Konrad Feldpetzer

August 8th, 1943

Parisian Underground, France

---

The first sign that something was off was the fact that I didn’t hear the snoring of several other soldiers. Disoriented, a snapped awake, acutely aware that my boots and helmet were still on. I glanced around the room; bare cement walls, a desk, a stained wooden floor.

The events of the past few hours all came rushing back to me. Being abducted by the French Resistance and being told of the horrors that the party I had been brainwashed to serve committed.

A busy day indeed.

I sat up on the barebones cot, trying to smooth out the numerous wrinkles on my uniform. I then noticed that I still had the Swastika embroidered on my tunic. I winced at the symbol, now aware of what it represented.

I heard the door creak open and turned to see Erhardt entering, holding a paper in his hands, “Relax, I’m just here to talk.”

I nodded, feeling a bit more refreshed than I had previously, but still half asleep. Erhardt took a seat at the desk, looking rather serious, “Your future, as of now, is undecided.”

“Pardon?” I mumbled, still somewhat groggy.

Erhardt turned the paper to me. I was surprised to see that it was actually a poster for my arrest, accusing me of murdering two German soldiers and that I had succumb to Jewish propaganda. Being completely honest, the small part of me that refused to let go of the Swastika felt insulted. Guess that goes to show that you can’t just abandon something that’s been baked into you so fast.

With that said, I ignored it.

“We can’t let you go for two reasons; one, you know our faces and two, you’re a wanted man,” the German man said.

“Even if I wasn’t wanted, I doubt I could go back into the military knowing what I do now… hell, I don’t think I could even go back to a civilian life,” a frown formed on my face. I only had two options now; I could either pray that the Nazi regime would be beaten soon or clear my name, though the latter seemed about as feasible as surviving an anti-tank shell to the face, and just as enjoyable.

“Which is why I have an offer,” Erhardt smiled kindly, putting a hand on my shoulder. I was abruptly overflowed with memories of my father; he had done similar gestures, back when he was more of a father than an officer.

“Yes?” I asked, managing to keep my voice from cracking too much.

“You fight with us.”

I blinked, “Fight with you?”

“Yes; as I see it, you don’t have much of a choice either way. You’re a wanted criminal of the Reich, so that means that, whether you want it or not, your military career is gone. So is your civilian life, for the most part,” Erhardt said, stacking the cards against me even thinking about declining.

If I’m being completely honest, the idea of fighting back was a bit appealing. I’d be atoning for wrongs in the past, helping support the atrocities that happened under Hitler’s reign. But a part inside of my held me back.

Because, the truth was, that I understood many of the soldiers. You were bombarded by Nazi propaganda for most of your life, taught to respect the Fatherland and the Führer, and, given enough time, that becomes the foundation of one’s very character.

Many of them didn’t believe in the Nazi cause, either. Most of the soldiers I had met were serving because they saw it as their duty, as protecting the Fatherland from any enemies that’d threaten it. Others simply did it because the Nazis had downplayed the horrible killings to such a degree they barely seemed bad. And, truth be told, they had brought stability to a Germany on the verge of collapsing, and they felt like returning the favor.

When people are starving, no one cares about morals.

I felt like I’d be killing men and boys who didn’t know better, who were tricked into waging a war that we had no business fighting.

“You seem hesitant,” I heard Erhardt say.

“Not because I’m sympathetic to the Nazis!” I quickly try to explain my thoughts, “It’s just that most of the soldiers aren’t actually Nazis. Most have no ideas the extent of the horrible atrocities and have been deceived into fighting this war.”

Erhardt gave me a look, “Alright, how about you only work on raiding teams. You break into an office, grab the supplies, neutralize enemies as you need to, and get out. Supplies are crucial to the Resistance cause.”

Despite my stomach twisting at the thought of killing a fellow German, I smiled a little bit, “Thanks, Erhardt… that sounds great.”

He nodded, starting to get up.

A question came to me, though, blurting out, “Wait, why are you so willing to trust me?”

Erhardt gave me a curious look, as if trying to determine if I was genuinely asking, before replying, “Because you remind me of myself when I was younger. You’re willing to stand up against atrocities; you already have. The issue was that you simply weren’t aware of the extent of them.”

I let that sit for a little bit.

The man continued, with a lighter tone, “Plus, I doubt a teenager could act good enough to convince us.”

“Hey, I have many talents!” I grinned, contrasting my mock-whiny voice.

“Like?” he challenged.

“Speaking French, for one,” it came out without my permission, but as far as I was concerned, I was ok with it. I had to be open with Erhardt, should I join the Resistance.

He gave me another curious glance, “I did think that there was something off about your reactions. Your eyes betray you, Konrad.”

With that, he left the room.

I stood to leave, but quickly realized my situation. Even though I didn’t serve the Nazis anymore, me working under them in the very, very recent past would put a major handicap on my ability to contribute.

I sat back down, trying to figure out a good to integrate myself into this new group that I found myself a part of. After a few minutes, I couldn’t think of anything. My mind was probably just too groggy to think, so I just went with my gut and exited the room to try to find Erhardt.

Maybe he’d have some tips.

Annette Boissieu

August 8th, 1943

Streets of Paris, France

---

I glanced at the unconscious man in the back of our car. He wore a grey coat with an Iron Cross hanging from his left shoulder. An officer’s cap sat on his head, tipped the side and bloodied. His arms were behind his back, hands bound together, alongside his ankles.

Waffen-SS Officer Dominik Klugmann, now in Resistance hands.

I grinned; another hit against the Nazis, another step towards freedom. It hadn’t even been that difficult, as the man had barely held his own in the short bare knuckle fight we had engaged in. A solid punch to his side was enough for the short man to crumple to the floor like paper.

The Resistance wanted him alive, but I wouldn’t have had any qualms filling his head with bullets. My slightly beat up MP40 sat in my lap, full magazine and ready to be used at a moment’s notice. It was hidden from view, though, as to not attract any attention.

Another man drove the car; a big, burly Irishman named Patrick.

“Still can’t believe Max botched the kidnapping,” he chuckled, turning an avenue in the non-descript grey passenger car.

“I mean, Dominik is pretty hard to miss,” I agreed.

The man, while short, looked fierce. Close-cropped, blonde hair sat atop a heavyset face. Three scars were sliced in the side of his face, no one knowing where he got them. His defining feature was the X-shaped scar on his forehead, usually covered by a field cap.

“It’s probably not so much that they missed him, though,” I continued, “But that he wasn’t there to begin with. Our sources were off.”

“Very off,” Patrick nodded, “But still. Mistook this short bastard for some other guy. Some soldier, I saw. Probably being interrogated, the poor lad.”

“Poor lad?” I wrinkled my nose, “The fucker’s Nazi scum. Probably dead, too.”

Patrick simply glanced at me before turning his eyes back to the road.

“See, that’s an issue,” the Irishman commented.

“What? Hating the scum who invaded my home and is currently slaughtering my people?” I hissed, unable to believe my ears.

“Yes and no,” Patrick put a finger to my lips before I could continue, “For now, it’s ok. But don’t let it consume you. You’re still just eighteen; you got a whole life ahead of ya, Nazis or no Nazis.

I settled back into my seat, calming down a bit and pushing the MP40 onto the floor once seeing the checkpoint up ahead.

Silently, Patrick rolled up to the soldier at the checkpoint, pulling out some ID. It was false for the both of us, but they were practically real in any other metric.

“Hallo, burger,” the soldier nodded, reading the ID, “Herr Scheiner und seine Tochter, Anja.”

Patrick nodded, then quirked his head, “Schnelle Frage; Warum gibt es hier einen Kontrollpunkt? Ist etwas falsch?”

“Nein, nein. Nur einige staatliche Angelegenheiten. Nichts, über das man sich sorgen sollte,” the soldier waved his hands dismissively, his tone pleasant. He handed us back our IDs, “Ich wünsche Ihnen einen schönen Tag. Heil Hitler.”

“Heil Hitler,” the Irishman affirmed, and started driving off, muttering after a bit, “God, I hate sayin’ that.”

I simply stayed silent during the entire exchange, not understanding a word of German. I knew Patrick knew a good chunk of the language, though he was more fluent in French.

Despite all his linguistics studies, English was his mother tongue and it showed often whilst speaking in French.

I prided myself on knowing a considerable portion of the English language. While I couldn’t speak with the fluidity of a native, I could near perfectly understand it and hold a decent conversation.

“As I was saying, once this entire thing blows over, you won’t have anything left to live for. You’ll probably want to start a family. Do you want your children growing up with a mother lacking basic maternal instincts and is stooped in a hate of an enemy that no longer exists?”

I stayed silent, not really knowing how to respond. The Irishman’s soothing voice served to help keep me calm when, otherwise, I would’ve been pretty irritated.

“Think of it this way,” he veered onto another street, and I heard a thump as our passenger slid into one of the walls, “You light a match to make fire. That’s its purpose. But once the fire is lit and it has no more fuel, the match is gone. It served its purpose, and it’s no longer useful.”

He stared at me, us now being on a long stretch of road with numerous other cars, “Do you want to be that burnt out match, your only purpose in life to fight Nazis? Simply a shell of yourself after we fight off these oppressors?”

“No,” I begrudgingly concede, leaning forward in the passenger seat, “And I won’t be.”

Silence for a few seconds.

“And you’re giving wisdom as if you’re an elder. You’re only forty-two,” I point out.

Patrick laughed, “Believe me, in this world, forty-two is pretty damn old. I’m thinking that after the war is done, I’ll probably use the money I saved up and buy some property in Switzerland. Always did like the idea of living among the Alps in some winter wonderland town.”

Another bout of silence, before I quietly admitted, “I don’t know what to do after this is all over.”

Patrick glanced at me, raising an eyebrow but nothing else.

“Mom and dad provided for me back in my old life, but after they were carried off…” I shuddered at the memory, trailing off. German soldiers had shown up at our door, telling us that we had to legal papers figured out. Hesitantly, mom and dad had complied, but it had all just been a ruse to get them onto one of the death trains.

I had only escaped by the skin of my teeth and wandered aimlessly for a few days before I near died of dehydration. Before I did, the Resistance found me. Specifically, an Englishman named James. He died soon after for completely unrelated reasons.

“We don’t know if they’re dead,” Patrick stated, his voice steady, “Some of the people carted off there are some of the toughest bastards this world’s ever seen. My mate Shaun got sent there and the fucker got shot in the face pointblank with a magnum and survived.”

“That’s new,” I said, trying to understand how that’s possible. Patrick had repeatedly mentioned Shaun before, but only in passing. Prior, the most info I had ever gotten out of him was that Shaun was the “best drinking buddy a man could hope to have”.

I stayed silent, and he continued.

“The point of this is to let you know that the most unassuming people can be some of the toughest,” Patrick said, “So you can’t be sure your parents are gone.”

It was a nice thought, but I knew that, realistically, the chances of them getting out were pretty slim. And even if they were a bit better than I imagined, the saying I had learned early on still applied. When you’re a pessimist, you’re either right or pleasantly surprised.

“Alright, we’re here,” the Irishman stated as we turned onto a secluded side street, next to a barber shop. We were hidden from the main street here, so there was little to no danger. I opened the door, grabbing my MP40, and stepped out onto the wet and dirty bricks.

I walked ahead into the barbershop, leaving Patrick to haul the captured man in. While I could throw a mean right hook, knocking a man out and carrying him were too very different things.

“Ah, my favorite customer!” the barber, a man named Pascal, shouted. The shop was empty today, as we’d been told it’d be.

Patrick walked in hauling the limp man, blindfolded and gagged.

“Bonjour, Pascal,” I greeted him, “Me and my friend here want the specialty cuts, if you will.”

“Oh, but of course, my lady,” Pascal nodded, leading us into the backrooms and to a bare wooden wall. Without a word, he undid some hidden locks on the floor, obscured by a cleverly placed piece ribbon, and pushed open a section to reveal a passageway. I grinned and nodded, with Patrick grunting a “Thank you” before stepping in.

I slipped in wordlessly after him, with the wooden wall behind me closing shut. Some old, barely functional lights lit the passageway.

Rubbish on where the floor touched the peeling wall, and if the word ‘forgotten’ had a scent, it’d be the one in this hallway. I had gone through this specific passageway a few times now and had become accustomed to it by now, though.

We quickly found our way into the mixture of sewers, underground tunnels, and catacombs that was the current Resistance base in this part of the city.

Never, though, in a million years, did I expect to see a Nazi in the middle of everyone chatting with Erhardt in the open.