In Round 5, Uphill Battle tied with Deejonaise and Lizwell's Octoroon, which is wonderful, for I *love* that story.
Also, I was runner-up in the Best Author of a Challenge Response Fic category, and Uphill Battle was runner-up in the Best Challenge Response Fic Category.
Nomination banners by Borderinsanity, Schurry and Cristine. I'm afraid I don't know who made the Best Period Piece award.
It's really beautiful, though.Summary: Based upon a challenge by Foreign_Taste. The story is set in Germany, before, during and after WWII (1939-1945, Europe). Max is German, Liz is Jewish. They were friends before Hitler came into power, but their different nationalities drove them apart.
Category: M/L, AU, period piece.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Roswell, nor do I own its characters.
Author's Note: I’ve been wanting to do this for quite a while. The second world war always intrigued me in some weird sort of way. What happened during this WW was horrible, and it should never happen again. I in no way wish to hurt anyone by writing this.
Thank you, Elizabeth, for your lovely effort to make something bearable out of my poor English.
You're an amazing beta, and a great friend! <center>***</center>
<center>Uphill Battle
Prologue </center>
January 1945, Poland
Ice cold sweat trickled down his forehead and gathered on his brow as he crawled further, always further. With frozen fingers, he desperately clawed at the snow, unable to get a firm grip. The weak winter sun didn’t do much to warm his hands, and the icy wind only made his dizziness worse. He threw a hurried glance over his shoulder. He had been running, walking, and crawling for the last few hours, and felt as if he had covered several miles. He could still see the ominous tower of the camp, though, its silhouette looming threateningly in the distance. It would be easy for them to find him. All they had to do was follow the trail of his blood over the thick layer of snow.
He gasped for air, rested his head on his numb hands, squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the pain. His nerves were screaming at him, telling him to look down at his stomach, convincing him that his flesh was sliced open, ripped apart. He prepared himself for the sight of his wound and shot a quick glance at his belly. Blood still oozed through the thin material of his camp uniform and hesitantly dripped onto the soft snow. Wearily, he watched in fascination as a drop of blood trickled downwards, fell in slow motion and created a dark circle of redness.
Distant, harsh screams reminded him of his situation. He was on the run. He shouldn’t give up now. Trevor had told him the war would soon be over. America had joined the Allies and the Russians had already driven the Germans out of Russia. Stalingrad was free, and soon, Poland would be freed as well.
And finally, come what may, Hitler’s army would be defeated. Germany would be free again. She would be free. He just had to hang on for her, to make sure she’d live through the war. Feeling lightheaded, he decided to crawl further, to put as much distance between him and his persecutors as possible. The screams resounded in the chilly air once more, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. It sounded German, but there were some words he couldn’t quite recognize or place.
He had to move on, and fast. They couldn’t find him. They shouldn’t find him. A bird’s cry, the fluttering of wings. More screams. The scrunching of snow behind him. He felt himself falling even though he was already on the ground. He blinked and finally chose to lie down for a second. Not for too long. Just for a moment… They were so close… He would only stop to catch his breath and close his tired eyes for a little while, and then he’d move on again. The voices kept screaming, desperate, furious. Shots rang through the air and filled his mind with dark memories. The Russians? Would the Russians be there, fighting the German tanks, trying to free the people in the camp? Was it possible? Had Trevor been right?
As he struggled to open his eyes, he thought he could feel her familiar hands on his chest, on his back. Her soothing voice calmed his rapid pulse, and he felt himself letting go. She called his name, once, twice. Soft, patient. It brought some relief to his wounds, and he blew out a weary sigh. Was she waiting for him? He sighed again and breathed out deeply. Footsteps behind him. Army boots against his chest, turning his body around, the barrel of a gun against his jaw.
More gunshots. In the distance? Near him?
No more darkness.
Just utter blackness.
A blinding light. Cries. Shouts.
Nothing more.
<center>***</center>
September 1945, Germany
The cemetery was situated on a little hill on the outskirts of the small town. A lonely willow tree stood out darkly against the gray sky, it branches drooping sadly. It was a peculiar little graveyard, with tombs scattered everywhere across the small plot of land. New graves stood before old ones that had been covered in moss, and each and every one of them was silent, accusing and dark. Ever since the Middle ages, Jews all over the country had been forbidden to bury their dead outside of the Jewish district of their town. Over the years, the site had become rather crowded. Except for the lonesome, old willow tree on top of the hill, all of the trees had been cut down. This had helped for a while, but the Jewish population grew, as did the number of graves. To still be able to bury their beloved ones, the Jewish community had decided to place several graves on top of each other. Nowadays, in some places there could be up to nine layers graves, and each grave was marked with its own stone.
It was a special cemetery. One that carried a unique atmosphere that told of their past.
She stumbled, fell to the ground and cried. How many times before had she walked here, curious to see where her grandfather was laid, to see who her ancestors were? How many times before had she played here with him, hid from him, run from him, and laughed with him?
No, don’t think of him. Don’t think of his sacrifice.
Don’t.
Just don’t.
Her father’s grave stood far away from the gate and the path that led to it seemed long and endless. No grass adorned his gravesite yet, and the dark sand around his tomb was still a little bit loose. His grave was sober, made of simple granite with just his initials, name and date of birth. They didn’t know when he had died. They had been told that his body had been buried next to the execution place. It had lain there for over a year. She hadn’t been there when they had dug it up, when they had searched for him among the other corpses. Kyle had. Afterwards, he hadn’t spoken or eaten for almost two days.
She knelt down, oblivious to her own tears.
In her trembling, cold hands, she held two stones: a large, white one and a smaller, tear-shaped dark one. Two stones. One for her father. One for him. Her fingers traced the lines of the tomb and lingered on the cold granite. She kissed the white stone gently, as if it were her father’s face, crooked and wrinkled, and placed it carefully among the others. She wasn’t sure where to put the black stone. Nobody knew where his body lay. Her mother thought he might have been cremated, or buried somewhere in the woods, never to be found again.
She shivered and rubbed the stone clean with her moist tears until it gleamed and showed her face’s reflection. She brought her lips to it, held them there a little longer, pulled back and let her mind drift away on his deep voice. ‘I love you,’ she whispered without words, solely in her mind. Wherever he was, in what kind of heaven, with what kind of God – Jewish or Christian – she wished him all the luck of the world, and more.
Tightly wrapping her fingers around the stone, she laid her head upon her father’s tomb and closed her eyes. Hot tears burned her eyes, and her body shook with every cry. After what seemed like hours, the tears lessened and her cries became softer, but the pain did not leave her.
It never would.
Author's Note: SA = Sturm Abteilung = Storm Troops, the fight-parties of the NSDAP (which was Hitler's party).
<center>Chapter 1</center>
January 1933, Germany
The school bell rang and the usual sounds of children gathering pencils, books and bags spread throughout the classroom. Max Evans swung his book bag over his shoulder and was just about to leave when his teacher’s voice stopped him.
“Aren’t we forgetting something, Mr. Evans?”
Max frowned, caught sight of the pile of essays on Mr. Connor’s desk and blushed. Of course. He fumbled with the clasp of his bag, fished his three-paged essay out of it and handed it to his teacher. “I’m sorry, sir,” he sheepishly apologized, feeling incredibly stupid. He’d been working on it for hours, trying to find the right words to express himself and now he had almost forgotten to turn it in! That was just… just downright stupid.
“Three pages?” Mr. Connor appraisingly whistled. “Well, you’ve certainly outdone yourself this time, Mr. Evans.” Max blushed even more fervently and looked over his shoulders, at the departing kids. Liz Parker, his best friend, was still there, waiting patiently for him with his jacket in her hands. She was jumping from one foot on the other, humming softly. He smiled; she never was able to sit still, not even for a split second. “Can I go now, sir?”
“Yes, go on, leave!” Mr. Connor laughed at his student’s desire to leave. “No need for you to stay here any longer.” With a worried glance at the playgrounds and another one at Liz, he turned to Max. “Max?”
Disbelieving, Max looked at his teacher. Had Mr. Connor just called him Max? No teacher ever did. “Yes, sir?” he replied, his voice tense. “Take care of Liz, would you?” Mr. Connor said, confusing Max even more.
Max blinked indignantly and nodded. “Of course,” he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And it was. At least, it was that way for him. Mr. Connor smiled tiredly and sat down on a table. Max nodded politely at him before he left the room, and took his jacket from Liz, still wondering. What did Mr. Connor fear so much? The beggars on the streets? They had been there for as long as Max could remember, the unemployed with their unshorn faces, the homeless with their shabby clothing. His mother had once told him that there had been better times, that all of this had started after the great war with France and Britain.
On their way home, as Liz was hopping with one foot on the pavement and the other in the gutter, Max couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Connor’s words, a dreadful feeling spreading itself in his stomach.
“Watch it, kid!”
His head shot up, and he could barely avoid an SA brown shirt. He was a young man, like all of the Sturm Abteilung men were, with a broad chest and rippling muscles. He hastily mumbled an apology before he walked on again, slightly frightened. The SA man frowned, tugged on his shirt, and glared at Liz. Max didn’t notice it, too immersed in thoughts too serious for a seven-year-old. Something was about to happen, something big. What, he did not know. He didn’t think he wanted to know. But he felt it.
That was what scared him most.
He could feel it.
<center>***</center>
January 1933, Germany
“That crazy old man! How could he? Has he officially lost it? I just – I can’t believe that --”
“Jeffrey, please,” his wife begged him. “There are customers downstairs; they’ll hear you.” Her plea was overridden by his own voice as he continued his angry protest, raging on and on. “I mean, the man is – how old? Eighty-two? Eighty-five? He’s an old, demented fool, I tell you!”
“Jeffrey,” Nancy hissed, glancing tensely at the door. “Don’t say such things!”
“That man is too old to lead our country properly, Nancy. Look at what he did! It’s ---”
“He made the Weimar Republic flourish again,” she reminded him of the years that had come prior to the crisis. He huffed and though he tried to calm himself down, he found it harder and harder with every passing second.
“For two, three, maybe four years. Good times are easily forgotten. And he didn’t do it on his own. If it hadn’t been for Dawes, we’d still be eating out of the gutter. He reached his pinnacle a long time ago, Nancy, and from now on it can only go downhill. It already is, can’t you see? How are we supposed to--”
“Jeff?”
Irritably, Jeff looked up at his sister, Caroline, who was standing in the doorway. Sensing his anger, she tentatively asked, “What’s wrong?”
Nancy sighed as her husband started his furious protest. “Our senile president just appointed Hitler,” Jeffrey spat out his name as if it were poisonous, “as our chancellor. That’s what’s wrong. Our chancellor! Can you believe it?”
Caroline frowned and glanced at Nancy, who looked as if she was desperately trying to quiet Jeff down. “What’s so bad about that?” she wondered out loud. When she saw her brother’s expression though, she knew she shouldn’t have asked that.
“What’s so bad about that?” he echoed her words, causing her to wince. “The man hates us. Do you know how many times he’s called us heathens, how many times he accused us of things we did not do?”
Caroline carefully spoke up, afraid to fuel her brother’s anger once more. “I know. But what’s new about that? It’s not like that has never happened before. We’ve never been welcome in this country.”
Jeff groaned and exasperatedly threw his hands in the air. “He’s different, Caroline. He really hates us, with every fiber in his being. He hates us with fervor, with so much passion. And those fools… They agree with him! They follow him and do whatever he says. They’re crazy, all of them.”
“He can never be worse than Von Schleicher,” Nancy quietly said, referring to their previous chancellor, whose term of office had ended after two short months.
“He is worse, believe me. He’s worse than either Von Schleicher or Von Papen. But how can he not be worse? I heard that they were the ones who recommended him to Hindenburg in the first place,” Jeffrey said, just a little bit calmer than before.
Another silence ensued, and Caroline didn’t know what to say. Her brother always had been the stubborn one, and once his mind had been made up, you couldn’t do a single thing to make him see things differently. “Let’s not despair, shall we? It can never be that bad. The other day, Mr. Whitman told me that Hitler’s own father was Jewish.”
“A bastard child, that’s what he is. Have you ever read his book? He’s insane, I tell you! Insane!” Jeff suddenly burst out, and not even his wife could hush him to silence.
“Mom? Mom, I’m home!”
“We’re upstairs, darling!” Nancy called back and smiled as she heard her daughter climbing the flight of stairs, her footsteps followed suit by another pair of them. Liz would be able to calm Jeff down. Her presence always could. “Hi sweetheart! How was your day?” she greeted her, her voice a little bit too cheery, too phony, and – sure enough – Jeff now was smiling.
“Good,” the usual reply came. Another figure stepped out from behind her, a boyish smile veiling his worries. “Hey Mrs. Parker, Mr. Parker, Miss Garner.” Before any of them had the chance to greet Max back, Liz had thrown off her jacket and bag and pleadingly looked up at them.
“Can Max and I play outside, mom? Dad?”
Nancy turned to her husband, who was still gazing down at the apple of his eye. “Please?” Liz begged, smiling the smile with which she could get away with anything.
“Sure,” Jeff replied, just as expected, unable to resist his daughter’s charms. “Just don’t go to the cemetery this time, will you? I want you two to stay in this street, where we can see you.” Liz squealed happily, hugged her father, her mother and her aunt and then – pulling Max with her – she ran down again. Max shot an apologetic glance over his shoulder and Nancy waved at him.
Hearing the front door bang shut, the three adults stood there in silence, not knowing what to say. “There’s no reason to panic,” Nancy finally said, and looked significantly at her husband. “Only time will tell if Hindenburg’s choice was a clever one. We shouldn’t worry too much. It’s unsettling, and it will upset the kids.”
Caroline nodded in agreement and placed her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “We’ll get through this, Jeff. Together.” Jeff hesitated for a second, his blue eyes doubtfully staring at the two most important women in his life. He trusted them and wanted to believe them, but could he? Quietly nodding, he made his way to the door.
“Fine. I won’t worry. I’ll just go downstairs to see if Lena needs help. Do you think we should bake more croissants Sunday? We always sell more of them on Sundays.”
“I’ll go with you,” Caroline quickly said, and turned to her sister-in-law. “When Kyle gets home, will you tell him I’m in the store?”
“I will,” Nancy promised, looking doubtfully at her husband’s retreating figure on the stairs as it slowly disappeared into the darkness of the arched hallway. Caroline followed him soon after, and Nancy was left alone with her thoughts. Her daughter’s rich laughter drifted through the open window, and Nancy looked down through it, at her daughter’s carefree game, oblivious to all what was happening. Nancy wished she could be like that again, young, happy and free of her worries, but knew she’d never be that way again. The realization pained her, the loss of her innocence and naïveté achingly present in her mind.
<center>***</center>
Germany, February 1933
It had started with one simple spark. That was what amazed him most. One small, meaningless spark had created this magnificent play of colors, warmth and power. A spark that could have just as well been used to lighten a cigarette, or a candle.
One simple spark.
The bright flames avidly licked at the wooden table, at the chairs, the floor. The fire made a loud, crackling noise that was a beautiful rhapsody to his ears, and never did he regret his actions. Had he known it would have been this wonderful, he would have done it sooner. The long green drapes that had caught fire a couple of minutes ago helplessly clung to the railing. In vain, it appeared, for seconds later, a tearing sound announced their downfall, and he watched in awe as the curtains fell to the ground. Splendid. The scorching heat and thick smoke made him cough and his vision fogged, but he didn’t care. It was beautiful. He’d done what they’d told him to do, and he was proud of it.
Loud cries resounded through the hallways behind him, but he paid no attention to them. He did not understand the language, so he decided that they had to belong to Germans. Not that it made any difference to him. He would rather listen to what the fire told him, or to the satisfied sounds the flames made. A beam somewhere above him creaked, hesitated and finally fell, hitting the floor with a loud thud. The ground shuddered and shook while the flames carried on undisturbed, their desire to burn and destroy insatiable.
Hands on his shoulders jerked him backwards. He protested at first, especially when he saw their efforts to put out the fire. When it didn’t help and he realized that they were too strong for him, he conceded his defeat with the sagging of his shoulders and a simple, regretful sigh. He looked one more time at the fire, at the smoking room and the burning carpet.
To think that a single spark could have started so much…
Author’s Note:
Reichstag = German Parliament
Reich = country/reign
SS = Schutz Staffel = Special Security agents --> in order to protect Hitler
SA = Storm Troops --> to ruthlessly suppress opposition
<center>Chapter 2</center>
Germany, February 1933
“Would you like some tea, dear?”
“Sure, I’d love some tea, thank you.”
“Sugar?”
“No, not for me. I have to watch my weight, see?”
“I see. No sugar for me, either.”
“Maria?”
“What is it, daddy?” Maria sweetly asked her father, as she poured some water in a porcelain teacup.
“Be still, please. I’m trying to hear what’s being said.”
“Yes, daddy,” she replied, smiling quietly.
Jim Connor returned his attention to the radio and listened to the reporter’s boring voice as he droned on and on about the latest news.
“Would you like some milk in your tea, sweetheart?” Maria quietly whispered to Anna, her most beautiful and most dear doll.
“No, thank you,” Maria continued in her different, higher and more sophisticated voice. “I’m allergic to dairy products.”
“Honestly? How interesting! Tell me all about it,” Maria said, her voice slowly but surely growing louder again.
She straightened her back and imitated Anna's voice again. “It’s nothing special really. My mother --”
“Maria!”
Maria stiffened momentarily, glared at her father and pressed her lips tightly shut. Jim sighed, raked his hand through his hair and closed his eyes, fully concentrating on what was being said on the radio.
“The fire, almost certainly lit by the Dutch communist Marinus van der Lubbe, burned down a large part of our Reichstag. According to our government, it should be considered as a direct threat to our Reich. To protect our country from the communists, Chancellor Hitler and President Hindenburg have invoked Article 48 of the Weimar Constitution.”
Jim groaned, feeling frustrated. Article 48 of their constitution – the one that had been set up by not only the German government, but also by the American Wilson and other foreigners – would nearly abrogate the entire base of their constitution.
“The so-called ‘Decree of the Reich President for the Protection of the People and State’ will - temporarily - suspend the following civil liberties: free expression of opinion, freedom of the press, right of assembly and association, right to privacy of postal and electronic communication and individual property rights. We’ll be able to tell you more about yesterday's fire and the political consequences later on. For now, sit back, relax and enjoy the music of J.S. Bach…”
The first, tender notes of Bach’s aria drifted into the room and did their best to fill it with their happiness, but it was in vain. Nothing could be done to chase the tense atmosphere away, and even Maria seemed to sense it. She continued her play quieter than before, and when Jim told her it was bedtime, she didn’t protest. Not once.
<center>***</center>
"I don't believe them," Jeff said, as he gave Mr. Connor his change. "I think they lit it themselves, just so they would have an excuse to invoke this Decree."
"You don't know that, Jeff," Jim reminded him kindly. "Maybe Van der Lubbe acted on his own behalf. I've heard he was found rather dazed, and some people think he isn't right in his head."
"Maybe," Jeff agreed reluctantly. "How's Liz doing at school? Is she working hard enough?" With a nod, Jim Connor said, "Yes, she is. I've never seen a child more willing to do her homework. I wish my Maria could be more like that."
Jeff laughed - unable to hide some of his pride - and reminded himself to praise Liz for her good work later. "Well, Maria's one of a kind. She's the most spirited person I know," he said, and Jim smiled sadly, remembering.
"That's her mother's reflection shining through," he quietly said, and Jeff nodded sympathetically. Amy Connor had died not too long ago. She'd suffered from a strange illness that had no cure, but she had always remained cheerful and hopeful, giving support to her husband and daughter.
From the corner of his eye, Jeff caught sight of a brown spot moving on the other side of the street. He walked up to his shop window and his suspicions were confirmed. It was indeed two SA agents walking down the street, acting like they owned the place.
“There certainly are getting to be more and more brown shirts and SS-ers,” he complained to Jim, who’d moved next to him. Jim nodded, and his eyes followed the two men. “You and your family should watch out for them,” he said. They looked each other in the eyes. The blue of Jim’s eyes was weak and light compared with the bright blue of Jeff’s eyes, but both pair of eyes held the same emotions; fear, anticipation, worry, and care for each other.
<center>***</center>
