Chapter Text
The bombings had stopped after an hour and a half, only to disrupt once more at 8 o’clock.
The blistering heat pecked his skin raw, and the stagnant air, nested with dust, gripped his throat, and the black of the cellar clawed at his eyes. He stayed, twisted into a fetus position, waiting like a quivering prey. Sweat gathered on his thick brows. They pinched tightly at each rumbling and thundering from above.
One to the right, and one to the left, he counted and counted and waited for it to end, like a prisoner on death row. The planes lingered and waited for him to surrender out from his burrow. Whilst they circled and eyed London with their diving bombs, he refused to surrender.
He knew, from his stroll in each street, that he would not give up. ‘England DIG! England WORK! England WIN! England FIGHT! England KEEP CALM!’
Recalling the posters, he questioned if they all were such a nuisance now, in his time of desperate need. His people wanted him, needed him. And, yes, he was a pity to be seen moping over himself, and he was pathetic for even thinking he could save Francis, but he was still a symbol of hope for as long as he remained; and he would remain.
Hope returned in the form of sirens. They yelled out and announced another phase of equilibrium. Although peace had returned at that moment, there was no idea when it would be disrupted once more.
He turned over his watch upon his wrist, which was no longer hidden by his sleeve. It was half past four in the morning. The reign of terror had lasted for eight hours.
Hoisting himself up, he took a deep breath for courage, although he only ended up choking and spluttering on the suffocating thick, hot air. He gasped and bent down to clutch at his chest. Like a virus, he could feel the warmth inside his throat and inside his lungs and, similar to mustard gas, it burnt, and it hurt horribly.
Clinging onto comfort, he pressed his thumb against the thin paper in his pocket. It was now crumpled and frail due to his wear and tear (and the sweat from his hands), and he was sure some of the ink had smudged and rubbed due to his constant fidgeting. Fortunately, there was still that stubborn dog-ear fold on the letter. It wasn’t completely ruined.
Soon, he pushed out from the cellar, and clambered back onto the ground floor. As much as his brow pinched to witness his own history and life smashed and fragmented into pieces of broken ornaments and scattered dust, he knew he should be thankful that his beloved house still stood straight. A mandala of vibrant glowing green jewels and fallen silks, were chaotically arranged amidst the milky white powder of broken China. Cabinets were swinging open, and windows were smashed. Apart from the devastating destruction, the floor looked relatively similar to twelve hours prior.
Careful not to step on the glass, he toed over to the blown-out window to grimace upon the sight of his beloved laid to rest. Flattened, the buildings fell in their layers. A blanket of grey filth swept up from the barren city and struck his nose with a poignant stink of smoke, and horrible nostalgia from the Industrial period. Nevertheless, he continued to survey the health of his kind city.
Up above, he observed the thick wing of fog that circled round them like prey, and he wondered if it was watching him too, from a bird’s eye view. It seemed passive — docile enough — though it had been a weapon of destruction only moments ago; and he, the prey wounded and vulnerable in the eagle’s claw, wondered if it really could be tamed.
He wondered if Ludwig really knew what his precious politician was doing. Was he really filled with so much hatred or was he trapped as some propaganda toy, just like him?
It had been so long since he’d seen last Ludwig.
Two years ago, upon the Munich Agreement of 1938, he had been with Francis, Ludwig and Feliciano. Each of them dressed in their representative uniforms, and each with a carefully serious face.
Whilst their respective politicians discussed the signing of the agreement in a conjoining room of the Führerbau, the four of them sat round a circular table for tea. In other words, they were occupied to avoid objection to the agreement meant to settle tensions. Stubbornly large countries were due to hold stubbornly large opinions.
So, tension lingered.
Arthur absented from the group during his suspecting look across the room. No matter where he looked, the blistering reds and blinding whites of the swastika flags were smacked to each wall. In the centre of the long wall, stood a small fireplace. Proudly on the mantelpiece, displayed a golden eagle hunched over the crackling flames that dove and fluttered in a crash of dark ash and vibrant sparks.
Meanwhile, the grandfather clock watched and ticked. Its hands weighed judgement; and its peaceful palm threatened to turn violent at the threat of war; the Munich Agreement hoped to slow the time until war. However, time wasn’t slowing down at all with each ticking second.
Familiarly, Ludwig was quiet, but there was a gentle wave in those blue eyes, he remembered, one that could bear to look at either him or Francis. The man had stayed situated beside Feliciano. It wasn’t unusual for the German to be reserved; but it was unusual for the German to be at unease.
“Bitte, mehr Wein,” Ludwig had called over an accompanying servant, “für alle?”
“Not me.” Arthur cut in, abrasively. “Francis, are you having any?”
“Oui, don’t mind if I do.” Francis smiled, and only spared a glance towards the Englishman’s glare before he redirected his attention to the group leader. “Your wine is only a bit, bit worse than mine.”
“A great compliment.” The German nodded awkwardly, and leaned back to make way for the coming servant.
There, the man approached with a cooled bottle in his poised hand, prepared to pour by Ludwig’s command. The musk of the red wine was strong even across the room.
Bitterly, Arthur raised a brow at the German sitting opposite, who did not return the same attention.
“Ah, red. Fitting the occasion? Do you always hang these flags — or are you suddenly feeling nationalistic?”
“Patriotic.”
“Nationalistic.”
“Patriotic. And, we have been displaying them for many of years. What is the problem?” Ludwig tightened his jaw.
“Comme ci, comme ça. I think it’s great that we’re all together.” Francis interrupted before Arthur could bite back. He raised his now-full glass to cheer, and the group’s eyes were beckoned over from the conflict. “To bringing about peace once again, mes amis.”
After a moment to let the underlying bitterness ferment between them, Feliciano suddenly sang in glee and raised his glass. “Bravo!”
Ignorant to Arthur’s brooding, the three raised their wine glasses and joined them in the centre with a clink. “To bringing about peace!” They rejoiced, albeit Ludwig was a little quieter.
There had been a rough edge to Ludwig’s performance that afternoon. The stoic, confrontational man had a sense of unease: a twitch in his eye, and a stutter in his movement. He hadn’t known him well — younger countries always seemed so immature —, but the signs of stress were noticed by Arthur. Dark circles cut across the pale skin under the German’s eyes. Looking back upon it, he felt some sort of sympathy for whatever stress had been exploiting the naïve nation.
“For our tea, Feliciano has helped present some classic dishes.” Ludwig cleared his throat. “And, I hope to keep relations with you, Entente powers, despite our history. My people are hungry, and so, I am thankful for the food that you have given today.”
The Italian smiled widely. “Sì, we should eat together more often, we could eat pasta and French cheese and drink German beer!”
“Pas de soucis, I suspect we are all struggling, yes?” Francis cooed. “Even the cocky Great Britain was complaining on the way here—“
“Yes, on the train. There’s a reason I say things on the train and not here.”
Francis tutted and occupied himself with another shallow sip to his wine.
Ludwig shifted in his seat to address Arthur. For the first time that day, he made eye-contact with the German. “And you, Arthur. My power and my people hope to make great allies with my Saxon brother. My,” he halted, “my leader has asked if you are pleasant enough to make a pact. An Anglo-German pact.”
There was an expected silence in the group. The tension between the two sides of the circular table was no secret; and crossing the invisible divide between the two pairs of allies was a tightrope act.
“An Anglo-Nazi pact?”
“Anglo-German, a suggestion, natürlich.”
“I’ll dwell on it.”
Translated, Arthur had really meant a hard ‘no’. Although, he didn’t exactly have the power to object to politics.
Francis turned to him. Smooth, he lowered his voice. “Angleterre, you’re moping.” He raised his glass. “Come, raise your own glass. To a day without suffering from English food, hm?”
“Leave it, Francis, I wanted nothing to do with this bloody celebration.”
“It’s October soon. Oktoberfest, mon mignon, I’m sure you’d like to celebrate that?”
“I want nothing to do with Germany.” He reiterated. “Nor you, since you seem to like him so much.”
“Pardon?”
“I think it’s foul we have to ‘make peace’ with such a war-headed, boot-licking bastard that’s tarnishing my politics. And, if you would rather take his side, then I won’t be seeing you.”
“Ah, politics, bien sûr.”
“Yes, politics.” He sneered. “It’s what everything is made of, especially us, and our people.”
“We countries are not always in control of what our people do; I’m sure you can account for that, mon ours. This celebration, as you call it, is our try to hold peace for as long as we can. You think it’s foul, but there’s nothing fouler than a misère like the Great War.” Francis said. “Peace, it’s what we all want, here, in this room, and I know what I want.”
The man was dramatic. There was no need for Shakespeare theatre when you had Francis. As much as he had known the Frenchman’s auspicious tactics, he always found himself engaging with them, like a sweet taste of strong wine. “What is it… that you want?”
“Liberté, Égalité,” He hushed to a feather-light whisper, and Arthur remained a little tense as he leant in to hear the quiet prayer. There, he felt a gentle touch on his hand, like Cupid perching upon a cloud, and a quiet push of air against his ear, “fraternité.”
A jitter in his body and the hairs on his arms rise to stand like soldiers. It only made him more aware of Francis’ touch and the softly swept hairs on the forearm, which could have meant anything, as Arthur almost felt his own hand curve to come into the cradle of Francis’ hand.
Then, the clock ticked slower once he retreated his eyes from the seething reds and took shelter in the blues beside him.
Youthful blushes painted the ceramic skin — smoothed and polished during centuries of war — to create a beautiful sculpture of the Country of Love. The rose paint allied at their hands and flowered amongst Arthur’s own cheeks. Warmed by the blood — no longer caused by violent sabres —, he swept his eyes to admire the vein that wove their history. There sat two Cupid hearts in the shape of honest eyes. Like a dutiful saint, they addressed him with a gentle devotion, and his worship was blessed with a halo of paling yellow hair. Silkily, the gold curled and teased the pure ponds of blue. They met on the canvas like a rising Sun against the sea of clouds, which was something the Englishman rarely got to see.
And so, he stayed. Just for a moment. Just to take a glimpse of the blues he so wanted.
Hand in hand, they embraced as allies formed by violent politics. That’s all it was. But he will never forget the warmth that protected his hand, to whom he did not protect back. He failed his angel from across the channel.
In this blurry vision, that he often dreamt, he imagined the moment lasting for hours, but in truth, the attention was torn by the sudden opening of doors. A salute and a smile, and Francis’ hand slipped from his at the sight of a soldier. There, the man announced the officiating of the 1938 Munich Agreement: the annexation of the Sudetenland. Germany was free to invade the land.
There, he hoped that through every smog, and every blitz, that the Sun would remain: not in the angry reds and whites, but rather in the gentle yellows and blues. He hoped that, someday, he’d get to touch that gentle, all-loving hand again. He hoped that France wasn’t truly lost to Germany; he hoped that he was still here. He hoped for some knowledge of his angel’s health, perhaps from a dove.
‘As channel tides change, storms force our divide,
But, know, mon ours, that our love will remain.’
— Francis Bonnefoye
“Channel One; British Broadcast prepared to begin. Kirkland, you’ll be airing soon.”
The accent was very different from Francis’.
Next, the Friday blossoms turned to dust: hunching over a microphone whilst he spoke sweet nothings for the British broadcasts. He was back at work. In other words, he returned to the bleak affairs of propaganda — in other words, lying. After the sudden bombing, he would have to sing the same curated lies in order to please the public, and his tongue would feel toxic afterwards.
Each slop that the Ministry of Information demanded felt wrong to him. Throughout the recent years, he’d posed and acted as a saviour, rather than the puppet he really was.
It was due to mention that, selfishly, it did lust his pride when the paintings would illustrate him as a brilliant saviour of the damsel Britannia, a relative long gone. No one had really known where she had gone, and if she had rested. Other nations had fallen since her; and the dreaded mortality hung over each nation’s head; he did not speak much of it to his brothers. In fact, he never really visited them much. Solemnly, he thought of the strict mothering nation and what might’ve snatched her away. Just like him, she’d toughened throughout wars but everyone had to pull the short straw some time. He hoped he wouldn’t succumb to the cold clutch of death soon.
The only warmth was the letter still in his pocket, crumpled but not forgotten. Every so often, he’d rehearse one of the lines in his head. It wasn’t out of attachment, no, he simply used it as a distraction when he was bored — not nervous. Plus, it was conveniently beside him. He hadn’t changed his suit in a few days.
His trousers still held the mud from Black Saturday, and his shirt was still dirty from his toiling hours in the cellar, and his hair was sure to be in a horrid state. He was sure he stank. There was no energy to change whatever routine he’d gotten himself stuck into. Thankfully, he only broadcasted over the radio, and therefore no person or country would really know of his habits, and neither could Francis mock him with that stupid, smug grin that beamed whenever they made eye contact. In fact, he’d been driven here privately so no one would have to recognise him.
Suddenly, a wad of paper was shoved onto his desk. “Your script, Kirkland.”
“Right.” He replied quietly, and the other man moved across the room to file through some more papers.
Looking down, his nose scrunched upon the layers of lines that stretched as far as Pinocchio’s nose. “All of this?”
“‘Course. You’re in for eleven o’clock. A little while yet.”
Kirkland nodded and looked down at his watch — his wrist still raw from rubbing — and read the time: 10:30.
“You look like shit, Arthur.”
His dull mind awoke. He was rarely called his first name, unless it was someone close — which was no one, really. Turning to the man, he frowned. “Do I know you?”
There was nothing special about the man. Common dark brown hair and a common dark blue waistcoat. The only notable thing was his height; Arthur already looked shabby, and being smaller wasn’t helping his ego.
“Perhaps not,” he shrugged, “but I know you.”
“Well, of course you do. You ought to know me.”
The man shrugged and reached out a hand. “S’pose. It’s nice to see you.”
Arthur shook his hand firmly. “You’re the new scriptwriter?”
“Only for this afternoon, I’d think.” He paused. “What are you doing, for the war effort I mean? You were doing child’s play in the phony war, so surely you must be doing something… more. Up North, I’ve had the call to arms—“
“Enough.” Arthur blurted. “There is no need to share explicitly what I’m doing.”
“Which is?”
“… Producing morale boosters. I’m sure you’ve seen my work.”
“Propaganda, Arthur.”
“Enough with the first name.”
“Why? Why do you earn the respect and not your men dying on the beaches?” The man scowled.
He moved over to the large window concealed by thick curtains. Swiftly, the fabric was pulled back to reveal the weak morning sun — only strong enough to startle Arthur, who’d kept his head down the entire day. Once his eyes had adjusted, the grim horror of London greeted him again.
Smoke and dust still rose. No matter how many firefighters the government recruited, they couldn’t stop the spark set by shells.
“There is France.” The man raised a hand away from blackened England and over to distant France.
“I was there, on the beaches. Thousands dead in bravery, to save our dear friend France. Where were you, Kirkland? Where’s your bravery? How are you deserving of respect?”
“I was supporting the home front!”
“By what? Puckering for pictures like a slag who loves attention.”
“Disgusting, no.” Arthur spat. “Who are you to talk to me like this?”
“You ought to know me.” He mocked.
“I shouldn’t know who you are, and I certainly hate your manner of speech.” Arthur’s stubborn scowl still looked hopeful. “I’d like to ask: did you see a man when in Normandy? French, blond, blue-eyes, effeminate.”
“Francis.”
“Yes,” Arthur paused, “how do you know him— did you meet him?”
“No. He wasn’t there. He stayed in Paris, I’m sure.” The man let his hand return to his side as he stepped towards the desk. “Is that all you care about? Bodies on the beach front and you care for the French whore in Paris?”
“Don’t call him that, and I don’t care that much for him.”
“Ironic.”
“It is not! Listen, you stick to your job of tapping typewriters, and I stick to mine. Or, or, I’ll have you- I’ll be reporting this to the minister as misconduct.” Arthur cleared his throat.
“You’re a country and you’re still a government bootlicker?”
“I’m not.”
The man held his breath for a long second. He stood by the window, and Arthur was strangely reminded of that Friday in Munich. There was an uneasy amount of shame and anger; and it twisted his mouth even more once the man opened his mouth to speak gravely once again.
“You have a quarter of the world in your hand, but you’ll never have a quarter of the courage in your fist. Arthur, you’re a coward.”
England was not so much of a lion anymore, but rather like a nervous cat. His brown coat could only hide a portion of the tension in his limbs while he occupied himself with the cuffs at his sleeves. His fingers nipped at the fabric.
They were not at all courageous: dirty short nails, and ink stains against his pale skin proved his cowardice in his centuries old townhouse. He had never moved houses. He had been stuck in this position for most of time: wanting and waiting, and never moving to offer a working hand.
He did not move, but the other man did.
In the quietness of the room, there was only the buzz of the radio, and then the rolling steps like a tank crossing the room. In the corner of his eye, Arthur followed the motion. The man hesitated at the door, hand on door handle.
“Read the script, Artie; I’ll be listening”
The door slammed shut.
There, an uneasy silence settled. The thick layers of paper in his hand fell limp and he cradled them like a dying soldier in his palm. He placed them back upon the desk, looked at the typed words for a moment, looked at the demonstration sketches of posters, and looked at the window.
There is France.
Although a little bitter from the man’s break of emotion, he did listen. He listened well; as there had been too many figures that had lost their voice in the place of his mind. Britannia was never to be heard; America was stuck in a childlike squeal away from the rest of the war; and France was becoming quieter. There were a few lost voices, though. He couldn’t recall who they were, and who the hell that man was.
He hadn't seen that man in this building. Whoever he was, his words were strong, stronger than whatever accent belonged to him. His face did not identify in his mind. Then again, which faces did? He had seen so many, and lost so many that they all blurred in together. However, he never failed to fixate on jewels. And those green gems scattered hours ago on his living room floor glint in the same colour as the man’s eyes, similar to his own. Something so familiar.
They held the same sadness that Ludwig’s had on that day. Some quiet objection to whatever was happening, but this man was much more vocal. More brash, like a thrashing pony refusing to be tamed by Arthur’s mindless words over the radio broadcast.
Quietly brooding, Arthur paced the room. His hands fell back upon the script and skipped through the layers. It was so much thicker than usual. He almost dreaded whatever the man had typed out. If the man had a lot to say just a few minutes ago, there would surely be more said in these papers.
He flicked and he flicked and he flicked through the tabs, and each paper had the same stamped letters.
Many folded corners later, and the topic changed. The mood shifted. The words typed were no longer ‘hope’ and ‘victory’, and they no longer guided him through carefully curated lies.
A loss, it said. It painted the victories in blood: tens of thousands dead, and more to come. Occupied spaces in grief and Germany in its terror. These were not lies curated to steady the public, no, this was worse.
France was torn in half and was being swallowed like a frog stuck in a beak. It couldn’t fight; and there wasn’t really a way of knowing if it wanted to fight or just liked the warm shelter of an eagle’s mouth. With no sign of resistance, unlike the reports on Germany, the frog was soon to be in the belly.
Each corner was stamped professionally ‘SOE’. The same initials were given in the texts many times. The man had left, but there was no need to ask a question when the message was so clear: these papers had been delivered specifically to him.
And for what reason?
Suddenly, the alarm clock beside him rang. It exploded with movement and rattled madly. It was eleven o’clock. There would be no time to pester or to ask, and in another thought, he wondered if he even wanted to.
He was sick. He dreaded each day with a dull mood; wondering if it was his last. There was hardly any sun, and there was hardly any rain — the sky was tired and let the bombs wage. A change for once would be nice. Weakly, his dirty hands turned over to pause the cold clock.
He shifted.
The radio transmitter flicked on.
“Good morning, Britain.” He began. “This is Kirkland with the midday news.”
“Yesterday, we all became familiar with the shelling of bombs. Fear not, for we have prepared for this for many years; and our brave masters of the air have already defeated many of the Luftwaffe. When you see dark clouds, do you cower in fear? I think not. You take shelter and you brace for impact, because it will all be over soon. This country will not be toppled by German bombs. We have won against them once, and we’ll win against them again.”
He swept one page with his hand. Like a countdown clicking, he awaited for when the secret shell would drop.
“In all due notice, I will remind: any person to show light, even strike a match, in public streets half-an-hour after sunset or before sunrise is to be arrested. That is strictly the law.
“Carrying on, I urge you to set up your own shelters in case of another attack. And do not let your British spirit die in the face of struggle. Your country needs you.”
Another page turned.
The speech continued for however long. It had become so routine that Arthur barely paid attention to the emotive words he was shouting and urging into the microphone.
Like clockwork, one hand steadied to turn another page, his eyes skimmed, his voice carried. All in a constant motion.
Until he reached the page. The page marked ‘SOE’.
“This is to anyone listening to the BBC on this Sunday,” his voice slowed, “we are listening too.”
“We have struck down Germany’s military, roughly seventy-seven thousand Germans lay dead, and war lingers. Under the rubble of Poland, builds the underground state where sixty-six thousand lives taken are remembered.
“Evacuation to Switzerland is being actively supported by our troops, and the natural citizens of Europe. Resistance fights as a worldwide force: dismantling sites and rail lines, and holding spies accountable.”
He cleared his throat.
“We have lost many men — a supposed three thousand in the recent Dunkirk evacuation, Operation Dynamo. More spies are being found and trialed, or dealt with by the Treachery Act. Any suspicious behaviour should be reported.
“To anyone listening near or far, I raise two fingers: V for victory. In an age of complaisancy to Nazi rule, your resistance is honoured. Home front or Vichy France, we are allies, hand in hand, against violent politics. I promise you, I can hear you.”
Because at the top of my tall tower,
The dove chirps, and the red roses flower.