Chapter Text
"Hey, have you guys seen Bonnefoy?" Alfred slung his pack up higher on his shoulder, addressing the men lounging on the old house's half-decapitated porch. "I asked him to keep an eye on something for me."
There were cautious glances and a few snickers. "It wasn't a woman, was it, sir?"
"Uh, no."
"I saw him head upstairs with a box about a half hour ago, sir," one of the privates ventured. "Is that what you're looking for?"
"Probably. Thanks." The men saluted, Alfred ignored it, and walked into the house. It was dusty inside, utterly gutted for the most part, like no people had ever lived there. From what he could see, the back wall towards the kitchen had taken a shell at some point, glass littering the floor. He was about to shout out for Francis, but heard squeaking and thumping coming from up the steps. Alfred sighed, alighting his hand on the oak railing as he walked up to the second floor. "Christ, Francis; you would find the only house in Germany with a mattress still left intact."
Alfred reached the second floor and took several quick strides--one over a gaping hole in the floor-- and didn't bother knocking on the farthest door. He swung it open, a woman shrieking as it hit the gaudy wallpaper hard enough to leave a dent. Good; he hated this wallpaper, he preferred the one of apples and cherries in his mother's kitchen back in Kansas to this stuff. "Francis. I'm going to the post now; where's my shit?"
"Really," the Frenchman huffed, peeking around the woman straddling his waist, "isn't patience one of your American virtues?"
Slowly, the woman--a pretty thing, blond with big brown eyes--slid off Francis, covering her pale breasts with the blanket. Her stockings were askew, skirt half off; Alfred paid her no attention, but he could smell her scent from the doorway. "Just gimme the box, Francis, and I'll be outta here."
"It's on zee ironing board." Francis pointed to it with his chin, hands coming to the woman's hips to keep her from going anywhere. He watched Alfred grab it, inspect its contents suspiciously, before shoving it into his pack. "Is zer anything else I may assist you with, Monsieur?" It was said with just a hint of that French disdain.
"That's it." Alfred grinned. "Have a good life, Francis."
The man groaned, said something in broken German to the girl that made her giggle, and Alfred left.
When he exited the house, the men on the porch saluted to him again, and once more Alfred ignored it, hoofing it down the dirt road to the make-shift post office. He skirted rubble and huge potholes as he want, a strong breeze stinging at his eyes. There were more and more children out these days, Alfred noticed, probably now that the women knew nothing bad was going to happen to them. And the children were their only way of communicating with the soldiers; they still weren't allowed to talk to the German adults, but rumor had it that ban would be lifted soon too. Alfred cut through a blown-out building, past a row of the anti-fraternization posters slathered with pictures of the camps, telling him to remember what these people--not their soldiers, apparently even the homeliest Fraulein was responsible too--had done. One of the posters had been ripped in half, Alfred noticed absently; probably by someone who'd had a kid here. Good luck with that, he thought, and sauntered up to the post office.
"Did they come by to pick up mail yet?" Alfred all but slammed the box on the table--it had once been a candy shop, and all of the little empty glass jars behind the counter rattled. How they'd managed to survive the war was anybody's guess. "I'm getting transferred tomorrow and gotta get this back to Kansas," he explained to the soldier, patting the box fondly.
"No, sir, should be by in an hour I think." The soldier on duty handed Alfred the forms and he filled them out with a practiced ease. "What part of Kansas you from, sir?"
"A place where even the pope would have to shit in the woods." Alfred signed his name fluidly, and slid the forms back. "Got any newspaper? I don't want this stuff to break."
"Something like that." The soldier nodded to a stack of posters--the no-fraternizing ones, of course--sitting by the old cash register. "Extras." He opened up the box and paused, glancing up at Alfred. "Sir..."
Alfred smiled, stack of posters in his hand. "Yes?"
"Ah, nothing. Where is it you're being transferred to?"
"Information Control Division; got accepted about two weeks ago." Alfred picked up the silver tea kettle and wrapped it snugly in paper, moving on to a cup and saucer next. "Signed on for another year at least."
"You actually want to stay here, sir?" The soldier gave a short laugh, watching Alfred's fingers work the paper patiently around the tea set.
"Just a little while longer; I'm in no rush to go back home, you could say." He packed the wrapped items in another layer of newspaper before finally relinquishing the box to the soldier. "You think it'll be okay?"
"Should be." He didn't sound too convincing. "Since it's metal."
"Good; I can't pay for college with the metal in my ass," Alfred said with a wink. When he left, the soldier saluted him and once more he ignored it, shuffling back to the barracks in the bombed-out little town for the last time.
"They're late." Elizaveta let the curtain fall back once more, clucking her tongue in distaste. "Very late."
"They're American; they can be as late as they want," Ludwig reminded her, not even bothering to glance up from the little poetry book.
"Gilbert's going to get restless if he has to stay upstairs any longer."
"He stayed upstairs for years; he can survive another hour," the man smiled ruefully. He finally let the book fall shut and replaced it on the shelf behind the counter, taking care to keep them in alphabetical order--by author. It wasn't particularly difficult, seeing as how he only had ten left. A book shop without books; what a sad sight.
"I don't understand why they even want to see you," Elizaveta continued, picking at the curtain again. The store's lettering peeked out at Ludwig every time she did that; he would have to paint them on again someday. "We all passed their silly Fragebogen and haven't been sentenced to anything. I don't see what the fuss is about."
"I imagine it's about the printing presses."
"But the judge excused you; you had to print those papers."
Ludwig shrugged; it would be a lie to say he wasn't nervous, but as usual he tried not to let any of that reflect on his face or in the jerk of his knee. It was just as Elizaveta said; they'd been absolved of any real wrong-doing, so they were innocent. So if they were innocent, what did the Americans want with him? "It's probably nothing," he said, eyes sweeping over his collection of books. There were so few left.
"If it's nothing, they should just stay holed up in their barracks," the woman muttered. Her back suddenly stiffened, and Ludwig heard the sound of a motor outside of the store. "I think this is them." The engine died; car doors opened up and closed. "I think this is them," she whispered again--why was she whispering? It was a holdover from the last few years--and dashed away from the window, back to the counter. Elizaveta's fists were knotted into the folds of her skirts as she stared at the door. Ludwig glanced from her to it as a blond man swung it open hard enough to make the glass shake. He winced.
"Gutentag," he said, smiling to them both as two more soldiers entered the little shop behind him. Ludwig winced once more, this time for the awfully accented German. The stranger turned to one of the soldiers then without waiting for Ludwig's reply. "Can you tell them that I'm with the Information Control Division of the U.S. Army?"
Before the translator could speak, Ludwig cut in. "I speak English, sir."
The man in charge glanced back. "You sure?"
Ludwig frowned; of course he was sure. Then it clicked; "Yes," he replied, face a little flushed. American slang was still difficult at times. "I do not think a translator will be needed."
The man whistled low. "Damn, no accent even. What about her?" He took off his hat and gave Elizaveta a short nod. Ludwig noticed the other soldiers' look of distaste, but they kept quiet.
Elizaveta curtsied slightly; another holdover, from her maid days. "I know a little, sir." It was heavily accented at times, yet passable--probably better than the man's German, Ludwig thought disdainfully. She was all but glaring at the American, but luckily he didn't seem to notice.
"Sounds good to me. You boys can wait outside." The men saluted and left, glass rattling in the front door once again. "My name is Alfred F. Jones, I'm with the Information Control Division of the U.S. Army. I take it you got our letter, Herr Beilshmidt?"
"Yes; I am Ludwig and my cousin, Elizaveta." It still felt odd to give his first name to strangers, but Ludwig shrugged it off as best he could. "Your letter, however, did not explain very much as to the nature of your visit."
"Of course not," Alfred grinned. "Shall we sit?" He motioned over to the little table in the corner of the room, and Ludwig followed to sit obediently.
"Vould you care for tea," Elizaveta asked. There were only two chairs at the table.
"Coffee, if you have it."
With another tiny curtsy, she left the two men and slipped through the squeaky door behind the counter. There was neither tea nor coffee in their house; Ludwig guessed she was going upstairs to update Gilbert. "Mr. Jones--"
"Alfred," he smiled.
"...Alfred." Ludwig felt the urge in his knee to jitter, but stilled it with the palm of his hand. "To what do I owe the... pleasure?"
"I'll cut to the chase." Alfred's smile vanished, and he folded his gloved hands on the table. "You run a bookstore, correct?"
"One without books."
Alfred grinned a bit at that.
"I did; before the war. My father left it to my brother and I in his will."
"Right. And you also print books and leaflets and the like here, in the back room--correct?"
Ludwig's shirt collar felt incredibly itchy all of a sudden. "...Correct. If this is regarding the..." What was that word again? "Propaganda. The propaganda from--"
"It's not." Alfred cut him off, a bit of the smile returning. "You've been absolved of all that; I'm really not interested. So for the last few months you've pretty much been out of work."
That was a nice way of putting 'not allowed to work' but Ludwig didn't point it out. "Correct."
"Well I'm here to let you know that you're back in business, Ludwig." Alfred grinned again. "It's okay if I call you Ludwig, right?"
What choice did he have. "Of course."
"I'm in charge of monitoring the printing presses in this area. You're allowed to get started up again as you see fit, but there are new... guidelines you should be aware of."
"I am quite used to guidelines. Sir."
"Call me 'Alfred'. Additionally, the U.S. Army would appreciate it if you helped us out with a few printing materials of our own." The man shrugged, sitting back in his chair as if the deal was already sealed. Which, Ludwig supposed, it had been before Alfred even walked in the door. "Posters, leaflets--things like that. Would save time on shipping stuff from the States, you see."
Ludwig nodded stiffly.
"I'll be back tomorrow to talk about those guidelines, Ludwig. Any questions?"
A thousand. "No, sir. Alfred."
The American smiled and stared at Ludwig for a little while, not saying anything. Ludwig was used to it, used to that sentencing look. It hardly affected him anymore. Ludwig simply stared back, impassive. "I look forward to working with you," Alfred said slowly, eyes unblinking. "You'll find that I have more of a hands-on approach than other... men of my position."
Ludwig felt his lip curl just a fraction. "I find it hard to believe that you are any older than twenty, Alfred."
And just like that, Alfred blinked, and gaped like a fish. "Wh-what?"
A wave of cold dread rushed through Ludwig like a waterfall. "I'm sorry, I--"
The door behind the counter gave a loud creak, and Elizaveta burst into the room. "Excuse me." She curtsied yet again, casting a nervous glance to Ludwig; she must have been eavesdropping. "Ve are out of both coffee and tea."
"Ah, that's... fine, miss." Alfred hastily rose from the chair and put his hat back on, not looking at Ludwig as he did so. "I need to be on my way." The American nodded once again to Elizaveta then left the tiny shop, talking brusquely to the soldiers outside. As if through a haze, Ludwig distantly heard the car's engine start up, and tires screech down the street.
Elizaveta sighed, shoulders relaxing. "Your brother is bouncing off the walls, Ludwig."
"Let's get dinner started," he mumbled with a shake in his voice, rising slowly from the chair. "What little of it there is."
