteries are regularly vandalized. Violence directed at lesbians and gay men, is, sadly, an unremarkable occurrence.

My train of thought had been interrupted by the noise of the school kids, so I allowed them to go their own way and then turned my attention back to the map. Over to the right was a temporary exhibition that told the story of the Jewish Barracks and their inmates. The future of these two barrack blocks (38 and 39), destroyed in the arson attack, remains to be decided.  

Further on was the special detention camp set up for prominent political, and other, prisoners. A number of the cells are still there. Prisoners were often held in solitary confinement for long periods, tortured, denied food and drink, kept in darkened cells for months or even longer. Martin Niemőller (17) was a prisoner here. To walk along and look into the tiny cells (some with memorials inside) was a humbling experience. It was not hard to imagine the clang of steel doors, the turn of keys, the sounds of brutal interrogation echoing down the narrow corridor.

What was the date again?

At the far end, the building opened on to an exercise yard, separated from the rest of the camp by a high wall. I stepped out again into the bleak, dismal light. To the left was the Erdbunker (18), a burial cell or pit where prisoners were virtually entombed, exposed to bitter cold and oozing wet walls with only a small, steel barred hatch above.

What would you see from inside? A cross hatched patch of blue? A slate grey torrent?

On the February day I was there, the ground was waterlogged. I could hear the drip of icy melt water as it fell into that dark maw. A great puddle surrounded the hatch, frozen on top, squelchy underneath.

Just beyond the bunker, on the wall, was the memorial plaque that I had come to see; journey’s end for the beribboned remembrance, journey’s beginning for my living remembrance. The plaque is a stark in its simplicity: a black rectangle with the letters punched out by stencil, exposing the wall behind. On the ground below, a few tiles, and, scattered on them, a few carnations. Had they once been pink? The wording of the memorial was as stark in its simplicity as the plaque itself. How else could it be? How can you dress it up in fine language?

TOTGESHLAGEN

TOTGESCHWIEGEN

DEN

HOMOSEXUELLEN

OPFERN

DES

NATIONALSOZIALISMUS

Taking hold of the remembrance, I drove the pole in to the ground as far as it would go and then banked up the mushed, sandy, ice-filled soil around it to hold it steady. Not caring whether I was observed or not, I knelt down in the waterlogged yard,

sank back onto my haunches and waited quietly for about the length of time it takes a man to walk a mile slowly. Everything was hushed. The ribbons flapped and the poem waved about as  the wind caught it. For a moment or two, there was a dancing rainbow

When the time was right, I stood up to continue my journey. (I returned to the remembrance before I finally left the camp, the hard frost meant that the banked earth at the base of the pole was already beginning to freeze. Almost as if to ward off the chill, the freedom ribbons fluttered gaily. This optimism made the leave-taking that much easier).

I moved on item the exercise yard to the exhibition mounted in the former prisoners’ kitchen.  The route took me past the sites of the gallows where prisoners deemed to have committed offences were hung,. Other grisly punishments were also meted out here during roll call "pour encourager les autres". Away to the right, by the perimeter wall stood a monument to those who died in the camp during the period 1945-50. For Sachsenhausen's infamy did not end with the war's end. The Soviets operated the site, under the name of ‘Special Camp No. 7’, and imprisoned former members of the Nazi Party, members of the SS, and the Wehrmacht (20), as well as prisoners of war released by the Western Allies, and others. Later on, inmates included people who were victims of denunciations, people who were arbitrarily arrested, growing numbers of Social Democrats, Christian Democrats and Liberals, opponents of the Soviet occupying power, and of the emerging East German Communist regime. It is estimated that 20,000 people died as a result of the conditions in the camp..

The sights that met the eye once inside the former cook-house were stinging. Further calculated horrors, to which the prisoners were subject, were held up for unwelcome yet necessary inspection.. There were artefacts from the wartime history of the camp – Zyklon B canisters (21). Human hair, gathered for use as war materiel. Fillings from teeth.

Striped uniforms, with their triangles of various colours (22). Plates and cutlery, stamped with prisoners’ numbers. The ‘height measurer’ from Station Z (23). This building was a place I wanted to run through quickly and escape from. Instead, I walked slowly and deliberately through it all, step by step, case by case, from one information board to the next. It was like the Stations of the Cross. Is it realistic to hope for a Resurrection? ‘Can there be lyric poetry after the Holocaust?’ someone asked.

Can there be?

I do not feel able to answer that question. But I can witness to this: the even in Sachsenhausen it proved impossible to crush the creativity and aspirations of the human spirit. Prisoners crafted necessarily small but beautiful things from the most basic materials and contraband. They made chess sets, inlaid cigarette cases, even a crude radio receiver. Furthermore, there is at least one recorded instance of resistance, carried out by the ‘Jewish 18’. In the autumn of 1942, in protest at their inhuman treatment, eighteen Jews staged a protest in the Appellplatz. Their act of resistance, though brutally suppressed, did result in some amelioration of camp conditions for the Jewish inmates. It did not save the 18 from Auschwitz-Birkenau.

When I had reached the end of the exhibition I paused for a long time by the visitors’ book because   had to frame carefully what I wanted to write there. What response can on make to such horrors?

"Whereof one cannot speak, thereof must one remain silent", noted Wittgenstein in his philosophical investigation of language. He must have been thinking of the situations that test the boundaries of human experience when he formulated that precept. And here was I in such an extremity. Just how do you write down a howl of anguish in the soul?

When I left the block I saw the great monument towering before me. I went up close and looked at its huge bronze figures and its concrete vastness. The scale was so big as to be scarcely human. In a way, this is perversely fitting since the dreadful events to which it testifies are equally vast in scope and inhuman in character. The sculpted group of figures at the base of the tower is entitled "Liberation". (A secular version of Resurrection?)

Feeling tiny, I turned and walked the short distance to the site of Station Z.

If Dante's Inferno is taken as a metaphor for Sachsenhausen, then Station Z may be thought of as the deepest and most damned region of that place. Perhaps it is fitting that this was the last place I visited and the place where I most nearly lost what measure of self-control was left to me.

The area is shielded from the elements by a canopy. The suffering and the loss are recalled in an affecting monument; bronze figures two adults with a dead child. More affecting still are the remains of the building that stood on this spot. It was built in l942 and was staffed by the SS. Here thousands upon thousands were gassed, or shot. Their bodies were profaned (treated as the source of raw materials for the war effort) then burned. Any remains were crammed into a subterranean bunker close by.

Given what preceded death, this can be no real surprise. Often, camp inmates were used as a slave work force for various SS-run enterprises. Prisoners from Sachsenhausen were compelled to build the canteen and recreational facilities, used by the Gestapo and SS, on the Prinz Albrecht Terrain (24). In the 'hospital' prisoners were used in experiments to test drugs, chemical weapons, and 'treatments'.

The foundations only remain.

No access is allowed: visitors look through a wire fence on to the features that rising up from the earth. Clearly discernible are the rooms that comprised the gas-chamber (disguised as a shower room) the ante-room where prisoners stripped before going in to the 'shower', and the ramp where the dead, having been thrown on to carts, were pulled the few yards to the crematorium.

          Also evident were rooms used for interrogations and a killing room made to appear like a clinic. Prisoners were stood against a height measurer attached to a wall. (A wooden finger that ran between two slats, marked off in centimetres). Unknown to the inmate, there was a hidden room behind the wall. Once the wooden finger was upon his or her head, someone in that room would shoot them in the back of the neck. Bodies were dragged across the floor and through a door that opened on to the crematorium.

           All so convenient, so duplicitous, shielded from the eyes of the other inmates.

But there could be no secrecy; the smoke, the smell, the miasma, the point of no return.

It must have been evident for miles.

The wind whipped up again. Steam rising from the boiler house in the old laundry block caught my eye and was transformed into the smoke from this charnel house. It was suddenly 1944 again. The camp was filled beyond capacity with the enemies of the Reich, 90% of them non-German. There were representative groups from virtually all of Nazi occupied Europe.

Russian prisoners were being systematically exterminated. Food was scarce, warm clothes scarcer still. Prisoners were beaten, worked to death, tortured, subject to crazed experiments.

The rooks sent up a cacophony of cries that brought me to myself again. Here I was, in 1996, looking& back at what had been. Statistics in Sachsenhausen indicate that there were more than 2000 concentration camps, sub-camps and detention centres in Germany alone.

I blinked back tears as I looked through the fence and reconstructed these terrors in my mind's eye. Walking round the site, moving clockwise past the sculpture in the near left hand corner, I caught site of a feature that I did not immediately recognise and so moved closer. Suddenly, even through eyes misted over, it became all-to-evident.

The few courses of bricks, the metal doors and the flues, resolved themselves into ovens. There were four in a row. I was absolutely stricken. My legs buckled and I let out an involuntary cry as I stumbled and reached out for the wire to support myself.

From then on, I was in a daze. I tottered across the frozen earth and picked my way gingerly down the trench that led down to the bunker where the bones had been dumped. Signs on the sides of the wooden ramparts indicated where prisoners of war had been shot. Others who met their death at this entrance to Hades included those sent to Sachsenhausen by Reichssicherheitshauptampt of the SS and the Gestapo (25).

Most sickening was the mechanised gibbet, worked by a winch and pulley, which allowed four people to be hung at one time, with the minimum expenditure of effort or manpower. It was what 1 had come to expect of the Nazis during the course of my visit. That I was no longer shocked by such atrocity was a shock in itself. I stared out of the pit at the vast grey sky, punctured only by the concrete finger of the monument. The sky was heavy under the weight of its own sorrow.

The closing scene from the film Judgment at Nurembergcame to mind. An American (small town) judge visits his leading Nazi counterpart whom he has just sentenced for war crimes. The German judge offers, as mitigating explanation, that he thought the Nazis could be controlled and used, that he never imagined it would come to this. His counterpart dismisses this very cogently and simply: "It came to this the first time you sentenced a person to death whom you knew to be innocent."

If Sachsenhausen indelibly imprinted one idea in me, it is this: that every step down the road which begins with disrespect for another person ends at KZ Sachsenhausen. All the sentences which begin, "I'm not …………… (insert your own favourite prejudice)…… but ......" conclude, ultimately, with the sharp report of a pistol shot, or the creak of rope, or the bolts sliding home on the door to the 'shower'.

Many of the entries in the visitors' book say, "This must not be allowed to happen again". My feeling is that it has never stopped happening. I believe that it may prove truly fatal to think of there and then and exclude here and now. I am convinced that the celebration of life and difference, the promotion of human flourishing, is dependent upon us being ever vigilant, and ever respectful of the dignity of others.

My visit to Berlin showed ample evidence that a significant number of people share this perspective. In the wake of the arson attack on the 'Jewish Barracks' at Sachsenhausen, there was a spontaneous gathering at the memorial to express concern and regret. Subsequently, a demonstration was held which focussed on the theme 'reflecting in Germany - together against xenophobia and anti-Semitism'. 7000 people attended.

When the Berlin city authorities were considering what uses the Prinz Albrecht Terrain might be put to, concerned citizens and organisations took an active interest and even direct action, including a symbolic 'dig' on May 5th., 1985. The discovery of the foundations of the buildings associated with the site, particularly the cells used by the Gestapo, and those parts built by the slave workers from Sachsenhausen, together with the insistent pressure brought to bear by those who saw the necessity of an explicit recognition of the role that the site played during the period of the Third Reich, resulted in the opening of an exhibition pavilion and associated memorials which currently comprise the site. The motto of the groups coordinating the May 5th dig seems very appropriate: "LET NO GRASS GROW OVER IT!"

The city is notable for the number of memorials and plaques that detail the location of many buildings, and chronicle many events, which some would rather forget. Berlin's insistence on facing up to the past and continuing to confront it in the present struck me very forcefully. Less formal but no less striking is the graffiti that can be seen in the city. Particularly in the workers residential areas, like Prenzlauer Berg, graffiti appears to be regarded as necessary.

Graffiti ist kein Verbrechen!

Lesben Pauer

Nazis vertreiben, Auslanderinnen bleiben  

This is a Nazi house

Much graffiti was focussed on current concerns – Kurdish refugees, the confrontation between Neo~Nazis and their Anarchist and Anti-Fascist opponents. Some was witty and creative but most was political in its inspiration. Amongst my favourites was the pointed reminder: "Wer bunker baut, wirft bomben" (27).

Comparing this situation to that nearer to home gives cause for unease. I do not feel that we recognise the dangers of forgetfulness, or apathy. Remember Pastor Niemöller's lament?

       Muted public concern permits our government to play fast and loose with human rights - witness the attempt to expel the Saudi dissident, Mohammed al Mas'ari, to protect lucrative arms deals with the Saudi government. Consider how the Criminal Justice Act is used against travelling people and against those who wish to undertake direct and legitimate protests.

Examine closely those churches who claim to esteem the unique dignity of the human person in absolute terms yet couch their teaching and pastoral documents in such a way that the human dignity of some is completely abrogated. This may be noted particularly when the churches address themselves to women’s issues, lesbian and gay issues, or issues of race and ethnic origin. There is no comfort to be had in looking at the wider situation - the former Yugoslavia, Iraq, Chechnya, or Rwanda.

I wish I were able to claim for lesbians and gay men some innate virtue that renders us impervious to the propaganda of racism and sexism, but I can't. Though we may identify more strongly than some with the women, children and men who were butchered there and then in places like Sachsenhausen, and though we might feel their suffering acutely and recoil in genuine horror, still that does not confer an automatic immunity to the hateful thinking patterns that produced the concentration camps.

If it is true that lesbians and gay men (among others) have a 'privileged' access to the experience of the Häftlinge, then we have a particular responsibility to be vigilant. The danger we face because of that propaganda and its attendant terrors may be more subtle and understated in Britain than it is overseas but it is no less invidious. We must be vigilant not simply to prevent the virulent return of those values that consigned us to the camps (the fear of being inmates in the here and now) but also to prevent us from being seduced by the simplistic slogans and false promises that would make us accomplices in their institution. Without such vigilance we face the awful an almost unimaginable possibility of being deceived into acting as the new guards.

The lesson that Pastor Niemöller learned (too late?) was that if it could be you, it could be me, and if it were me, then it could be any of us. For that reason the same thing is demanded of each of us:

Vigilance and respect; there and then, here and now

                                                                                              2001 © PD Entwistle

Notes

(1) S-Bahn Friedrichstrasse:

Berlin is served by a variety of train and tram routes. S-Bahn refers to the Schnellbahn - the overland train network, Friedrichstrasse to the station in the centre of the city.

(2) Siegessäule:

Victory Column, built to commemorate the military victory over the French  which led to the founding of the Second Reich in 1871.

(3) Nazi:

NSDAP  Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei. The National Socialist German Worker's Party. Elected to power in 1933, the party began to usurp the power of the state, supplanting the rule of law and government by the fiat of the party and the instruments of terror it wielded. Within a few months Hitler had stifled all opposition and abandoned any pretence of democratic rule.

(4) Anhalter Bahnhof:

This was one the chief railway termini for Berlin. Severely damaged in wartime bombing, there now remains only a portion of the facade.

(5) Reichsfűhrer SS:

Himmler’s official title, ‘Reich leader of the SS’. The SS (Schűtzstaffel) was the Protection Squad of the Nazi Party.

(6) Gestapo:

     Geheime Staatspolizei, the secret state police.

(7) KZ Sachsenhausen:

Konzentrationslager, concentration camp. In the earlier years of Nazi Germany  the camps were sometimes referred to as Schutzhäftlager, protective custody camps.

(8) Remembrance:

This had its origin in two distinct items which seemed to belong together as a 'token' that could be taken to Sachsenhausen and left at the memorial there. The remembrance consisted of 6 freedom ribbons, in the rainbow colours, attached to a pole. These ribbons had been part of a larger banner that had been carried on the Lesbian and Gay Pride March (London) in the summer of 1994. Together with the ribbons was a poem (see below).

                       The Colour of Forget-Me-Nots

                                         rose pink

                                     carnation pink

                                         perky pink

                                            panther

                                    champagne pink

                                         in the pink

                                        lily the pink

                                            lipstick

                                       blushing pink

                                     candy floss pink

                                         baby pink

                                          bootees

                                    marshmallow pink

                                     bubblegum pink

                                        fuchsia pink

                                           Triangle

(9) Gedenkstätte Sachsenhausen:

Many of the former camps have been designated as places of national remembrance and reflection. Sachsenhausen is the one closest to Berlin.

(10) Strasse der Nationen:

      Street of the nations

(11) GDP:

      German Democratic Republic more commonly referred to as East Germany .

       Now, of course, no longer in existence since the reunification of Germany.

(12) Arbeit Macht Frei:

       The motto which was found at the entrance to the concentration camps. Work shall  

        set you free.

(13) Appellplatz:

The place where inmates were assembled for roll-calls, punishments etc…

(14) Häftlinge:

Prisoners of the camp.

(15) Schuhprűfstrecke:

The shoe-testing ground.

(16) Neue Synagoge:

The 'New Synagogue’, completed in 1866. One of two dozen synagogues vandalised and set alight on Kristallnacht (the night of broken glass), November 9th., 1938. Following this pogrom 12,000 Berlin Jews were brought to Sachsenhausen.

(17) Martin Niemöller:

       Pastor Niemöller, U-Boat commander in WWI and a one-time supporter of the      

       Nazis, came to reject Fascism and was incarcerated in Sachsenhausen.

       He is, perhaps, best remembered for the following verse –

First they came for the Jews

And I did not speak out – because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for the Communists

And I did not speak out because I was not a Communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists

And I did not speak out  - because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for me

And there was no-one left to speak out for me.

(18) Erdbunker:

       Literally, ‘earth bunker’.

(19) Totgeshlagen…:

       A literal translation is difficult. The inscription may be read as –

                                           BEATEN TO DEATH

                                         SILENCED TO DEATH

                                                       THE

                                              HOMOSEXUAL

                                                   VICTIMS

                                                       OF

                                                   NAZISM

(20) Wehrmacht:

       The German Army.

(21) Zyklon B:

      The cyanide gas pellets used in the gas chambers.

(22) Triangles:

       Prisoners in the camps were made to wear triangles of different colours. The

       respective colours indicated the reason for their incarceration, eg. green = criminal,

       red = political offender, black = anti-social, pink = homosexual.

(23) Station Z:

       The mass extermination facility, built by the SS in 1942, and run by the

        Totenkopfstandarte SS  (Death’s Head battalions of the SS). Here, thousands

        upon thousands were systematically butchered.

(24) Prinz Albrecht Terrain:

       An area of central Berlin that housed the offices and HQ of the Nazi state terror

      apparatus eg. the Gestapo, the SS. Bounded by (what is now) the Wilhelmstrasse,

      Niederkirchnerstrasse, Stresemannstrasse, and Anhalterstrasse.

(25) Reishsicherheitshauptamt:

      An approximate translation would be Head Office of Reich Security.

(26) Graffiti:

Colloquial translations might be –

Graffiti is no crime!

Lesbian Power!

Deport the Nazis, let the immigrant women stay

(27) Wer Bunker…:

     Whoever builds bunkers, drops bombs

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

The Real You (DonnyxFem!Reader)

Requested by @ladolcedea​

@owba-chan​ @war-obsessed​  @inglourious-imagines​ @tealaquinn​ @struggling-bee​ @frozenhuntress67​ @kwyloz​ @sodapop182​

Let me know if you wanna be added to the IB or OUATIH taglists! :)

________________ You were working as a bartender in a pub in Belgium for as long as anyone knew. Meaning, you were 'trustworthy,' enough to hear things from collaborators, the resistance, any and everyone that walked into the pub on the corner of an occupied Belgian town.

Aside from the careless prattle and discrete whispers from drunken soldiers, and nameless fighters, you had a keen ear for languages that were not your own, under a name that wasn’t your own, tucked away in a town that was not your own.

In fact, most of the people that stopped by in that pub were far from home, and took a drink or two to get war off their minds.

But not off their tongues.

Now, there was a particular group of men with a penchant for whiskey and beer,  who happened to stumble into that pub one day, just days after parachuting into France. 

It had been a year or two since then, and by then, those boys knew what you knew: Hearsay mattered, and it mattered a lot.

So they often hung around your pub in between missions, getting clued in on a lead or two.

But after all that time drifting in and out, something else began to matter.

And to a young yank sergeant named Donny Donowitz, you started to matter.

He couldn't lie to you anymore.

There was something you needed to know.

He stood at the other side of the counter as you dispatched cheap cognac for a brash collaborator who was a regular, and rhye for a Canadian spy, hidden in the lion’s den, who you knew by name. You gave him a double, with a knowing, empathetic nod and smile. 

You glanced at a booth in the back of the bar, spotting nine others basterds just like him, wearing stolen uniforms,  and then Donny himself, at the counter, like always.

"Another round of shots, sergeant?" You whispered, knowing they had to keep quiet and stay low there. You couldn’t believe there was not a single basterd that didn’t speak French or Dutch.  Though, you winked, and smiled as you started to line a few glasses up.

"No, Veronique..."

You sighed, you forgot sometimes that they knew you by a name that wasnt yours.

Still it was the only way.

You grinned, "No?"

"Well...yeah, for Aldo, Hirschberg and Wicki. But, what I meant was...uh...There's somethin' I wanted to tell ya."

"Really?" You leaned over the counter, resting your elbows on the granite, and your chin in your hands as you looked up at him, as you mused, "Then tell me."

He nodded and said, "I'm a basterd."

"Darling! Everyone knows that!" You laughed as you poured three drinks.

"No. Not a bastard. One of the basterds." He spoke a little too brashly, too exasperated for someone trying to keep his cover, and his head from being blown off. 

It might have been the dumbest thing he’d done. So dumb, it caught you off guard. "Oh?"

"I'm the Bear Jew." He sort of puffed his chest out, with pride, tilted his head up a little, his jaw jutted out, as if he wasn't impressive enough.

But, you shrugged, trying to play it cool as a way to get him to quiet down, for his own good. "Oh yeah?" And poured some drinks out for other waiting patrons. You looked up at him with a gleeful wink, as you slipped into an almost playful whisper,  "And I'm a Soviet spy."

"No but-"

Then, two of the basterds pulled him back.

They'd heard him admit he was basterd, and the Bear Jew, all the way from where they were sitting..of course, he was generally  a loud guy, he was from Boston, for crying out loud, and a basterd no less.

But...they knew he'd say it again to get you to understand it wasn’t a joke. So they dragged him back, along with the drinks, and a quick, clunky “danke” to cover it up.

The night went on, and Donny kept glancing out to you, wherever you were in the bar. He wanted you to realize it wasn't a joke. Not this time.

See, from the first time he spoke to you, he made you laugh. 

He liked hearing you laugh, it made him feel as though there was no war. Nearly everything he said to you was a joke, which he was beginning to rethink since you now probalby thought this was also a joke.

A little later in the night, you got to their booth, just before closing time, with another round of shots, and you smirked as you whispered, "On the house, boys."

Aldo smiled, "Veronique, you really know how to take care of us, huh?" He smiled kindly, seeing the glances you and Donny exchanged, so he nudged Donny.

Donny hung back a little as the rest of the basterds and the drunken regulars shuffled out at closing.

"Veronique?"

"Yes?" You smiled a little, but kept wiping down the tables.

"Come on, V." He chuckled as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

You giggled and turned to face him, "Yes, darling?"

He sighed as he looked down. They were going back to France, and he wasn't sure if or when he'd come back. That was war, after all. 

You knew what he was goinf to say. You shook your head "No..." You looked away, smiling softly "Don't do this. Not now..."

He couldn’t go another day without saying it.  No matter what you did, you couldn't stop him from saying it. He smirked a little as the words sank into your heart. "I love you."

Part of you wanted, no...needed him to be joking about that. It would hurt a whole lot more, knowing he knew a whole lot less than he thought. To begin with, he didn't even know your real name... It hurt, because you thought, somehow he'd know. He'd find out, and he'd hate you, because he never knew the real you. So, it took you a moment longer to respond than it should have, but, that was one thing you couldn't lie about to him.

You said something that was, perhaps, too true, "I love you, too."

He looked away for a moment, then back at you. "About what I said earlier, I need you to know wh-"

You shook your head, "Say no more."

"But you don't understand! I-"

You laughed a little, and kissed him.

He was stunned for a moment, but he smiled, looking at you, as you reassured him, "I understand more than you think."

He was unsure what you meant, and he wouldn't ask.

He realized the less you knew about him, maybe the safer you'd be.

So he left, with the rest of the basterds, and marched back through enemy lines.

*************

The basterds were on a mission from the OSS.

"That...is the most security I've ever seen in my goddamn life!" Smitty marveled from the basterds’ perch, behind a grove, watching a mansion, surrounded by nazi guards.

Aldo smirked, "You boys thinkin' what I'm thinkin’?"

"Take em shitbags down." Hirschberg was practically bouncing from excitement. 

Wicki nodded, with a slight smirk, "Whatever it takes."

An allied spy ring was compromised, and all captured members were being held and interogated there by nazis. 

One by one, the basterds took down each nazi in their way, and made their way through the mansion, securing each missing agent.  Omar, Aldo, and Donny were outside of a room, where they could hear two muffled voices. They were speaking English. 

One was marked by a German accent, demanding answers from a beaten, bloodied spy, "WHERE IS HE?!"

Followed by a woman’s voice, shaking through a forced breath, with a distinct accent the basterds recognized. "Wh-who?" Still, it was tinted with a shade of a snicker.

The nazi raged, "THE BASTERD IN THE BAR, WEARING A STOLEN UNIFORM."

"Everyone in that bar is a bastard. Most of them have some uniform or other."

"THE ONE THAT YOU SPOKE WITH."

The basterds heard a blunt thud, followed by a cough, forcing through blood, "I told you. I'm a bar tender. I speak to everyone in that bar."

"You speak English well for a simple bar tender."

"You speak English well for a German."

Donny’s mouth dropped. Only one person could sass like that.

He shook his head in shock, mouthing "Nooo..." it just couldn’t be...

The nazi snickered, as he stepped torward you, "If you dont tell me the truth..." He seemed to hesitate for a moment. 

"Yes, Fritz?"

The nazi snapped, hearing you say his name, "You were my friend, Veronique." He grabbed your hair and pulled you to him.

Donny’s heart stopped. It was you.

The nazi swung, his fist bashing against your nose for the millionth time, "Or should I say, Y/n."

"Fritz, please, not in public." You looked up at him grinning through the blood pouring from your  nose, beginning to drip into your lips.

He shook his head, pulling a knife out, pulling your hair up, giving him a clear strike at your throat.

"Of course you know what this means, Y/n..."

"C’est la vie." You shrugged and grinned looking up at him.

"You're not even French! You’re not even Belgian! What....you,” He laughed in disbelief, through years of insult, and deception, “You, liebling, you played me for a fool. You've had a nice run. But....” He sighed, and tsked “You've been such a dear little thing to me... How about I give you one last chance."

"Is that right?" You gathered a breath or two, your eyes slowly moving up, through gushes of blood from your forehead, and pained, swelling from a black eye. 

"Tell me where the Bear Jew is, and I’ll let you live."

"No." You knew it was useless. Even if you did live, it would be underground, in a prison, or in a camp. You wouldn’t live for long.  Besides, you loved Donny too much to give him away. 

"Well then I'm afraid you’re useless to me, my dear Veronique.” He basically spat at the name. That name was a lie,  he’d whispered state secrets to it for years.   “Then, I'll have to-" His threat was interrupted by a thud, then a sharp, pained gargling, followed by another thud.

"Hm? I'm listening?" You cocked your head to the side, with a slight grin.

He dropped to his knees, his skull bashed open.

You saw Donny standing behind him, his baseball bat in his hand.

He was torn when he saw you covered in your own blood. He kneeled by you, pulling his jacket around you, "Hey, hey Ver..." He didnt know what to call you anymore, but he still knew his heart was still in your hands. "Come on doll, we got you."

He wrapped his jacket around you along with an arm to help you up, "I got you..."

He looked at you, your black, swollen eye, and he gently touched your chin up, trying to see what those animals did to you.

You flinched when he touched your bruised cheekbone, and he couldn’t help but mutter, "What did they do to you..."

You managed to smile. A real one this time as you held his hand,  "Nothing I didn't train for."

"Train for?" He furrowed his brow, "And...why’d that asshole keep callin’ you Y/N?"

"That’s my real name."

"Real name? At.. What are you? Why were they asking..why are you here?"

"I told you, back in the bar. I'm a soviet spy."

"I thought you were joking!"

"Why would I be joking?" You raised your eyebrow and winked with your good eye.

"That! That's why!"

Then you heard a third voice, "Yeah I don’t know kid. Joking’s more of Donny’s thing than yours."

You turned and realized all the basterds were there, with some of the other spies... Some of them didn’t make it...

Aldo sighed and grunted, "Omar, why don’t you keep your fuckin' mouth shut, let em talk." You smiled gratefully as Aldo ushered everyone out.

"W...well what happened at the bar? How-"

You shook your head, "That's not important."

You heard a voice feom the hall just outside, "DID THEY OVERHEAR DONNY TELLING YOU HE WAS THE BEAR JEW?!"

Followed by Aldo grumbling "ULMER."

Donny looked to you and you both laughed.

"So... You're really a Russkie huh?"

"Konechno."  ‘Right.’ You smirked and winked.

"...all this time...but..I... You knew everyrhing about the town, you spoke all the languages. You were...I thought...everyone thought you were fucking Belgian!"

You shrugged, "That’s the point."

He managed to mumble in awe, "Prove it." You rolled your eyes, holding your right hand up to your bloody nose. Completely disarming him, and knocking him to the ground with your left hand, in the blink of an eye. He looked up at you, his lips parted, a gasp of shock, admiration, and....well, two kinds of admiration. 

"Holy shit..." was all he could mumble, as he smirked, and held his hand up to his jaw, moving it side to side to counter a dull pain as a result of that stunt. He pulled himself up, and you smiled a little, your hands wrapping around his suspenders as you looked up at him, "I'm sorry, solnishko." He smirked a little, "That don't sound like Belgian..." You rolled your eyes, "Belgian's not a language, Donny." "I knew that...." He laughed as he wrapped his arms around you.

***** The basterds took you and the rest of the spies to an OSS hideout.

You were sitting on a cot, after a medic set your broken nose, and gave you a pill to get the dull pain to subside. You heard a not-so-subtle not, and looked up to see Donny. Your face flushed, a little shame beginning to rise up, still guilty, feeling as though you'd strung him along to fall in love with someone that didn't exist. "Y/n? What's wrong?" He may not be the brightest basterd...but part of you still wanted him to be your basterd. You sighed, "Nothing," He sat by you, "Hey, no lies." "You've had enough of those, I know. I'm sorry, solnishko." He tilted his head to the side, looked at you, and figured it out. He may not have known a lot, but he knew you. That was dead certain. "Hey... You had to do what you had to do. I get it." "But-" "There are things, Donny...Things you dont' know. It's just so..." "Well, I know your names not Veronique." He winked and chuckled, resting his hand over yours, "And I know you're Russian, but you speak enough French, and German and Dutch to fool anyone... I know you're a spy. One hell of a spy." He winked, and you smiled. "Donny, we can't." You shook your head, breaking your own heart for the millionth time, "You've fallen in love with someone that doesn't exist." "Really?" He held your face up, "Y/n, you seem to be right here. Ya look pretty real, too, ya know." He smiled and spoke softly, for omce, "Yeah, Veronique ain't your real name, but the real you ain't your name." No, he smiled, knowing the real you had that same smile. That smile, he saw between shots of whiskey, and the first crack of dawn for  the past few years. The real you has got the same laugh, and sneaking wink and damning sarcasm that he heard from you a few hours earlier. The real you had the same eyes of indifference as the spy looking up at death, as the  starlit bartender in that old, familiar pub.  He shook his head, "The real you's the same you that said, 'I love you,' aint it?" You raised your eyebrow, slightly smiling as you figured out what the hell he just said...  "Same me, solnishko." He smiled, not knowing what that meant. Not knowing that you called him your sun, because every time the double life in a run down pub, surrounded by enemies seemed the darkest, that little ray of sunshine  (not so secretly known as the Bear Jew) walked in, and lit up your world.

Suddenly, someone popped his head through the doorway, "Agent L/N...that is you, ain't it, kid?" You chuckled, "Yeah, that's me, lieutenant." Aldo smiled, and said, "Well, I done spoke to the general, 'n said, maybe we could use somebody on our side that speaks'um French, since we are in France." "Most of the time," Donny smiled, and Aldo sighed, "Yeah. So, he said, I had a point. Now, I saw some of your work in this here file..." He waved around a yellow folder, stamped with the word 'classified' in four languages. He was definitely going to be chewed out for that. "And goddamn, little lady, I think we could you some'n like this on the team...if that's alright with you." You looked at Donny, and that sliver between the hope of you saying yes, and the fear of you giving in to your guilt. "Yes sir, that's alright with me." Aldo smiled, but before he cold say anything, a higher ranking officer's voice rang down the hall, "LIEUTENANT RAINE!" He looked down at the file and muttered, "Damn..." And quickly, saluted the officer, and disappeared out the door. Donny turned to you, "So the real you's been a basterd all along, huh?" You rolled your eyes, and chuckled,  "I guess so." "I can't believe I didn't figure it out." "Well you're not the..." "What?" You cleared your thraot, "Never mind." He shrugged, and slipped his hands into yours, and said, "You were under my nose, all this time, huh doll?" He planted a soft kiss over the strip of gauze covering your nose, and you melted, as you looked up at him, his dark eyes. He meant it. He meant all of it. He didn't mind, he knew what war as, he knew you had to do what you had to do...and at that point, it had kept both you alive. There was nothing to forgive. There was nothing to be upset about. He knew you all along. He knew you loved him, and he knew he loved you, no matter what langauge was yours, what country you called home, or what you were called. It was you, and it always had been you, who he loved. It was you that gave the basterds a warm place to sit, and a good shot to take the edge off, when they needed it most. It was you who kept his name and his life, safely tucked behind your heart. Basterd or spy, Belgian or Russian, Veronique, or Y/n, it didn't matter. It was you who kept his heart, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

[dfroza]

John continues writing down his vision of the end

that ultimately leads to a new beginning of everything.

Today’s reading from the Scriptures in the New Testament is the 14th chapter in the book of Revelation:

[A Perfect Offering]

I saw—it took my breath away!—the Lamb standing on Mount Zion, 144,000 standing there with him, his Name and the Name of his Father inscribed on their foreheads. And I heard a voice out of Heaven, the sound like rapids, like the crash of thunder.

And then I heard music, harp music and the harpists singing a new song before the Throne and the Four Animals and the Elders. Only the 144,000 could learn to sing the song. They were bought from earth, lived without compromise, virgin-fresh before God. Wherever the Lamb went, they followed. They were bought from humankind, firstfruits of the harvest for God and the Lamb. Not a false word in their mouths. A perfect offering.

I saw another Angel soaring in Middle-Heaven. He had an Eternal Message to preach to all who were still on earth, every nation and tribe, every tongue and people. He preached in a loud voice, “Fear God and give him glory! His hour of judgment has come! Worship the Maker of Heaven and earth, salt sea and fresh water!”

A second Angel followed, calling out, “Ruined, ruined, Great Babylon ruined! She made all the nations drunk on the wine of her whoring!”

A third Angel followed, shouting, warning, “If anyone worships the Beast and its image and takes the mark on forehead or hand, that person will drink the wine of God’s wrath, prepared unmixed in his chalice of anger, and suffer torment from fire and brimstone in the presence of Holy Angels, in the presence of the Lamb. Smoke from their torment will rise age after age. No respite for those who worship the Beast and its image, who take the mark of its name.”

Meanwhile, the saints stand passionately patient, keeping God’s commands, staying faithful to Jesus.

I heard a voice out of Heaven, “Write this: Blessed are those who die in the Master from now on; how blessed to die that way!”

“Yes,” says the Spirit, “and blessed rest from their hard, hard work. None of what they’ve done is wasted; God blesses them for it all in the end.”

I looked up, I caught my breath!—a white cloud and one like the Son of Man sitting on it. He wore a gold crown and held a sharp sickle. Another Angel came out of the Temple, shouting to the Cloud-Enthroned, “Swing your sickle and reap. It’s harvest time. Earth’s harvest is ripe for reaping.” The Cloud-Enthroned gave a mighty sweep of his sickle, began harvesting earth in a stroke.

Then another Angel came out of the Temple in Heaven. He also had a sharp sickle. Yet another Angel, the one in charge of tending the fire, came from the Altar. He thundered to the Angel who held the sharp sickle, “Swing your sharp sickle. Harvest earth’s vineyard. The grapes are bursting with ripeness.”

The Angel swung his sickle, harvested earth’s vintage, and heaved it into the winepress, the giant winepress of God’s wrath. The winepress was outside the City. As the vintage was trodden, blood poured from the winepress as high as a horse’s bridle, a river of blood for two hundred miles.

The Book of Revelation, Chapter 14 (The Message)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 25th chapter of 2nd Chronicles that documents the life & times of King Amaziah:

[King Amaziah]

Amaziah was twenty-five years old when he became king and reigned twenty-nine years in Jerusalem. His mother was Jehoaddin from Jerusalem. He lived well before God, doing the right thing for the most part. But he wasn’t wholeheartedly devoted to God. When he had the affairs of the kingdom well in hand, he executed the palace guard who had assassinated his father the king. But he didn’t kill the sons of the assassins—he was mindful of what God commanded in The Revelation of Moses, that parents shouldn’t be executed for their children’s sins, nor children for their parents’. We each pay personally for our sins.

Amaziah organized Judah and sorted out Judah and Benjamin by families and by military units. Men twenty years and older had to register—they ended up with 300,000 judged capable of military service. In addition he hired 100,000 soldiers from Israel in the north at a cost of about four and a half tons of silver.

A holy man showed up and said, “No, O King—don’t let those northern Israelite soldiers into your army; God is not on their side, nor with any of the Ephraimites. Instead, you go by yourself and be strong. God and God only has the power to help or hurt your cause.”

But Amaziah said to the holy man, “But what about all this money—these tons of silver I have already paid out to hire these men?”

“God’s help is worth far more to you than that,” said the holy man.

So Amaziah fired the soldiers he had hired from the north and sent them home. They were very angry at losing their jobs and went home seething.

But Amaziah was optimistic. He led his troops into the Valley of Salt and killed ten thousand men of Seir. They took another ten thousand as prisoners, led them to the top of the Rock, and pushed them off a cliff. They all died in the fall, smashed on the rocks.

But the troops Amaziah had dismissed from his army, angry over their lost opportunity for plunder, rampaged through the towns of Judah all the way from Samaria to Beth Horon, killing three thousand people and taking much plunder.

On his return from the destruction of the Edomites, Amaziah brought back the gods of the men of Seir and installed them as his own gods, worshiping them and burning incense to them. That ignited God’s anger; a fiery blast of God’s wrath put into words by a God-sent prophet: “What is this? Why on earth would you pray to inferior gods who couldn’t so much as help their own people from you—gods weaker than Amaziah?”

Amaziah interrupted him, “Did I ask for your opinion? Shut up or get thrown out!”

The prophet quit speaking, but not before he got in one last word: “I have it on good authority: God has made up his mind to throw you out because of what you’ve done, and because you wouldn’t listen to me.”

* * *

One day Amaziah sent envoys to Jehoash son of Jehoahaz, the son of Jehu, king of Israel, challenging him to a fight: “Come and meet with me, I dare you. Let’s have it out face-to-face!”

Jehoash king of Israel replied to Amaziah king of Judah, “One day a thistle in Lebanon sent word to a cedar in Lebanon, ‘Give your daughter to my son in marriage.’ But then a wild animal of Lebanon passed by and stepped on the thistle, crushing it. Just because you’ve defeated Edom in battle, you now think you’re a big shot. Go ahead and be proud, but stay home. Why press your luck? Why bring defeat on yourself and Judah?”

Amaziah wouldn’t take no for an answer—God had already decided to let Jehoash defeat him because he had defected to the gods of Edom. So Jehoash king of Israel came on ahead and confronted Amaziah king of Judah. They met at Beth Shemesh, a town of Judah. Judah was thoroughly beaten by Israel—all the soldiers straggled home in defeat.

Jehoash king of Israel captured Amaziah king of Judah, the son of Joash, the son of Ahaziah, at Beth Shemesh. But Jehoash didn’t stop at that; he went on to attack Jerusalem. He demolished the Wall of Jerusalem all the way from the Ephraim Gate to the Corner Gate—a stretch of about six hundred feet. He looted the gold, silver, and furnishings—anything he found that was worth taking—from both the palace and The Temple of God—and, for good measure, he took hostages. Then he returned to Samaria.

Amaziah son of Joash king of Judah continued as king fifteen years after the death of Jehoash son of Jehoahaz king of Israel. The rest of the life and times of Amaziah from start to finish is written in the Royal Annals of the Kings of Judah and Israel.

During those last days, after Amaziah had defected from God, they cooked up a plot against Amaziah in Jerusalem, and he had to flee to Lachish. But they tracked him down in Lachish and killed him there. They brought him back on horseback and buried him in Jerusalem with his ancestors in the City of David.

The Book of 2nd Chronicles, Chapter 25 (The Message)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for monday, february 22 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible, along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

A post by John Parsons about the current Torah reading by Jews in the History of the Temple and the priests who serve:

Shavuah tov, friends. Last week’s Torah reading, parashat Terumah (תרומה), explained that God had asked for a “donation” (i.e., terumah) from the people for the sake of creating a portable, tent-like sanctuary called the Mishkan (משׁכּן), or “Tabernacle.” God then showed Moses the pattern (תּבנית) according to which the Mishkan and its furnishings were to be made. First the Ark of the Covenant (ארון בּרית־יהוה) and its golden cover (called the kapporet: כּפּרת) would occupy an inner chamber of the tent (אהל) called the Holy of Holies (קדשׁ הקדשׁים). Within an adjoining chamber of the tent called the Holy place (הקדשׁ), a sacred Table (שׁלחן) would hold twelve loaves of unleavened bread (לחם פּנים) and a seven-branched Menorah (מנורה) would illuminate the tent. God gave precise dimensions of the tent with the added instruction to separate the Holy of Holies by a hanging veil called the parochet (פּרכת). The entire tent was to have a wooden frame (מסגּרת) covered by colored fabric and the hide of rams and goats. Outside the tent an outer court (חצר) was defined that would include a copper sacrificial altar (מזבח נחושת) and water basin (כּיּור נחשׁת). The chatzer, or outer court, was to be enclosed by a fence made with fine linen on silver poles with hooks of silver and sockets of brass.

Our Torah reading for this week, parashat Tetzaveh (תצוה), continues the description of the Mishkan, though the focus shifts to those who will serve within it, namely the kohanim (כּהנים), or the priests of Israel. First Moses was instructed to tell the Israelites to bring pure olive oil (שׁמן זית זך) for the lamps of the Menorah, which the High Priest (הכּהן הגדול) was instructed to light every evening in the Holy Place. Next God commanded Moses to ordain Aaron and his sons as priests and described the sacred garments (בּגדי־קדשׁ) they would wear while they were serving in the Mishkan. [Hebrew for Christians]

2.21.21 • Facebook

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research

February 22, 2021

Creation in Praise of God

“For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.” (Isaiah 55:12)

Every now and again, the biblical writers were so lifted up in spirit as they contemplated the glory of God and His great works of creation and redemption that they could sense the very creation itself singing out in happy praises. “The heavens declare the glory of God” (Psalm 19:1) is one of the most familiar of these divinely inspired figures of speech, but there are many others. “Make a joyful noise unto the LORD, all the earth:...Let the sea roar, and the fulness thereof....Let the floods clap their hands: let the hills be joyful together before the LORD; for he cometh to judge the earth” (Psalm 98:4, 7-9).

Often these praises are in contemplation of God’s final return to complete and fulfill all His primeval purposes in creation, as in the above passage. This better time is also in view in our text, which looks forward to a time when “instead of the thorn shall come up the fir tree, and instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle tree: and it shall be to the LORD for a name, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off” (Isaiah 55:13). God has triumphed over evil!

And this all points ahead to the eventual removal of the great curse that now dominates creation because of man’s sin (Genesis 3:14-19). For the present, “the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now” (Romans 8:22). One day, however, the groaning creation “shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption” (Romans 8:21). Therefore, “let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad;... Let the field be joyful, and all that is therein: then shall all the trees of the wood rejoice” (Psalm 96:11-12). HMM

Today’s email message from The Passion Translation taken from the devotional ‘Whispers’

I Hear His Whisper . . .

I hold the plans for your life.

I have a life plan for you, a plan that was written into your life record before you were even born. A plan to bring you to my heart and into my fullness. I am the God who created you and formed you in your mother’s womb. My gaze was set upon you before your eyes were opened. My plan for you will succeed, and you will one day say, “Abba, you do all things well!”

My timing is perfect—I make all things beautiful in my time. The details of my plan unfold slowly, but my divine fingerprints rest upon them. I hold your life dear, so give it back to me and watch me work. Moments of mystery cannot hinder the hope that lives within you. When you don’t understand what I’m doing, turn your eyes upon me and know that I hold the plans of your life. Plans to flood you with endless delight and perfect praise. I love you, my child, and I will never allow you to be tested beyond the measure of my grace to keep you. Trust in my faithfulness. I will not disappoint you.

Whispers written by Brian Simmons and Gretchen Rodriguez

Ephesians 2:10

The Passion Translation

We have become his poetry, a re-created people that will fulfill the destiny he has given each of us, for we are joined to Jesus, the Anointed One. Even before we were born, God planned in advance our destiny and the good works we would do to fulfill it!

[4blood-orange]

Elias, my AI Dungeon run with my dad (so far)

The Ballad of Elias

You are Elias Birnbaum, a Warrior Jew, a Veteran of France. It is year 1111. You are somewhere in Eastern Europe. You are trying to get safely back home to your village "Lingnon" in the south of France. You awake at dawn in a cave. You are supprised that you are in a cave. You don't remember how or why you slept in the cave. You have no idea where you are and what time it is. The cave has a small opening which leads into another one. you stand up, put your sword belt on, and walk towards the small opening leading to another cave which is glowing. The light coming from this cave is brighter than the sun shining directly on you! you look inside the second cave with your special telescope and see, on the floor of the cave, a chest with yellow light pouring out from the seams.

You go back and forth for hours about whether or not you should go into the second cave.

The second cave is tempting, but going there may put you in danger. It may be a trap. You draw you whip and proceed into the cave.

You wake up outside the cave, hanging upside down from a branch by your ankle. Your skin is burnt and you are missing some fingernails.

The cave has been abandoned for years. you draw your sword and cut yourself free. you grab your healing balm and apply it to your wounds.

You walk around the cave taking note of the traps that have been laid out in this cave system. You see a large pitfall and several hanging webs. you turn around and leave the cave with your new knowledge about traps.

You see some footprints in the sand which lead up to a tree. You climb the tree and swing into a thick branch.

You jump down from the branch and walk towards a large opening. You walk into the opening and see, sitting in the corner, a young woman who seems to be crying. She says to you

"Hello, my name is Talia. What's yours?"

You say "My name is Elias, how can I help you?"

"Can you get me out of here?" she asks. You look at her and see that she is stuck in a cage which is hanging from a dead cave tree by a small piece of rope. you grab your sword and cut the rope holding the cage, and you carry her to safety.

You sit Talia down on a nearby rock and examine the cage. It's made of 3 wooden planks bolted together.

"Can you fix this?" she asks. say "no, let's get out of here" and start walking away.

Talia runs up to you, upset and angry.

"How can you just leave me here to die! I can't move from this spot!" she cries. you ask Talia if she's bound to the cave by a spell. Talia says no, that she fell in a forest outside of her village when she was little and got caught in the cave.

"It's been years, but I know the way out, follow me" you follow Talia as she guides you along the way out of the cave. You eventually see a small opening in the ground and you all walk out of the cave.

Talia asks "What's your plan now Elias?

> You say "I'm going to bring you with me on my quest to Lingnon, my home village, in the south of France. You will be treated as family there." Talia is overjoyed by this answer. You hug her and say "Thank you for rescuing me"

> You give her your spare dagger, and the two of you head west across the holy roman empire. Talia and you make it to the village of Selig. There are shops and taverns and board here. you walk into a cabinet shop and say to the owner "i am a very talented carpenter, do you have any work?" The owner says "No, but we can fix that" and pulls you into the backroom. He punches you in the face 3 times and breaks your jaw. Talia bursts into the backroom and knocks the shop owner out with one punch. You look at her lovingly. You both head to the tavern and drink for a few hours. You ask the barman "Is it true what they say about you?" "What's that?" he asks.

> You say "I hear you have a map of secret paths to France. I am on a quest to Lingnon in the south of France." "I do" You pay the bar a few gold coins and take the map from him. You study the map with Talia and notice that there is a shortcut that will save a lot of time getting to France, but it involves great danger. You show the map to Talia and she is impressed by the route. You both head to the tavern and drink for a few more hours. You purchase two horses in the morning and head out on the dangerous path to France. You know that the Count of Paris is hiring people for a dangerous mission in France. You need to get to the meeting before anyone else does. You ride for 3 days until you get to the gates of Paris. You discuss with Talia and decide against taking the Count of Paris' dangerous mission. You head into Paris looking for replenishment before the final and most dangerous leg of your journey. You enter the foreigner's shop and peruse the coffee beans. You are approached by an attractive, but intimidating man. He has a swarthy appearance, wears a cloak and a conical hat and smells of goats. He asks "Are you looking for work?"

> You say "I am a skilled carpenter and magician. What kind of work do you have in mind?" "I am looking for two people" he says mysteriously.

> You say "I have a party of two. But the job must be brief as we are on our own quest to another place." "The Count of Paris has a mission for you." You look at Talia and she looks at you. They say nothing more and lead you to a coach. You ask the attractive, but intimidating man what his name is. "Monsieur Jakob. I am the coach driver for Count Renaud of Paris."

You ask him what the pay is for this mission. "One thousand gold coins" he says. You look at Talia and she looks at you. You know that the money is good, but the job is dangerous. You ask Monsieur Jakob what the dangerous nature of the job is. "The Count's son is in prison. You will have to break him out." You think about this dangerous task. Talia is nervous. You ask Jakob where the prison is and what room The Count's son is in. "It's just down the street. The first floor room on the right." "Thank you, I can count on a thousand gold coins, correct?" "Yes, that will be fine." You and Talia get into the coach. On the coach ride, you ask Jakob for half up front and the rest when the job is done. "No. The Count will pay you when the job is done."

> You nod. "OK, when do we leave?" you say. "Right away. I have two horses ready to go." You nod and get in the coach with Talia. You sit next to her. you ask Jakob why the Count's son is in prison. "It is a long story. You need to free the boy." "How long has he been in there?" you ask. "Two years." you say that this mission will be easy because you are a magician and you will have your friend Talia to help you. You reassure Talia, who nods, then smiles, but is still clearly nervous. you tell her "Don't worry baby" and kiss her. She puts her arms around you. You get a knock on the door, and the driver says "Let's go." You, Talia, and Jakob walk up to the entrance of the prison. It is in the basement of a Charts Cathedral. You ask "Where are the cells?" "The cells are down another hallway, second on the right." you walk down the hallway and begin peaking into the cells. You find the boy in the first cell on the right. The cell smells like piss and rotten eggs. The boy looks terrible, like he has not eaten or had a bath in months. You try to talk to him, but he is too far gone. You attempt to open the cell door, but it is locked. You run back to the group and tell the others "I can't open the cell door." Jakob looks exasperated and says "We need to find another way in." Talia says "I've got an idea." She takes out her dagger and inserts it in the lock to pick it. The rest of you watch in awe. She pulls out the dagger and the door opens. You and Talia walk in the room, kneel down and try to talk to the boy. He is sleeping. You shake him and ask "Can you hear me?" The boy does not wake up. You notice that his lips are blue. You put your finger to his lips and try to wake him up. You put your healing balm on the boys heart, attempting to resuscitate him. The boy opens his eyes and looks at you. He is terrified, but you say "It's ok, it's ok." You ask him his name. The boy tells you it is "Alexander". you pick him and carry him out of the prison. You walk up the stairs and put him in Talia's waiting arms. Talia asks you what you are going to do with him. You reply "Take him back to his home, of course." You bring Alexander back to the coach and get in with the party. Jakob thanks you, saying he owes you a life. You nod in agreement and ask Jakob if he can pay you. Jakob looks shocked and asks you how much.

You say "The boy is an escaped prisoner, he cannot stay in this town. Give the boy to us and we will see him safely to the south of France in the town of Lingnon. We do also require the 1000 gold promised to us from before the mission began." Jakob immediately hands over the gold and says "Thank you, thank you. Go then, and good luck with the remaining missions." You reply "Thank you" You, Talia, and Alexander exit France heading south towards Lingnon. You enter the village of Lingnon. The children of the village come out to greet you, yelling "King Elias! Welcome back! Did you bring us presents?" You look at Alexander and laugh. "You're not a king, you're a prince." He says jokingly.

You begin handing out one gold coin to each child who greeted you.

You say to the children "Bring this home for your families. It will help keep them from starving." The children run off to tell their parents.

You, Talia and Alexander enter the tavern in the center of the village. You see your friend Daniel who nods in your direction. Daniel says "boy do i have a story to tell you!" You reply "And I to you"

Epilogue:

You, Talia, Alexander and Daniel head to the back room of the Tavern. There are five more men there, all ex-soldiers. You greet them all.

The first man says "I was a soldier for the King. I fought in the Hundred Year War." The second man says "I was a soldier for the Count. I fought in the Hundred Year War." The third man says "I was a soldier for the Pope. I fought in the Hundred Year War." The fourth man says "I was a soldier for the Empire. I fought in the Hundred Year War." The fifth man says "I was a soldier for no one. I took part in the War of the Flags." He points to his eyes "These here were burned during the war."

> You say "Men, you have been greatly brave and courageous. But after my journey, i have a new way of living in these lands. " You continue "These men must no longer worry about fighting in wars, or from what country they will come to attack them. The King should make a law that would prevent this." The men all agree and nod. you give each solider a gold coin and say, as you leave, "there is a new paradigm coming, a new paradigm of peace" You exit the tavern and head home with Daniel.

You and Daniel head to a secret room after a hospitable dinner.

You have a smoke and relax. "Tomorrow, we will begin our preparations for the reveal." You say to Daniel.

Soon you fall asleep as well. you dream: a strange dream of a man standing over you. You feel like this is your real destiny. The man in the dream leans down and whispers in your ear "You have been given a great power. You must use it wisely." Another character (B) comes out of the fog and wakes you up. You have been asleep for two hours. "It's time to wake up." He says. You and Daniel get up. You head to the secret room. The room is all black with candles on each of the 4 walls. There are 2 regal looking chairs in the middle of the room either side of a small table which has a mosaic pattern inlaid into the table. You and Daniel take a seat. A small man enters the room dressed in a black robe with a silver star on the front. The man takes out a teapot from under his robe and fills two cups for you and Daniel. He hands you a box with green tea. He bows, lingers on your eyes for a moment, then leaves the room. "That was Father Tylir. He is our tea supplier." Says Daniel. "He's also our go between with the king and church. You say "Daniel, there's something of the utmost importance that i must tell you and show you" Daniel's eyes widen. You continue "Father Tylir brought us this box of green tea. Now we will see the importance" You show Daniel the box. Daniel says "i have something to show you too Elias. Something I've been puzzling over since you left this village." Daniel takes out a black velvet bag with something inside. As he puts it on the table you can hear the weight of it. Your eyes open in wonder at the sight of the bag. You slowly and deliberately reach into your satchel and pull a black velvet back out as well. You place it on the table. As you put it on the table you can hear the weight of it. Daniel is taken aback. Daniel says "could it be? what i have been puzzling over all this time. Could it be that you had the missing piece?" Daniel says "Elias, A few days after you left there was a streak of light shone across the sky that only I saw. I followed where it seemed the light had landed. I found my way to it through the woods. As I approached it it continued to emanate a strange light. I reached my hand out to feel it, and it was not hot at all. My hand was drawn towards the center and I found the metallic puzzle piece that is in this black velvet bag." Elias replies "Daniel, a few days after I left there was a fissure that opened up in the road that swallowed my horse and I in an instant. We fell and fell for what seemed like hours. We landed in a field of poppies. The sun shone down from the fissure above. The sun formed a shaft of light upon a fresh mound of dirt in the poppy field. I reached into the mound and found a black velvet bag with a metallic puzzle piece. As soon as it was in my hand the poppies grew hundreds of feet tall. I had to leave my horse behind to scale the giant poppy's stalks." you ask daniel to give you his puzzle piece to put together. Daniel says "its simple Elias. You have it." You ask "who is the king of England?" Daniel answers "King Henry 111" you look in your hand and see that both pieces are already in your hands. You put them together and they transform into a telescope. you do an arcana check on the telescope to discover its magical powers, which are: The Telescope can reveal the future and the past. You look through the telescope to see what is beyond its lens. You can see into the past. You see your mysterious friend, Talia, in a large stone room with others. They appear to be holding her down on a red stone altar. We see Talia hypnotizing her captors to not sacrifice her. They then, confused, put her in the cage we found her in. The past disappears.

> You turn to Daniel and say "Go find Talia, we need to talk to her about what I've seen in this telescope that can see the future and past." Daniel says "very well." and leaves. You are alone. You drink some ale to relax. Before you know it, it is noon. You go wake up the sleepy Alexander to help you search for Daniel and Talia.

You pick up the bag sitting on the floor and put its contents into your satchel.You say to Alexander "Wake up, Alexander, we need to find Daniel and Talia"

> You as you shake Alexander awake, a spell tome falls from his arms to the floor. He sleepily picks it up. When he notices you staring at the tome, he hides it in his sheets. He says "good morning, Elias" You say "you know, I think one of these days I'm going to have to punish you." Alexander says "the feeling is not mutual Elias, but if you must, make my bed"

> You ask Alexander "I didn't know you studied any spells, how could you have kept a spell tome in prison? What does the spell tome do?" Alexander says "good question, Elias, I don't know, but you can see it for yourself" You look at the cover. It is entitled "True Name Polymorph Other."

> You stare at the cover, for some reason you think of Talia. You grab Alexander and head back to find Daniel and Talia. You quickly leave the tavern. You look around and then follow your nose to some sewer cover where you find Daniel and Talia having a conversation through the cover of a large garbage dumpster. You open the cover and yell "Hey guys, where the hell have you been! Daniel, I sent you out this morning to find Talia, It's noon!" Daniel looks at the dumpster and says "oh, you're here, good, we were just finishing up". You say to the party (Alexander, Daniel, Talia) "We will need to take up arms, the four of us. There's a force that has followed us from the capital. I believe they are hunting you down, Alexander. Alexander, what did you do to land yourself in prison? Why are King Of France's forces pursuing us?" Daniel and Talia get off the dumpster. Alexander tells us how he ended up in prison "in our haste to escape the capital, I believe I took the blame for something I didn't do. It sucks, but sadly prison is quite common among my class in Arxad.

> You say "What is the crime they falsely accused you of, alexander?" Alexander says "I was accused of using sorcery against the king. But I was just practicing my Poly-morph spell, I didn't cause any harm to anyone! I swear!"

Talia says "There's something I haven't told you...I'm a good friend of the king's. I mean, sort of." You interrupt her. "But if the king's your friend, then why the hell are his forces hunting us all down?! Talia says "he wanted more from me than I was willing to give him. He wasn't used to people telling him no." Talia "His ardor for me turned into a malignant thing. He turned to a madman in pursuit of me." She turns her forearm to reveal the mark of the King's magician's court. She is tracked the same as Alexander.

Talia laughs bitterly. You say to the party "Daniel and I have been apart a long time, but now that we have met again, we have discovered that we have a mutually connect object. This has given us a new magical tool." You hold up the telescope to the party. "This can see the past and the future." You hand the telescope to Talia. As she gazes at it, it begins to vibrate and change shape." The telescope begins to glow. In Talia's hands, it turns into a crystal brush. Talia is amazed and says "The object is reacting to and amplifying my powers." You say to the Talia "I saw your past in the telescope, why didn't you tell me you knew hypnosis?"

Talia says "I'm sorry, it didn't come up. What did you see?" Elias says "I saw your past, hypnotizing the men at the alter to avoid being sacrificed. Now the tool is in your hands, and the enemies approach. What will you do with this new power" You turn to Daniel and Alexander. "The two of you seem like the cautious type. What do you think about this new discovery?" Daniel says "I'm no magician, so I can't say".