Konrad Feldpetzer

November 8th, 1943

Somewhere in Picardie, Northern France

---

It felt incredibly anti-climactic to flee the rat’s nest that was Paris, knowing very well I could be shot at any point during the journey, just to be playing Oeil Blanc with a civilian family and my partisan compatriots.

I could almost fool myself into thinking I’d never left home for a war to begin with, just playing games at a friend’s house. The atmosphere was markedly light, filled with inane chatter as we collected the cards in front of the fireplace. It was the fifth round, though I’m not sure how focused we were on actually playing since the whole thing was a just an excuse for casual talk while keeping our hands busy. For me, it felt like doing something at least without straining my aching arm.

The struggle to keep entertained while stuck indoors during the winter transcended borders, it seemed. Except for Reuben. Entertainment meant little when you were asleep on the living room sofa.

I didn’t actually know how to play if I was being honest, mostly just copying the moves of another random player and keeping tabs on the chatter. Game rules had never been my strong suit. It was a card game that Valerie claimed was “simple and casual fun,” the aim to keep your number above a certain threshold.

It was so simple in fact that I’d been the first one out every other round. I was pretty sure Niko and Valeria took pity on me though because I’d be given a second chance just so I wasn’t sitting there doing nothing.

I was grateful, though. I didn’t care if I was winning or losing as long as I did something. I knew that if I just sat down and thought, the actual gravity of the situation would overwhelm me. A whole cell eradicated, being hunted by Europe’s pre-eminent military, and Annette being captured.

I missed the days when I didn’t have to be anxious over whether I’d be dead in some gutter before the close of the month. Hell, even during my time in the Wehrmacht I had some semblance of security since my own deployments were comparatively sparse. Even then, if I’d taken a bullet to the throat, I’d have been guaranteed a respectable funeral.

Now the best I could hope for is my father growing a heart for once and ordering my decaying corpse be retrieved a week or so after the fact at the very least. But me just being unceremoniously dumped in the woods or being incinerated without my family ever hearing about it was just as plausible.

And what worries me even more is that such thoughts have become way too common. I was 18; I should be focusing on my education or out chasing girls, not worrying about the fate of my corpse.

“Konrad. Your turn,” Niko grunted, snapping me back to reality.

I panicked for a moment, not thinking as I all but slapped down one of the cards from my deck onto the table using my good arm.

I heard a small snigger from Wolfram before Valerie gave me an odd stare, “I think you chose the wrong card.”

A glance seemed to confirm it. I’d put an 8 card on the table, putting me well under the threshold.

I glanced at my spread, noticing there was a 3 card there. I wordlessly turned the 3 card to face Valerie. She thought for a moment before nodding, “I’ll allow it.”

I slid the 8 card back into my hand and put the 3 in its place.

Valerie nodded to Wolfram, who was next in line, starting up the casual conversation again, “So, Konrad, where are you from?”

“Small Bavarian town. I doubt you’ve heard of it.”

“Try me.”

“Ebenschtadt-Augsbrück. Population 700,” I deadpanned.

Valerie gave a quiet laugh, “You weren’t kidding.”

“Grew up in a farming family there too,” I continued, “Sort of.”

I conveniently left out that my father had become a high-ranking military official.

“Sort of?” she prompted.

“We sort of got put in Germany’s growing middle class thanks to nearby economic development, so I was able to take enough time off farming to be able to focus on studying and getting into a good university.”

I mentally patted myself on the back at my slickness. It was a half-truth, really. There had been economic development programs in the nearby cities but that didn’t have too much of an effect on my little town. The only reason I’d been able to feasibly focus on school was because father had sold his soul to the devil by signing up for the Wehrmacht. With all that blood money coming in, we’d really only continued farming out of principle though mother did allow for us to spend more time doing other things.

“What were you studying for?” Valerie asked, putting her card on the table, then glancing at Niko.

That question took me off-guard. I watched Niko put down a 4, with the turn going to Dolores. She was smushed between the both of us, seemingly enthralled in trying to pick which of her cards to give up.

“Anything in particular, really,” I eventually admitted, “Was thinking of going with languages. I have a knack for them. But anything I was good at would’ve sufficed.”

Valerie nodded, satisfied with my answers before she started talking with Wolfram. Apparently, not knowing the language is the only thing that could keep him from going on eloquent speeches about the proletariat.

“Niko, Wolfram,” the gruff voice of Valerie and Dolores’s father sounded out, “I need some help outside.”

The former nodded immediately, getting up. Wolfram instead made sure to lay down his cards before standing. I moved to leave as well before Niko put a hand on my shoulder, gently yet firmly pushing me back into the seat.

“Your arm has to heal,” he stated, voice flat and matter-of-fact.

I frowned, “But I can still help.”

“You can help by resting. The sooner its healed, the sooner you’re back in action.”

I bit my tongue, knowing he was right. It didn’t massage the feeling of inadequacy growing in my chest as I watched the two don their coats and leave through the door, though.

X-X-X

Annette Boissieu

Sometime in November, 1943

Makeshift Prison, Paris, France

---

“I’m not going to die in here, fuckface,” I growled. Johann was across from me, dirty as ever, and with a disapproving look on his face. Somehow, me trying to get out of this living hell had awoken some bits of his old Erhardt persona.

He sighed, “It’s too dangerous, Annette. There are too many ways this could go wrong.”

“If you want to stay in here, scooping at cans of dog food, curled up on the concrete floor for warmth, be my fucking guest. But I don’t, so help me get the hell out of here or I swear to god I will find your ass after this war and drop you.”

My voice was hoarse after its relative disuse and so little water, barely sounding like my own. But I was so fucking mad that it didn’t matter; all I wanted was to tear open the bars and wreak havoc. But I wasn’t made of steel, so I needed to be smart about it.

Johann looked at me with pain in those dull eyes. I could easily tell there was a heaping spoonful of self-loathing too. I was so fucking sick of it. I was honestly shocked he’d led us for nearly year. We needed soldiers to fight back against the dogs occupying my city, not emotionally unstable wrecks who hate themselves nearly as much as they hate the enemy.

“Guards!” I yelled, my voice feeling like it was about to crack from the volume. Nobody came.

Johann gritted his teeth, “Annette, stop. You’re going to end up hurting people.”

I didn’t bother verbally responding to his stupid remark because no shit, that was the point. Instead, I stared at him dead in the eye and yelled again. This time, a pair of guards did actually enter, at least if the pair of boots clacking against the floor were anything to go by.

“Zum Teufel ist dein Problem, Hure?” one of the soldiers spoke. I know I must have thought it about a thousand times, but I truly wished I could understand that mongrel language if only to berate them.

“I have intel to exchange,” I tried enunciating, doing my best to not let any insults pass my lips.

“Es ist also weder Nahrung noch Wasser. Ich denke. Bekommen wir Tilman?” the other soldier seemed to ask at his brother-in-barbarity.

The soldier shrugged, shouting at the door, “Tilman, beweg deinen Arsch hier rüber!”

I could only hope that meant something good as I waited. I heard the door open, followed by another pair of footsteps. Probably another soldier. Hopefully a translator.

“Was ist es?” I heard a tired voice groan.

“Eine dieser französischen Huren versucht, mit uns zu sprechen!”

“Gott, ich hasse es, in der Übersetzungsabteilung zu sein!” the voice stated before its owner came into view. Another soldier for sure, though his features were obscured the poor light as with every other though I could make out a large nose and a heavy brow.

He then glanced at me, face tired, and in perfect French asked, “What do you want?”

I got what I wanted, didn’t I?

“I need to talk to your officer. I have information in exchange for some comforts,” I kept the slew of insults I wanted to hurl back. I needed to be as diplomatic as possible.

He quirked an eyebrow and spoke something to the other soldiers in German. It seemed to be positive, though, as the one on the left pulled out a key and unlocked the cell. The duo entered, ushering Johann away before all but dragging me out.

I heard the cell door shut and lock again as I was lead down the dingy hallway. I could barely make out cells to my right, with more prisoners.

And then they opened the door.

Having spent God knows how long in poor lighting, it felt like someone had set a lighter to my eyes the moment I looked up. The room above was well-lit, and I could make about four more soldiers posted around the staircase. There was another hallway in front of me and it seems like that was where they were dragging me.

I forced my eyes to get used to the lighting, not knowing if I’d get another chance.

Scouring the room, I finally find it. Yes! A window! And it was on our path! I kept my glance discrete, but I managed to see the world outside. I’d been prepared for the worst, it being night or not recognizing the street, but it seems I was lucky.

I recognized the street near immediately; it was one of the larger urban arteries that let traffic flow better. I’d passed by the area both pre-occupation and during, so I had a decent lay-out of it. My guess as to why it was occupied was its easy access to the streets, especially for heavier vehicles like personnel carriers. It seemed to be late in the evening judging by the orange tint everything had along with the long shadows.

That means I was facing northwest right now.

Yes! That’s the first part of my plan successfully over with! I shouldn’t be too eager, though; it was far from the easiest.

I was quickly brought into an office with the officer. My mood was immediately dampened as the thrum of my victory lulled, realizing that I was in dirty rags, remnants from my clothes, in front of a fully dressed German officer. I would’ve given anything to just kill the arrogant fucker.

But not my escape.

So I clenched my fists and kept a poker face.

“Sie sagt, sie habe Informationen im Austausch für einige Luxusartikel.”

I glanced around as he spoke for Fabian. After a minute, I let out the smallest of sighs in relief. Thank God. That living lie detector wasn’t around. I could half-make something up to sound believable.

“Was will sie also?” the officer asked.

The soldier translating stared at me, “What do you want?”

“Pillows and my clothes back. Things to keep me warm.”

He relayed the message to the officer in German, or at least I hoped. I just needed to lie convincingly enough to get back to my cell.

“Das ist machbar. Was sind die Informationen?”

“The information. What is it?” the soldier grunted.

I frowned, “There’s a Partisan cell under Abeau’s Butcher on the banks of the Sienne. About 40.”

Well, there was when I got captured. I’d heard they were in the final stages of relocating as it started seeing too much foot traffic to be secure, so I hopefully only caused the arrest and execution of only a handful of partisans or hopefully none. The last thing Paris needs right now is another cell lost.

“Notiert. Besorge ihr die Luxusartikel, aber nimm sie weg, wenn sich die Informationen als falsch herausstellen.”

“Jawohl.”

With that, I was taken back to my prison cell. I chanced another glance out the window to confirm my belief before I was taken down under again.

I didn’t even get any comforts. Oh well.

X-X-X

Tianna Feldpetzer

November 8th, 1943

Ebenschtadt-Augsbrück, Bavaria, Germany

With the news of Konrad possibly making it out alive, it felt like the house had been given life as well. For the first time in a long while, I heard mother’s laughter from the kitchen. She and father were busy making radish soup with Raimund helping around, and it was quite the sight to behold.

It was almost like the Wehrmacht had never happened. I’d only really had somewhat vague memories of father before he joined, mostly relying on Konrad telling me about those times, but it’d felt like a fever dream. How could our father have been so caring and jovial only to become so cold and closed-off by enlistment? It didn’t really register in my young mind. To me, he’d almost always been this way.

But now, watching them joke around and seeing father smile and cooking with Raimund frantically running about trying to contain his messes, it felt almost like a vindication. Of both Konrad and father, as stupid as that was.

It was funny, how we were so happy the day before the service for my supposedly dead brother, honestly. I struggled to figure out how we’d look legitimately sad during the service. It wasn’t like we’d be in the wake of uncaring strangers; we’d be in the sight of close friends and family. The village was nothing if not tight-knit, even if mother and I had isolated ourselves in the wake of everything.

I got up from my seat in front of the fireplace, deciding to make my way to Konrad’s room.

When I’d been in it, it felt like there was a looming presence in there. A part of me thought almost that it’d been Konrad’s ghost, having returned after his death to rest in peace in his home. I’d always felt like I was seconds away from seeing his vague form materialize before a window or a whisper of his voice.

But they never came.

And as I opened the door, I felt lighter than I had in months.

That presence I’d been imagining was gone, instead replaced by a promise made by the disheveled room that looked far too lived in. A book still being read, clothes still being put away, and a bed still waiting to be made. Konrad would be coming back home. It’d take a while, I’d assume.

But even if it took years, Konrad would be home. That was what mattered. He’d finally get to finish his book, tidy up his clothes, and make his bed. He’d get to sleep in his bed. He’d be at home.

I could almost jump from the joy running through my body. My mind began flooding with questions. How had he changed since he left? Had he changed at all? He had to. Konrad had never been particularly aggressive or violent, and I couldn’t imagine how he’d get away with that in a war.

What did he look like now? Did he still sport that fresh-faced clean crew cut he had the last time we saw him leaving for Paris? Had he grown a beard? He’d be 18 now, so it’d be longer. What if his hair had gotten longer?

“Tianna! Food’s ready!”

My mother’s voice brought me out of my thoughts.

“Coming!”

I glanced at Konrad’s room once more, a smile on my face I hadn’t noticed only growing wider. Konrad would be home in due time. I, for one, couldn’t wait.

The atmosphere that night was one of suppressed hope for the future, and my mind was abuzz as I settled in to sleep. Except sleep never seemed to come as I tossed and turned in my bed the entire night, listening to our old farmhouse creak and settle in the dark. The morning seemed to have come and gone, dreary as ever, though I hardly noticed in my sleep-deprived state thanks to my own anxiety.

It was in this form of half-consciousness that I witnessed the procession and sat in the pews of our town’s small Catholic church, not really listening to what the Priest was saying.

I simply lay my head on the pew in front of me, the ad hoc congregation smothered by a mournful silence. Father looked onwards with a stoic frown, almost seeming like the man he’d been for so many years of my life, while mother convincingly shed a few tears; far more convincing than whatever paltry efforts I could muster.

Before long, we had wrapped around an empty grave in the cemetery that would soon be filled with a casket. It was empty, everyone knew that, but as I watched the polish wooden coffin descend into the ground, it struck me.

This is what it’s like when somebody died.

Sure, it may be empty, but the casket was no less real than the hundred others buried here. The rites were the same as well, I noticed, as the Priest echoed a prayer.

The silence that befell us as we entered the door of our home was almost deafening, but not the oppressive depression and mourning I’d grown so used to in recent months. No, it was more contemplative. Mother and father broke the silence by murmuring amongst themselves, and I would have made some attempt to join had I not been so inhumanly exhausted.

Not even bothering to step out of my black dress, I kicked off my shoes and curled up before the fireplace, sleep finally coming over me.