Chapter Text
His first week in Cologne, he gets a job at the butcher shop, manning the register. In his (frankly, not many) years as a policeman, he has seen enough blood, been in close quarters with enough gore and out - of - place intestines that he can handle the smell and sight of dead animals. He walked in the first day, with his secondary school German skills, asking if he could work for the head fleischer, which he was informed, after a good natured laugh from the boss, was called a schlachter in the north of Germany.
The days that used to linger on for what felt like ages, now pass him by so quickly that trying to remember anything is like trying to hold sand. Memories are ample, with his sleep so frequently interrupted by Mama, Tata, Halinka, and - and -
And Arek.
That damn name.
It lights a fire inside of him, a sensation so strong that in order to stop him from appearing in his unconscious, he works well into the night and wakes up so early that his boss is always surprised at the sight of him looming over the cured meats section at six in the morning. “Bübchen,” he had once said, in that familial tone which, when coming from him, didn’t feel overfamiliar at all, “You need a hobby, a distraction, something.”
“I thought I was being a good worker,” he says in sparse English, a compromise worked upon by the German boss and Polish employee. His tone is one of genuine confusion - wasn’t devotion what every boss looked for?
“Robert,” it feels alien to have someone say his name, as though it cements him into reality, “You need to be a person first. I don’t know what kind of life you lived before this, but I can bet it was an improvement over, well,” he gestures at him, “Whatever you’re doing now.”
He stares at the man, his eyes moving over his entire person - his belly is plentiful but it is balanced out well by his muscular arms and tall frame. His eyes are strangely rectangular in their hoodedness, and seem perpetually alert, and then, he realises something that quite unnerves him.
“I don’t know your name.”
“Huh?”
His cheeks heat up in embarrassment, and he repeats, in a low voice, reminiscent of a child caught stealing sweets, “I still don’t know your name.”
His boss, who may have expected a confession of stealing or mismanagement, stares at him for half a second before bursting into laughter. Robert stands still in shock, his mouth struggling to stay closed. When he stops, still hacking and wiping away the laughter - induced tears, his boss looks at him and says -
“Isidor. Isidor Weiss.”
“You’re Jewish?,” he asks with disbelief he doesn’t bother hiding - the shop is stocked with pork and there is no sign of an OK Kosher certification. It seems that his boss - sorry, Mr. Weiss - has anticipated his question.
“Technically…” his usually steady voice trails off, “Yes, I suppose?”
Robert remains quiet, and as his boss - sorry, Mr. Weiss - moves on to checking the shelf stockage, his mind seems to wander into the past. Like my father, he wants to say, but for the sake of some misplaced sense of self - preservation, doesn’t.
Edward Mrozowski, or as he has addressed him for most of his previous life, Tata, was yet another Polish Jew who lost his family to the camps. His rescue came in the form of assimilation, where he sought shelter, and was given it, in a rare exception in a land where gentiles betrayed their previous compatriots to have a fighting chance at survival. So, in the Catholic household, where his life was confined to a rat - infested room in an attic, Levi Lubliner became Edward Mrozowski.
Tata, rarely ever so drunk to lose control of himself, defied his laconic state once and told him this tale, his eyes not quite meeting Robert’s. It made sense to him afterwards, why he picked apart Mama’s kotlet schabowy, why church was such a chore for him, why he flinched around Halinka’s hyper - Catholic parents.
Today, he looks at his boss - sorry, Mr. Weiss - and sees another life for his father - non - practicing but unafraid, a refuge from a life lived in the shadows, and realises that it was what Tata had given him with that fake passport.
He can only hope that he can ever give that back.
. . .
It is prudent - he thinks during his second week in Cologne, that some lies are better utlilised as truths, and applies to volunteer his time at a shelter for homeless youth. That could be a degree, you know? - he remembers Mama telling him when he was applying to colleges - You always were so good with troublesome children. His mind, when he was fresh out of university, never wavered anywhere outside police work - he wanted so desperately for Tata to be proud of him, to approve of his decisions. Thinking back, he realises that there is very little he did in his life not for the express purpose of impressing his father.
On his third day there, he is in the rhythm of loading and unloading blankets from the supply truck, his walk is interrupted by a young girl crashing into him, prompting him to fall.
“I fucking told you to get the hell away from my books, you fucker!”
In the few seconds it takes for him to get up, the girl has already knocked the boy to the ground, landing punches one by one. The orderlies rush to the site of the conflict, but Robert, having shed the pile of blankets off of himself, gets up and pulls the girl away by the back of her collar.
“Hey, hey!” his voice rises, “Cut it out!”
The boy gets up, muttering obscenities, while the girl, who seemed to be no older than sixteen, shouts after him, resisting Robert's grip, “Go on, Schelling! Tell your friends a girl beat you!”
Robert lets her go, and she, with corpse - like limpness, falls out of his hold. She turns to look at him, expression somewhere between shame and defiance, and practically spits out - “He started it.”
He could say - “I don’t care who started it.” Instead, he asks her, quiet but firm, “What did he do?”
She looks at him and mumbles out, “He tried to steal my books.”
“And you thought hitting him was the best possible solution?”
“He called me a slut too.”
“Well, now hitting him makes more sense.”
She giggles, and Robert too, has to quickly shift his gaze elsewhere to avoid her seeing his mouth twitch. He notices that she is clutching a battered book in her bruised left hand, and asks - “This one bore the brunt of it, huh?”
“It was one of the expensive ones, too.”
“What’s it called?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Can’t I be curious?”
The girl looks at him with a raised eyebrow, but when he doesn’t relent, she sighs and says - “Lotte in Weimar. It was hardbound, and in English.”
“That’s quite a loss, Miss-”
“Angerer.”
“Okay, Ms. Angerer,” his curiosity about her first name hangs in the air, but he doesn’t press the issue, instead focusing on how to fit this expense into his meagre earnings.
. . .
Three days after he broke apart the fight between Angerer and Schelling, Robert walks to her with the book behind his back. The girl looks at him with a quizzical look, and before she can say or ask anything, he hands her the gift.
It isn’t particularly aesthetically pleasing - the wrapping is cut from brown grocery paper, and it is tied with some butcher’s twine his boss - sorry, Mr. Weiss let him borrow, but the girl’s eyes go so wide at its sight that it ignites some hope in him.
“I couldn’t find a first - hand copy, so…” his voice trails off as she rips the package open with shaking hands. “Some of the pages are frayed, and some of the text is a bit dull, but -”
He is cut off as she pounces on him with a hug. He is, for the lack of a better word, absolutely dumbstruck. Once both the shock of contact, and the contact itself has worn off, he stares at the girl, who now, he notices, has tears welling up in her eyes.
“I - Thank you,” she sputters, trying (and failing) to discreetly wipe the fresh tears on her face.
“No issues, Ms. Angerer.”
“Lotte. Lotte Angerer,” she says with a shy smile, which he, even in the three days he’s known her, seems out of character for her.
“Is that why you loved the book so much?”
She nods and laughs, and even Robert allows himself to smile. Her laughter dies out in a second, but when she sees him notice her fallen face, she plasters on an unconvincing smile. He realises the patent falsity, but doesn’t press - like her name, it will come up naturally.