Konrad Feldpetzer

September 14th, 1943

Parisian Underground, France

---

It had been around a month since I first joined, and not much had happened in that time. Some of the rebels had started to accept me as part of the group, while others sometimes outright refused to interact with me.

I had changed my outfit in an attempt to gain a bit of acceptance. Now, instead of the standard grey German soldier outfit with the embroidered eagle and swastika, I wore a cream-colored shirt paired with a grey vest.

I still wanted to retain some connection my home, whether it be poisoned by evil or not, and had roughly embroidered an Iron Cross onto the left breast pocket of my vest with the help of Erhardt. It was a new fact about him, and I was slightly surprised he knew how to sew.

This was also paired with my old stahlhelm helmet, which I had decided to repaint the Imperial German tricolor, with the white stripe running down the middle and the black and red running on the sides. The Imperial Eagle was stamped on the top.

I let my hair grow out, too, and thought it was pretty short, it was several inches over German military regulations. If I had been in the military anymore, that is.

I had severely underestimated how much time it would take to accustom to my new living situation.

Back in my hometown, we’d all been fair-skinned Europeans, with the majority having blonde hair and blue eyes. All with firm Nazi beliefs. The Resistance was nothing like that. There were communists, negros, Arabs, anarchists, Jews, all in all an absolute kaleidoscope of cultures, identities, and beliefs.

All rubbing shoulders with each other, too, unified by the express purpose of destroying the Nazi regime.

Logically, I knew that there wasn’t much wrong with this, but my gut instinct, still poisoned with Nazi teachings, still told me that something was wrong whenever I saw a Jew freely joking around.

I hated how deep-rooted the indoctrination had been, but it makes sense that it’d take time to be weeded out. When you’ve been told a lie your entire life, it becomes a reality, and it becomes the foundation on which you build your very being on.

When it’s revealed as a lie, it makes the entire structure collapse.

During this time, my relationship with Annette stayed much the same; cold and distant, with her refusing to call me by name but simply “German”. It wasn’t much of an issue, to my surprise, as she spent astonishingly little time in the room.

She spent most of her time topside, either assassinating Nazi officials or simply scouting.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous. While I definitely wasn’t excited to kill my own fellow Germans, people who I shared my blood and nation with, I had decided that the danger that the Nazi regime posed was more important than the lives of the men serving it, even if by the slimmest of margins.

Despite this, I’d probably try to spare everyone I could.

“Konrad?” I heard Erhardt’s voice at the door, along with a knock.

“Come in,” I said, turning on the old wheeled chair. I had cleaned and ‘renovated’ my side of the room, adding in a desk, chair, and lamp that had been laying around.

The door opened, revealing Erhardt and Annette.

The older man looked worse for wear than when I had last seen him a week ago. His shirt was unbuttoned and the sleeves were messily cuffed, with his suspenders loose at his sides. Dark circles were starkly contrasting against his somewhat pale skin, and his hair, before neatly combed, looked like he had just fallen out of the sky.

He hadn’t shaven in a while either, I could tell, as he was sporting a light beard.

Annette looked no different than she usually did, with her long brunette hair capped with a blue beret sporting the French tricolor. Her attire was a button-up shirt and skirt, covered by a waist-long coat.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, concerned. I don’t know why, since I had made sure to be polite whenever I interacted with a rebel, but I was always nervous of messing up somehow and being kicked out.

“No,” Erhardt let an exhausted smile form on his face, “Quite the opposite.”

I quirked an eyebrow, prompting him to respond. The scowl on Annette’s face didn’t go unnoticed.

“I’ve finally managed to get Achilles to considering putting you in a raiding party, but he wants to see how good you are with a gun before he decides on anything,” he told me.

“Achilles is the short man with tall hair, right?” I asked. I had caught glimpses of Achilles, but he usually stayed in the training area of the base, one which I had been barred entrance to due the firearms in there.

Just a reminder that they still didn’t trust me.

I internally smiled though. I was going to get put in a raiding party, and that was a massive step towards proving my worth.

Achilles himself was an odd man, born in the south of France with tan skin and black hair styled with pompadour, he looked something like a living cartoon. But from the short snippets of seeing him interact with others, he was intense.

“Well,” I started, standing up and grabbing my painted stahlhelm, “I was proficient enough to pass basic training, so this should be easy.”

“I’m sure you’ll do this, no issue,” affirmed Erhardt with his now trademarked tired smile.

I didn’t mention that it was with a Kar98k bolt-action rifle and not the SMGs that the Resistance used. The only firearms that I had ever touched in my life were bolt-action rifles and pistols, but SMGs couldn’t be that different.

He turned around and started leading me to the testing area, while Annette walked by me and into the room, closing the door behind her.

“So, you still getting beat down by Annette?” Erhardt asked, a playful edge to his voice.

I shrugged, “She doesn’t seem to be a fan of Germans.”

“She isn’t,” he affirmed, “We had a German enter when France first fell, and Annette treated him the same.”

I perked up. If there was another German here, maybe I could make some connections? It’d be nice to be able to talk peer-to-peer with another German, “Who were they?”

He hummed slightly as we walked, “A strapping young man, around your age. Fabian Heinsohn. He’s not around anymore, though.”

“What happened?” I asked, though I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. I could guess what happened.

Erhardt’s face abruptly acquired a darkness I hadn’t seen before, “He died. At least we think. Our prior base was raided by Gestapo agents and we lost a lot of people in that raid. Some were killed, others were knocked down. We didn’t find Fabian’s body, which was the case with some Resistance members.”

I shuttered. Knowing what the Gestapo did to dissidents, those who died in the fight were the lucky ones. I doubted that Fabian, if left alive, would’ve stayed like that for long. But who knows? Maybe he somehow managed to survive and escape. Doubt it, though.

We reached a door in one of the hallways, and Erhardt’s expression returned to his resting one. He knocked on the door, rapping his knuckles against it thrice, “Achilles, open the door.”

“Just a second!” a voice shouted out from behind, before crashing and swearing could be heard.

After a little bit, the door opened to reveal the short form of Achilles. His eyes were glued to me, looking curious but also hesitant.

“I assume you’ve met Konrad before?” Erhardt asked in a manner that I could immediately recognize as diplomatic. He was trying to minimize the chances of the conflict.

“No, I haven’t,” the shorter man shook his head, turning his back and walking into the room, Erhardt following. Not really knowing what to do, I stepped in after him.

The room was a mixture between a laboratory and small shooting range, with several gun racks on the wall next to the range. Most of the weapons were either salvaged German ones or Allied in nature. I made out a few MP40s, at least three Star pistols, a number of M1935s, several MAB38s, and even two FG42s. There were a number of other firearms I didn’t recognize, too. Bolt-actions, shotguns, pistols, and tons of others.

It was an impressive display, all in all. I let out a low whistle to make it known. Erhardt was discussing something with Achilles, so I was free to appreciate it.

“I’d say it’s rather awe-inspiring, wouldn’t you say?” a British-accented voice spoke from my side. I glanced in the direction and saw a man wearing a torn overcoat, and grease-stained gloves. Goggles sat on top of his forehead and frazzled but close-cut hair adorned his head.

“Definitely,” I nodded, turning back to the display, “All of these are ready for use?”

“Most of them. Some of these are broken, but we’re working on fixing them,” the man explained.

“Well, I’m here to show that I can use a gun. I can use any of these?” I smiled slightly. As a standard infantry, you either got a Kar98k or MG42. Most other weapons were reserved for more specialized roles.

“Obviously not the ones that are broken,” the man chuckled, “But I’d assume so. They’re not here to look pretty, that’s for sure.”

“Thanks…”

“Reuben.”

“Thanks, Reuben,” I walked towards the display, my eyes scanning all the weapons.

The choices were overwhelming. After a minute, a weapon caught my attention. It looked like an odd cross between an MP40 and several other rifles.

“What’s that?” I gestured to it.

Reuben had since walked over to one of the tables, and came over, “Oh, that? Custom SMG I made. I call it the Reuben 43 Automatic, or just the R43A.”

I glanced at the man in surprise, “You make your own custom weapons?”

The gunsmith simply shrugged, “You need to when you’re part of the resistance. A lot of times, captured weapons are broken or sometimes flat out shattered. You gotta make do in that case. Most of the times, I have spare parts that match the original thing pretty well, but when we get a mishmash of parts, you have to get creative.”

“Amazing,” I mumbled.

“Definitely. It’s pretty fun naming it, too. You get to leave your own mark on your creation,” with that, the British man walked back over to his station and continued building, leaving me to choose. After a while, I chose a Walther P38. It was the pistol I was most comfortable with.

Having chosen my weapons, I walked over to Erhardt with the rifle strapped over my back, “So what am I supposed to do?”

The man turned to me, his expression turning to one of surprise at the sight of my weapons.

“I see you’ve gone the Jerry route,” Achilles commented.

Erhardt seemed to recover from his surprise, “You’re supposed to shoot the targets on the range.”

I nodded, turning to the range before realizing I didn’t have any ammo. I had been so caught up with the display that I hadn’t thought to search for ammunition.

“Uh… do you either of you have any ammo?” I asked sheepishly, already feeling slightly embarrassed, my face turning red. Wordlessly, Achilles gestured to a corner where several crates sat.

If my face had been red before, it must’ve been crimson now.

I silently walked over and saw that the caliber was written on the outside. The pistol should’ve used the standard German pistol caliber. I quickly found a small crate with the label ‘9x19 PARABELLUM’ and grabbed several rounds.

“Are you ready to start?” Erhardt asked me, me now standing in front of the range with the pistol in my hands.

“I hope so,” I replied, my hands a little sweaty from nervousness. Despite serving during a war, I had never actually fired a gun during said war. I had been a decent shot as a kid, back in Stralburg, but that had been several years ago.

“Alright, just fire whenever you’re ready,” the German man told me, his voice steady and reassuring. I could feel Achilles’ glare, despite me not even seeing him.

I aimed down the sights, aligning the front sight with the target. I slowly exhaled, trying to calm myself. My heart had already started to beat faster and faster.

I then squeezed the trigger.

With a thunderous crack, the bullet sped out of muzzle. I felt the pistol slam back against my hands, and I instinctively tensed my muscles in an attempt to control it. I had closed my eyes at some point, but only for a second. But when I opened them, the bullet had already hit.

“Good shot,” Erhardt nodded, and I could hear the slight smile in his voice.

“Where’d it land? I closed my eyes,” I admitted.

“Within a few centimeters of the center.”

I grinned, feeling a surge of pride envelop my chest. I could still shoot straight.

The rest of it had become a blur, as I had developed tunnel vision and focused purely on hitting the target. From my limited recollection, I got several hits. I could even fire the pistol while running with some semblance of accuracy.

Overall, I hadn’t impressed Achilles, but I was good enough that he’d consider putting me on the raiding party.

I, for one, had never felt more alive.

Annette Boissieu

September 15th, 1943

Parisian Underground, France

---

Despite having shared a room with him for more than a month now, my hatred for the German had barely calmed. It didn’t help that he was everything the Nazis idealized.

It could’ve been easier if he had been brown-haired and eyed or, hell, even just a bit tanner, but no. He had to be pale as hell, and as blonde as wheat. And, most importantly, hailing from Nazi Germany.

And bunking with the ‘pinnacle of human evolution’ that was worshipped by your mortal enemy, who killed your parents and forced your entire country under the boot of an appalling ideology, was not a recipe for friendship.

Especially when they still wore the uniform of the enemy.

Thankfully, he had done away with the god-awful swastika-bearing uniform. While his apparel was still patriotic, I could at least find some solace in the fact that it had been a better Germany. One where Hitler and his horrible wastes of humanity known as advisors never could’ve come to power, one where a king ruled.

Sure, it still annoyed me that anything even related to Germany was shown, but it was at the very least a past Germany where no such atrocities against humanity were committed as there was now.

And a small part of me understood the need for a connection and patriotism. I was fighting for my very life and home. I had everything to lose and everything to gain. And I was still in the city I was born in, simply under different circumstances.

The German didn’t have any of that.

I let out a low growl, from somewhere deep in my throat. The mere thought of sympathizing with him sent a wave of anger through my body. I may sympathize on a rational level, but it had yet to sunk in to an emotional level.

Thankfully, I had been able to distract myself for the most part by just doing what I had done for the past three years; fight the Nazis in any way I could. Raiding parties, helping maintain the base, and I even took on extra work so I wouldn’t have to interact with him.

But now that’d be limited, too. Yesterday, he had been good enough with a rifle for Achilles to let him on one of the parties. But, just my luck, he got put on mine for the day after.

As if God wanted to punish me, the German walked in through the door. I barely glanced at him, simply staying in my messy cot and keeping my eyes on the ceiling. Maybe if I just focused on the cracked concrete, I could ignore his presence.

“Annette?”

There went any hope of peace.

“Yes?” I prompted, my voice curt.

“I need some help.”

I stayed silent but quirked an eyebrow, attempting to control the deep annoyance that was starting to boil.

“With my French. Now that I’m going to have to be using it near constantly, I might as well learn from a native speaker.”

That seemed to help soothe some of the annoyance. I didn’t know if he genuinely needed help (since his French was very good, I had to admit) or was simply trying to get me to associate him less with his home country.

Despite myself, I appreciated the small gesture. It seemed he was trying to meet me halfway, purposefully or not. Plus, I was an adult. I could handle my emotions.

I sighed, sitting up on my cot, the annoyance still present but tempered for now, “Alright, what do you want to know?”