Konrad Feldpetzer

September 21st, 1943

The Parisian Underground, France

---

I groaned, cracking my eyes open. I could only see darkness.

For a second, my heart stopped, confused where I was. I blindly felt around, my hands resting on my hardened cot.

I sighed in relief, realizing that I was in my room in the partisan base. I flopped my head back down onto the pitiful excuse I had for a pillow, listening to my heart descending from a thundering hammer to a steady rhythm.

I felt better than I had the previous two days. After we had reached the base, I had made good on my offer. Annette and I had promptly passed out on our cots after quickly checking with Bastien and Maxime, sleeping through most of the 20th.

If I was being bluntly honest, I felt good.

I felt that a massive weight had been lifted off my shoulders, as if I’d passed through a bottleneck. Perhaps it was the fact that I now wasn’t just a soldier opposed to the Nazis; I had physically fought back. Leading, it turned bittersweet.

I fought Nazism, but at the cost of the lives of men and boys.

Cringing, I turned over, not wanting to fall into a trap of self-pity and dubiousness again. I wanted to rest. I listened to the darkness. It was silent.

Annette had probably woken up and gone off somewhere when she should’ve been resting. I laid in silence for a while, trying to motivate myself to get out of my bed. It was rather ineffective until my stomach grumbled and I realized how hungry I was.

I slowly slid out of my cot, stepping into my jackboots and putting on my vest.

Prior to the war, I’d sleep in my boxers (rather unorthodox, for sure) but considering the circumstances, I’d abandoned that habit since becoming a rebel, opting to sleep in my casualwear. Didn’t help my appearance in the slightest, though at least I did get that “scrappy rebel” air, what with my wrinkled outfit and disheveled general appearance.

Palming my eyes, I stepped out of my room and into the hallway.

It felt weird, honestly. When I had first come here, everything felt so alien and new. The jagged hallways, how part of the concrete walls gave way to ancient bricks and piping, and the makeshift feel that the base emanates.

Now, it was both home and the outside. Familiar and unfamiliar. I felt a mixture of emotions, staring at the makeshift halls that had been fashioned out of the Parisian underground. Fear, comfort, dread… an erratic cocktail, for sure.

I was safe for the most part, though, and that was what mattered most.

Slowly waking up, I walked over to the cantina. It was a relatively big area, with a few make-shift tables lined up, made of planks, tires, and whatever else they could scavenge. Lots of items were placed up against the walls, though, such as barrels and crates so some people opted to sit there instead.

An area roughly carved into the wall served as the kitchen, with ovens that looked like they were one bang away from falling apart.

They made the food and put it on stolen trays, which were then placed on a table for people to come and grab.

Judging from the smell, they were serving potatoes and canned meat. How did I know it was canned? It was a resistance movement; everything was canned.

Wordlessly, I walked to the kitchen and grabbed a tray. I glanced around the cafeteria, hoping to get a seat at one of the tables.

Most spots had been taken apart from a select few, so I quickly made my way to the closest one and sat down. I absently ate for a few minutes, simply on autopilot as I ate.

“Comrade!” a loud voice announced beside me. Startled, I snapped to my right, seeing an odd-looking man. A close-trimmed goatee sat around his mouth, a brown color to match his wild hair. Beady brown eyes stared back at my blue ones.

“Eh, hello?” I did my best to choke out a greeting, not liking the aura that the man was giving me.

“You’re German! Like me!” the man grinned, talking in my native language, “Not many Germans here! Mostly just me and Niko.”

“Uh, yes,” I answered hesitantly; maybe having the imperial flag colors emblazoned on my helmet wasn’t such a good idea, “I’m German.”

“I’m Wolfram! Better known as the Red Hammer!” he stuck out a gloved hand.

I slowly took it, curious as to his nickname. I had a sneaking suspicion that I wouldn’t like the man.

“How’d you get it?” I asked, as politely as I could.

“I got it in a barfight back in ‘34. I was preaching the works of comrades Marx & Engel when someone reported me. A soldier came in and started a fuss, so I quickly got out. I was declared a criminal a few days later and went on the run since that seemed the safest route,” Wolfram seemed too engrossed in his retelling to notice the disdain that had grown on my face.

Great, a communist. It was impossible to ignore the primal hatred in my chest for this man. I was on the verge of popping off. I opened my mouth to speak, but my mind caught up with me.

Why did I hate communism?

It was a serious question that I didn’t have much of an answer to. Or one I liked, rather. Nazi propaganda again. You might as well have been doomed if you announced yourself a communist in Nazi Germany, a deep-running hatred for socialists embedded in the country because of the Führer.

I mulled it over. Was communism really that bad? The irrational hatred in my gut told me that yes, it was one of the worst scourges on the face of the Earth. But I tried to ignore it and focus on my mind.

Well, a reason that popped up was the political cleansing that came with it. The USSR purged its ranks years ago and, while they tried to keep it under wraps, some of it eventually leaked out. And Hitler, probably ecstatic to have any sort of dirt on the Soviets, quickly implemented it into the schooling system to further facilitate hatred of socialism.

Or had they completely manufactured it?

Since I’d left, I had learned that a lot of the things I had taken as fact in the Fatherland was little more than baseless hearsay. Race science was widely preached, but I hadn’t seen any sort of evidence to back it up outside of the biased borders of Germany.

I’d learned of the true nature of the death camps, of the scope of the scourge that was racially-charged fascism.

So it’s possible that everything I knew of the Soviets and communists in general was baseless. With this in mind, I shoved down the anger rising in my chest and tried to approach the situation without my hatred.

I snapped out of my stupor as he asked for my name.

“Oh, I’m Konrad,” I decided a small jest could help me ignore my rage, “Better known as the Imperial Escapist.”

Wolfram placed a thoughtful finger on his chin as he took a bite of his potatoes, “Not going to lie, that’s a pretty good nickname.”

“Thanks,” I politely chuckled, “I just came up with it.”

“Any reasons why?”

“I escaped Germany by abandoning the military,” it slipped before I could even think about it. Thankfully, Wolfram seemed more ecstatic than repulsed.

“So you learned from your mistakes in the past,” he smiled, “And you are trying to fix them in the present.”

I merely nodded.

“Ah, Niko!” Wolfram’s voice announced as he stared across the table. I followed his gaze to see another man, maybe in his early twenties, sit down. He had a close-trimmed beard and slicked back, black hair.

“Hello, Wolfram,” Niko replied in German, seeming affable enough.

“Meet one of our fellow Germans, Konrad!” Wolfram melodramatically gestured at me.

“Uh, hi?” I still had no idea how to approach the situation.

“Hello. Good to see another German. And one that’s not a raving lunatic with a Marx fetish,” his tone implied it as a jest, but I could hear a very real distrust of Wolfram in there.

Wolfram ignored the comment, “Niko here was a mechanic in Vienna but escaped here after the Anschluss.”

I sighed, relieved to know that my hatred of communism wasn’t simply an after-effect of my propaganda-fueled upbringing.

“Yes,” Niko took a bite of meat, “Being a Jew’s even more of a death sentence now.”

I realized that my food had been left untouched after the conversation had initiated and I’d forgotten how hungry I was, so I resumed eating.

Wolfram looked annoyed for once, “When are you going to explain to me why you have such an irrational hatred of Marx?”

Niko grunted in response, “Already told you a million times. Had a girl from the Soviets, and from her accounts, it’s a horrible place to live. Secret police, dissidents imprisoned and killed, no food. The Soviets say they’re the true followers of Marx. If that’s true, I don’t want to go anywhere near that dirty man’s writings.”

A shiver made its way up my spine; most of that sounded exactly like what had been happening in Germany.

The socialist looked unimpressed, “Yes, but you’ve never told me a good reason.”

The man ignored it, turning to me, “What’s your story? Please don’t tell me you’re some red-crazed lunatic.”

I shook my head, “Abandoned the Wehrmacht a month ago when I learned of all the shady behind-the-scenes.”

“An army man, then,” Niko nodded in respect, “Glad to see that not everyone has been brainwashed by that trash-heap of a fool, too.”

“I wouldn’t say army man, but yes, I was in the military,” I shrugged, biting back a wince. If there was anything I didn’t want to become, it was an army man. I turned to Wolfram, “So how’d you join the resistance?”

The man shrugged, “Ran into a nice pair of partisans while on the run in Bavaria after an impassioned speech at a cabaret. I hid out with them for a year in Augsburg and then we all escaped here to Paris in ’42, I think. Been here ever since.”

I nodded, turning to my food. I ate in silence, simply listening to the two talk. Well, it was more Wolfram talking with Niko and the latter giving curt responses.

At least the hatred of communism wasn’t exclusive to Nazis.

Annette Boissieu

---

“So, I saw you get paired with the German,” Patrick’s face was split by a shit-eating grin, “how’d it go?”

I simply shrugged, not wanting to give the bastard the smug satisfaction of knowing he was right.

He took a swig of his beer, “C’mon! I’ve been in Troyes for nearin’ a month now. Gotta have someone catch me up.”

“He’s a decent fighter,” I stated matter-of-factly, reaching for my wine, “medic too.”

The Irishman grinned, “So you admit.”

“Admit what?” I quirked an eyebrow.

“That not all Germans are heartless bastards. In fact, most of them aren’t,” Patrick took another sip, “I had an old pal raised in Saxony. Man had a heart of gold, jumping into the fray to help those in need.”

I simply stared at the man with a curious look, the main question on my mind being how Patrick had so many ‘friends’.

A somber air abruptly clouded his face, “He died doing what he loved; saving people. Got killed by a Russian sniper trying to help a poor kid who got his arm mangled by an explosion.”

I tried imagining it, a man wearing the German uniform doing his best to heal and calm down a panicked soldier. Or was he being literal? Konrad had been conscripted while still a child, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t. In a last ditch attempt, I imagined Konrad’s face instead of an unknown German man’s. It… helped a bit.

“Your face is red,” Patrick stated bluntly, chugging the last of his drink.

Come to think of it, I did feel hot. Probably the wine. I wasn’t very good with alcohol. Then again, our base wasn’t exactly known for having good air ventilation. Tended to happen when you lived underground.

“Anyways, I still don’t understand why Erhardt put him in the same dorm as you. It’s improper,” the Irishman stated, his tone neutral.

“That’s what I said!” I huffed.

“Well, let me know if he’s ever a bother and I’ll make sure he won’t bother ya again. After all, I have to look after my student,” he chuckled, cracking his knuckles.

Despite the joke, I knew he was being serious. I cringed at the idea of Patrick beating the daylights out of Konrad. If the two got into a fight, I definitely knew that the Irishman would win.

“He hasn’t been annoying, and he’s kept to himself for the most part. Polite as anyone, really. It was a bit awkward in the beginning but we’re used to it,” I shrugged. My mind abruptly caught up to what I was saying, and I had to do a double-take.

It was only a little more than a month ago that I would have rather feasted on poisoned rats than speak positively of a German. What had happened in the past month?

Konrad Feldpetzer

---

“I’m going to gouge my fucking eyes out if he continues rambling,” I heard Niko groan.

Wolfram had launched into a full-blown spiel about Marx and any topic mildly relevant to the man, leaving Wolfram and I to simply listen and talk to each other without him noticing.

“Does he do this often?” I mumbled, picking at my near empty tray. I already knew the answer.

“Yes,” Niko frowned, “I told you already. He’s a raving lunatic who idolizes a dead man whose only good brought into this world is his own death.”

We stayed silent for a moment, trying to tune out Wolfram’s ranting. It seemed he was too engrossed in his own words to even notice the stares he was garnering from other resistance members, whether they be of disgust or admiration.

“I’d say take a shot every time he mentions Marx but I doubt even an Irishman’s liver could handle that,” he dryly commented.

“Do we even have that much alcohol?” I wondered with a quirked eyebrow.

Niko merely snorted.

I glanced at the man, “How’d you even meet him?”

“We’re the only two Germans in this specific sect of the Resistance. Or were, I guess, what with you around,” he shrugged.

“And you two stuck because you were what was most familiar,” I finished for him.

He nodded in response.

I frowned, “I know the feeling. Everything still feels new and I’ve been here for a month.”

“Yeah,” Niko nodded again, “That feeling never really passes. I’ve been here for close to a year now, and it still feels alien. What’s worst is that I’m having trouble remembering my past life, too. Being that humble mechanic in Vienna feels like a distant dream. Now, I’m fixing up cars for resistance ops and would very well be shot on sight if I’m not careful.”

I quirked an eyebrow, “Just comes with being the resistance.”

It still confused me, that men I once called allies would shoot me on sight if they found me; the fact that I wasn’t part of the Reich anymore just didn’t sink in. I decided to, instead, just not try to figure it out.

What with all the killing and surviving, I had bigger things to worry about.