Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“That’s blackmail,” complains Joe, leaning against his chair.

His father, at the other side of the table, just laughs out loud upon such an accusation.

“Blackmail? Please, son, I just don’t want Sylvia to feel insulted because you didn’t eat that strudel.”

“And like I said, that’s emotional blackmail,” insists Joe.

“I don’t think it is--she just wants you to eat properly.”

“I am trying to eat properly. She’s just spoiling me and trying to get me fat.”

Heusmann laughs again but without another word looks down on the newspaper he’s got open on the table. Joe ponders for a second or two, staring at the last strudel on the plate, and with a deep sigh of regret grabs it and makes the first bite. He doesn’t know why he even tried to refuse eating it--they’re just too good. Sylvia’s cooking is marvelous; he figured out that much the first time he stayed for lunch.

When the housemaid and cook reappears, she’s almost beaming upon seeing Joe with that last strudel on his hands. A bit embarrassed, Joe distracts himself by taking a sip from the apple juice as Sylvia stops and bows her head at his father.

“Reichminister, officer Hoelfer is here.”

Heusmann looks interested at once, despite the early morning visit. Forgetting all about the newspaper, he leans forward, commanding Sylvia to send the officer in. The woman bows her head again and leaves at once.

Joe finishes eating the strudel staring at his father, who doesn’t meet his eye as he drinks the coffee. Joe’s almost tempted to ask if there’s something going on that would explain such an early visit from officer Hoelfer, but he knows better--he shouldn’t meddle into businesses that he’s got no clearance to.

By then, the officer arrives at the terrace, stops at the doorframe, raises his right arm and salutes them both with the usual ‘Sieg Heil’.

“Gutten Tag, Reichminister, sir,” he greets when he drops his arm. “Sorry for the intrusion, but I’m pleased to announce that we’ve found her, Reichminister.”

“Oh?” is Heusmann’s only response, as he gestures for Hoefler to come closer. At that invitation, the officer steps forward and hands the Reichminister a folder that he opens and takes a brief look at.

“She’s living in New York,” proceeds the officer. “She asked asylum at the Nazi Embassy in San Francisco and is currently under Oberstgruppenführer’s protection.”

Feeling a wave of anger through his entire system, Joe stands from the table with his coffee mug and leans against one of the columns, staring at the Reichtag over there, beyond the park, barely hearing the conversation at his back--he couldn’t be less interested in in knowing what the Oberstgruppenführer has planned and might have in store for the near future even if he tried. However, he can, and should, at least hide his hatred towards the Oberstgruppenführer in front of any strangers sympathetic to the Reic. It’s not just his life that might be at stake.

“Thank you, Hoefler,” his father dismisses after a minute or so of conversation.

The officer nods once, bows at Heusmann and Joe, kicks the floor with his heels and bids farewell by raising his arm and yelling the ‘Heil Hitler’ chant. Joe repeats it long after the officer has left the terrace, finishing his coffee. By then, his father’s reading intently the folder he’s just been given. Joe peers over his father’s shoulder, but then realizes he could be committing some sort of high treason by reading some confidential document and looks back at the Reichtag.

After a beat or two, his father shuts the folder in a deep sigh and throws it at the empty spot where Joe was seated a minute ago. He stares at the folder over his shoulder, weary to show interest.

“What is it?” he asks, since his father seemed keen for him to ask that question.

“Good news, I reckon,” says his father, leaning pleasantly on his chair. “I’d expected much worse news than these, to be honest. But I think you’ll be satisfyingly surprised by my man’s results to the quest I assigned him.”

Such words only manage to confuse Joe, but since his father says nothing else, Joe returns to the table, lays the coffee mug on the small plate and opens the folder.

His heart skips a beat or two when he sees the picture on the first page. He shuts his eyes immediately before he reads any word of the report by accident--he doesn’t want to know any details about how Juliana died. Being alive knowing he’d killed her was hard enough.

“Good news?” he shrieks, not able to keep his voice even, barely able to control his temper. He throws the folder on the table, far away from him, and drops on his chair, crossing his arms in order not to even scratch the folder ever again. “We differ on the definition of good news.

“Father, I didn’t tell you the truth and stayed here in Berlin so you could torture me with stuff like this.”

“Youssef, please read it,” begs his father as Joe stands abruptly from his chair and, without finding any other way out, returns to the solitude of the terrace columns. However, this time not even the sight of the Reichtag brings him comfort. “This is not a bad joke, I would not torture you like that. She’s alive, son--safe and sound in New York.”

Joe frowns as he looks down on his father, who returns him a hopeful look and a warm yet weary smile. The girl Hoefler and his father were talking about, the one under the protection of Oberstgruppenführer--was that Juliana?

Interested now, although regretting his actions, Joe sits back on his seat and grabs the folder again. After a lifetime of hating the man seated in front of him, it’s hard to take a leap of faith now, but he does either way. He takes a very deep breath before he has to see Juliana’s picture again.

Even with being prepared, even with knowing what he’d see, it’s still a shock for his poor heart seeing that white and black picture. It doesn’t do Juliana justice--it doesn’t do his memories justice, either. In the picture, which was obviously taken without her knowing, she wears a dress and coat above the knees, a hat to one side of the hair, gloves and a small bag hanging from her arm--the stereotypical Nazi woman. She is indeed somewhere in the Reich, and apparently, unharmed, too. Feels almost wrong seeing her dressed like that. Being a member of the Resistance, he’d never thought to see her in the midst of the Greater Reich.

This folder, this picture, raises more questions than the ones it answers. How come she wasn’t murdered by the members of the Resistance for letting him escape? How did she manage to flee? How was she able not only to enter the Reich, but apparently to establish there quite comfortably, as it seems? Worse yet--how come she’s under the ‘protection’ of Oberstgruppenführer Smith? What sort of protection. . .?

“What. . .?” he cannot even finish the sentence. There are just so many burning questions piling up in his mind, he doesn’t even know where to begin.

According to the research done by officer Hoelfer, Juliana sought asylum at the Nazi Embassy in San Francisco, arguing she worked with him, Joe Blake--which again only confuses him. Why wasn’t he informed of such an occurrence? Why is he hearing about this only now, thanks to the investigation his father conducted?

“Youssef,” his father calls him out all of a sudden.

Joe raises his eyes from the folder and sees black dots on the corners of his sight--his head spins too. He’s about to be sick.

“I can see this has upset you,” says his father. “If I’ve overstepped, I apologize.”

“No,” replies Joe, dropping his head.

His eyes fall again on the open folder and on the picture of the woman he once loved and he believed, until this very moment, to be dead. No--he believed that he’d killed her. Her hair’s shorter, and it seems as if she’s got an old wound on her cheek. Unable to stare at it for one more second, he slams the folder shut and hands it back to his father.

“Don’t apologize. It hasn’t upset me. I’m just--”

There are no words in the dictionary to explain how he’s feeling. Joe has a hard time raising his head and meeting his father’s eyes. He drops his gaze immediately afterwards, ashamed that his father, the Reichminister, one of the most important men on Earth, should see him crying over a woman. Everything seems so unreal now--the way he always feels whenever he’s with Juliana, making him question everything he thought he believed right, even through a single picture. His father, the Reichtag beyond the park, the swastika on his arm, the luxuries and eccentricity he’s living in, it all feels strange and alienated.

Joe clears his throat and tries to speak up, but the million questions burning in his mind are difficult to unscramble, and words fail him yet again.

“What--? I mean, how--? When did you--?”

His father interjects him, saving him from further embarrassment.

“Youssef, after the bombing, I never believed that my wife and children had been killed until I identified their bodies at the morgue,” he says. “If there’s no body, there’s no actual proof. How could you just believe a rumor?”

“It came from a source I trust,” Joe says, before correcting himself, closing his eyes, “that I trusted.” That’s all his father needs to understand he meant Oberstgruppenführer Smith.

“So, if it turned out she was really dead, I’d have seen a picture of her corpse in there?” asks Joe, pointing at the folder with his head.

“No, I wouldn’t have, Youssef,” exclaims his father. “You should not disturb the water that is tranquil. I wouldn’t have burdened you with such piece of news when you’d already accepted that woman’s fate.

“But I thought you’d be pleased to read this,” adds Heusmann after some beats, when he’d expected some sort of response from Youssef.

“Of course I am, father,” promises Joe, rubbing, a bit desperate, the subtle on his cheeks. “I cannot begin to tell you. . . But what difference does it make?”

“It makes all the difference, Youssef. D’you know what I’d give if I could spend just one more day with my wife?”

“Father, it’s not the same,” says Joe, dropping his hand, hard, on the armchair, his knuckles white from the anger or desperation riling him up. “She’s not Nicole. You--you wouldn’t approve of her. And you’re not in a situation where you can allow your own son to bring shame upon the family or the fatherland.”

“My son,” replies Heusmann, “I couldn’t be prouder of you. There’s nothing you could do--”

“You're not listening to me!” yells Youssef. After his outburst he leans forward so no-one except his father listens his next words, even if the only person who could actually hear him is Sylvia, and he’s come to understand she’d never betray the family. “She isn’t a Nazi. She’s not suitable. She was born in the Pacific States. I’ve no idea how she ended up in New York.”

“She’s abandoned her past life,” says his father. “And the Führer’s lessons can be taught--we’ve proven that at great length, don’t you think?”

He retreats back chuckling under his breath, patting Joe on the shoulder with quite the strength. Joe doesn’t budge, his eyes locked on that folder on the table, uncertain if his father’s words can really be true.

Juliana’s alive.

So what? another voice tells him. What difference does it make for him, or for her? Also, what happened to Frank? The research didn’t even mention him.

Even with knowing that she’s alive, that he could find her. . . He couldn’t possibly go and meet her, not with his father being who he is, not with Oberstgruppenführer keeping a close eye on her. Furthermore, what difference would it make, he wonders? What would they do? He’d stay in New York? Bring her to Berlin? He can’t live so close to Oberstgruppenführer Smith again, and she would never survive living at the heart and soul of the Greater Nazi Reich. Heusmannn would never outlive the shame, either--Juliana’s not suitable, she’s not the racially desirable women the Reich commands high-profile members of society to court and marry. What possible future could there ever be between them?

But she’s alive, his mind tells him over and over again. Can that really be all that matters?

“Ah, Ruprecht, there you are,” says Heusmann as their driver enters the terrace and stands a couple feet from the table. “My son will be leaving now. Has Sylvia prepared his bags?”

“She has, Reichminister.”

“Perfect,” approves Heusmann, the smallest smile on his lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Wait by the car, will you?”

Without another word, Ruprecht bows his head and leaves the terrace--all while Joe stares at his father, dumbfounded for the second time in as many minutes.

“I’m leaving? Where the hell am I going?”

“You’ve got a plane to catch,” nods Heusmann, patting his shoulder again. He stands, taking his cup of coffee with him, back facing Joe, as he stares at the Reichtag, exactly as Joe had done earlier. “I don’t need to tell you where that plane’s headed.”

For some minutes, Joe remains on his seat, speechless, astonished, holding onto his chair as if it was a lifesaver. Not only has he just discovered that Juliana is in fact alive, but somehow he’s just received permission by his own father and the Reichminister to leave for New York immediately, no explanations needed. His father’s literally telling him to forget some of the policies he’s been taught since childhood: to go search his own happiness for once, instead of simply working for the greater good. And if he’s got the Reichminister’s blessing, he’s not going to argue his options on end. What will he face there in New York, that’s his own problem, he knows--Oberstgruppenführer is, after all--but he can barely believe everything his father’s giving him now.

After some seconds, Joe stands, very slowly, his napkin all but crumpled in his hands, and then places the chair back, cautious movements, still desbeliving everything that’s happening. Heusmann’s back’s still facing him--and words fail him once more. In the end, he realizes there’s nothing left to say.

He kicks the marble floor with his heels and raises his right arm.

“Heil Hitler.”

His father doesn’t answer in any way, doesn’t even turn around to give his son one last parting look, and after a couple seconds, Joe drops his arm, spins and leaves the terrace. Down at the hall, Sylvia’s waiting for him with his travel bag packed and tears in her eyes, the same tears that, if he’d turned around, he’d seen in Heusmann’s eyes.

Chapter Text

She leaves her apartment slowly and cautiously, trying not to fidget looking for an unexistent key, and crosses the hall without staring back at all the doors she passes by, waiting for a danger that has never yet come. She tries to act casual, without looking over her shoulder every few seconds, as if there weren't a threat over her--because, to ordinary people, there isn't.

Breathing a bit better when she steps outside to a bright, warm afternoon, she stops for a second to catch her breath.

She’s been invited to dinner with the Smiths--again--in a little more than an hour. It’s less than a twenty-minute walk to their house, but she could use the staying outdoors for a little longer. The four walls in her apartment become claustrophobic by the second the longer she stays there, knowing she’s being watched and listened in, and she just couldn’t stand it for another minute.

Because she had her eyes closed, it takes her a minute to realize there’s a car and a man leaning against said car in front of her building. She drops her gaze immediately and keeps walking. It’s just another man she needs to stay away from. Another red band and swastika on someone’s arm who will have her killed should she say or do the wrong thing. Holding tight to her purse, she manages to keep her breathing even while trying to get away from the man as fast as possible without breaking into a run.

“Juliana.”

She gasps and turns around in fright. No one here knows her by that name. And that someone should call her that can only mean one thing: problems.

Before she even looks at the man in the eye, she’s already looking for a way out. She won’t be able to enter her home before she’s caught, the man’s standing right between her and the building. Calling out for help would be suicidal. There’s nowhere close she can run to for hiding. Perhaps she could climb into one of the cars parked. . .

And then the man steps closer and she takes a good look at him.

“Joe,” she breathes out, as her heart starts beating again.

Joe flashes the briefest of smiles as he comes to a halt a couple feet from her, the cigarette hanging from his lips. It’s the first time she’s ever seen him in a three-part navy suit and it really suits him--if it weren’t for that swastika bringing so many bad memories and products of her imagination. For a second, she’s returns to that moment, so many months ago, when Frank and her watched that goddamn film where the a bomb was dropped in San Francisco, where Frank was executed. . . Where Joe was a Nazi soldier.

Which he is, a voice reminds her. That’s the only truth in the whole damn film. Beyond that suit and perfect hair, that shy smile, that’s who he is.

“I’m sorry. Should I call you Julia around here?” he asks.

“How do you know any of it?” she demands before she gives away any more information--Joe seems to know a lot about her.

He simply raises his eyebrows and she scoffs, looking away and chastising herself for her naïveté. Of course, they’re in the Greater Reich and he’s a Nazi agent. He had easy access to her whereabouts, her cover and every little detail he wanted to know about her.

“Well, then, why didn’t you show up before?”

Such an outburst prompts a short chuckle from Joe, but neither of them is up to laughing--sense of humor is a strange and unique thing in this world.

“You seem to be doing just fine on your own, entering the Greater Reich and all,” he points out, nodding at her. Today she’s wearing a sleeveless grey suit with jumper, black shoes with heels and a matching purse and gloves. That look, and the fact that they’re surrounded by Nazi flags hanging from every building and streetlamp, feels so wrong that Joe’s nerves start twitching.

“Don’t be fooled by my looks, Joe,” says she, staring down at the clothes she feels nothing but uncomfortable in.

When she looks up again, Joe has stepped closer, saving the distance between the two--catching her by surprise.

“I was fooled by your looks once before,” he whispers, staring intently into her eyes, “I won’t make that mistake again.

“I didn’t know, Juliana. I just heard two days ago,” he promises.

She avoids his eye for the longest time, until Joe reaches out and gently rests a hand against her arm.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he says. She can do nothing else but oblige, since it’d be indecorous and rude to decline the order masked as a suggestion.

And so, they turn around, headed for the same direction she’d started walking earlier, Joe’s hand on her arm the only contact they share until he drops his hand and buries it deep inside his trouser’s pockets, leaving a respectful distance with her.

As a norm, Juliana walks staring at her feet. She’s noticed people from the Reich always walk and stand with their heads held high, shoulders back, proud of their heritage, knowing they fully deserve their place in the world--but she can’t help it, it’s sort of a learnt lesson. In the Pacific States it’s better to avoid eye contact with anyone. If the Japanese got a glimpse that you feel superior than them you can get flogged, shot at or something worse.

But now, she just can’t stop herself from looking up over and over to Joe. He doesn’t give her a second glance, he’s just got eyes for the road ahead, but strangely enough, he looks confident and comfortable in his clothes, in his step. He belongs.

“Herr Heusmann,” someone says all of a sudden, clearly addressing Joe, and she drops her head again. A man has just greeted Joe by bowing his head, and he answers the same way too, before they part each other’s way.

“Hey. Don’t slouch. Don’t hide. Look up,” Joe orders her in a whisper.

Astonished by his words, Juliana glares at him. He doesn’t understand the intrinsic feeling of fear she’s suffered through these streets and inside her home every minute of every day since she was granted temporal permission to enter the Greater Reich, and now he’s giving her lessons on how to behave?

“Juliana, I really didn’t know. Last I heard you were dead,” he says, softer voice now, making her deflate. He looks in pain because of the words he’s uttered, and for an irrational second Juliana wants to reach out a hand, take his, cup his cheek and kiss the nightmares away. She does nothing of the sort, however.

“You seem pretty well-informed. What kind of contacts do you have?”

“Contacts I thought I could trust,” scowls Joe. “They didn't tell me about you accessing the Reich, either. I would have come back earlier.”

“Come back? Where were you?”

Joe ponders for a second or two, but answers in the end. “In Berlin, with my father.”

Now it’s Juliana the one to avoid eye contact as she turns a bit, so her back faces Joe, and keeps her eyes on the houses they pass by, all of them with their appropriate Nazi flags hanging from the poles. Needs a few minutes to find words again and Joe doesn’t push her, enjoying the walk--enjoying the pretense, really.

“You know, I’ve been waiting, Joe,” she says, a remark that gets a scoff and a soft chuckle from Joe, by her side.

“Don’t strike me like the woman who awaits for her white prince to sweep her off her feet and save her.”

“I would have been much better off, really,” she mutters, again avoiding her eye. Joe doesn’t say anything for some time, he just stops walking in the middle of the sidewalk and stares at her back, since it takes her a second longer to stop as well.

Giving him time to understand the implications of her words. . . And when he does, he lets out a groan. He grabs her arms, makes her spin and retains her against a tree, a bit too harshly.

“Jesus Christ, Juliana. The Resistance? Here? Are you fucking crazy? ” he whispers.

“Hey, you’re not entitled to judge,” scowls the woman, pushing him away. In order to keep appearances, Joe steps back, burying his hands inside his pockets again to stop himself from doing something they could both regret. “I’m doing what I need to do to stay alive. This is no different from the pretense life I lived in the Pacific States.”

Joe doesn’t answer for a long time, his eyes locked on the house behind Juliana, without truly looking at the house or the woman. A vein pops up on his neck, and he needs a minute for his breathing to calm down. Juliana looks around too, wondering if she’s being watched by any members of the Resistance as well, and fearing what they might think of her meeting with Joe Blake, a known Nazi agent, the reason why she surrendered one of those films. Would George or any of his men dare attacking Joe right here in the open. . .?

“Come,” Joe says all of a sudden, unaware of her thoughts, pointing at a café.

The sudden change of subject startles her, since she’d been preparing a speech against all of Joe’s arguments. She stutters, fidgeting with her purse. “I really don’t have that much time. I’m meeting the Smiths in less than an hour.”

The face the man makes is indescribable as for the first time he avoids her eye to refrain from answering; for a second, Juliana can tell Joe knows something he won’t reveal to her. Just like old times.

“I’ll drive you,” he suggests after a beat.

The place Joe’s chosen is a small and beautiful café she’d seen time and time again as she walked by, but had never decided to step in. Juliana doesn’t want to confess so, but if she were obliged, she’d say the lifestyle in the Reich is certainly better than the Pacific States. It’s too crowded and busy and noisy in the States--and class discrimination is a common occurrence. None of the sort happens here; there’s only one social status and if one disagrees with it they die, so there aren’t many discussions around. Plus, the streets, sidewalks and shops are much prettier and clean, and people are allowed to know what personal space is.

Even knowing all of that, Juliana has, for the better part of the past weeks, avoided public spaces altogether. Now with Joe is the first time she steps into a café or any crowded place, really, where she wasn’t obliged to enter--and does her best to keep her breathing even.

“Herr Heusmannn,” another man says, addressing Joe, stepping aside to let them enter first. Joe nods for Juliana to step inside in front of her and doesn’t even thank the man for his kindness.

“Seig Heil,” Joe greets as if saying good afternoon.

“Seig Heil, Herr Heusmannn,” corresponds one of the waitresses, leading the way towards an empty table, right in the middle of the restaurant, which does not do good with Juliana’s state of mind.

Whether he does it because he notices her nervous reaction or because he too was looking forward a more private conversation, Joe doesn’t even consider for a second accepting the table the waitress was about to offer them.

“That one,” he says with an authority that almost scares Juliana, pointing at a much further table, on a corner, far away from the windows.

“Certainly, Herr Heusmannn,” says the waitress, changing her path immediately, her head dropped, almost embarrassed due to her clumsiness being spotted and called out. “What will you be having?”

“A black coffee,” says Juliana, making a real effort not to speak in whispers.

“The same for me, plus two of those delicious strudels of yours.”

“Thank you, Herr Heusmannn.”

Joe and Juliana remain silent all the while the waitress disappears from their little corner. Juliana then notices a soft smile on Joe's lips.

“Feels like old times.”

“When what we thought to know from each other was that we were members of the Resistance?”

“Jul--” Joe raises a hand and, panicked, looks above his shoulder. She remains quiet as he makes sure no one heard her and he relaxes. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

“What do you want to talk about, then?”

“Seems like I misunderstood how well you’re doing,” says Joe, sarcasm clear in his voice, “what with you being a member of the Smith’s social circle.”

“You know the Smiths?”

“We’ve met.”

“You’re a rotten liar. Either you’re close to them, or--”

“Here you have, Herr Heusmannn,” says the waitress, as she arrives with a silver tray carrying their order. Joe and Juliana remain silent, staring at each other while avoiding each other’s eye at the same time, while the waitress sets the table.

“Thank you. You can keep the change,” says Joe then, waving away the bills the waitress was giving him in return, a gesture, Juliana knows, also meant for waving the waitress away. The woman takes the hint alright and leaves hurriedly without another word.

“So, are you going to take the ACT test?” asks Joe, resuming their prior conversation.

“It’s kind of a requirement from all parts.”

Joe tries to keep his response even when he understands both Oberstgruppenführer and the Resistance must be pressing Juliana into passing the exam and getting the german nationality.

“Are you ready?” he asks. An absolute joke this time, but Juliana follows his suit either way.

“I think I am, yes,” she nods, pushing away the coffee so she can cross her arms on the table. “Try me--ask me anything.”

“Has Frank come with you?” is the only question that escapes Joe’s lips, the one question that nearly makes Juliana choke with her coffee. She needs more than a couple seconds to calm down, carefully wiping her lips with a napkin.

“That’s what you want to know?” she shrieks, receiving a cold shrugging of shoulders as a response.

“Just curious,” he replies.

“No, he isn’t here with me,” she answers after a brief pause. “We were separated, and. . . I was in danger. I couldn't wait for him."

"I'm sorry," Joe whispers, dropping his head, making Juliana question what his true feelings and thoughts about this whole ordeal are. Instead of asking that particular question that'll lead nowhere, she just changes the subject.

"And now, may I ask why’s everyone calling you that? Heusmannn? Just curious,” she demands in return.

Joe doesn’t even avoid her eye now and answers right away.

“He’s my father. Reichminister Heusmannn. Only recently has such piece of news come to the public, though.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he begs when Juliana crosses her arms in a clearly defensive pose and leans on her chair, as far away from him as humanly possible under the circumstances. “You knew who I was.”

“A Nazi to the core? I thought there was something different about you.”

“I’d love to say that there is,” sighs Joe, dropping his eyes, “but I’m not sure anymore.”

“You once said you wished to do anything but what you were doing. That you’d want to be anyone but the man you are,” says Juliana, her words shattering Joe’s heart syllable by syllable. “Why don’t you? There are alternatives.”

“Oh, like joining the Resistance?”

“Joe,” she interjects, since he raised his voice too loudly. She reaches out a hand and scrapes Joe’s fingers with hers, begging him to take a breath and calm down. Almost as if he’d heard her plea, he does exactly that, closing his eyes, dropping his head. “Don’t slouch. Don’t hide.”

Remembering the instructions he gave her some minutes earlier, Joe chuckles, letting out the air he’d been holding in. He turns her hand so their palms are in contact, and gently grabs her wrist. The two stair at their entwined hands for some long seconds, all the questions they had seemingly unimportant now.

“Why have you come here?” asks Juliana after a minute or two.

He’s got no answer for her, instead choosing to staring at his empty coffee mug. What is he hiding now? Juliana ponders. They've always had secrets between them, true, but hiding things has rarely ever brought them to any successful conclusions. Given how much everything's changed, she's not certain she can completely trust Joe if he keeps things from her still.

“Come on, I’ll take you to the Smiths,” he says instead of answering, standing.

Checking the clock on the wall, Juliana can see they’re going to be late, and so she follows Joe’s suit. They bid farewell to the waitresses and make their way back to her apartment, to Joe’s car parked right outside her building. Joe opens the passenger’s door for her and even reaches a hand out to help her enter the vehicle, which Juliana accepts, respecting protocol, but she doesn’t refrain herself from giving him a cold look and then a roll of eyes as he shuts the door behind her. Few seconds later, they’re on the road--making it impossible for anyone to listen in.

Not that they have anything to talk about anymore. The trip evolves silently, Joe doesn’t even ask for directions--he knows where they’re going, alright. Few minutes later, he parks in front of the Smiths. He keeps staring at the house while Juliana steps out of the car and, as they walk up to the entrance, he even dares to hold her hand, giving her a squeeze--for comfort? Reassurance? Or did he just need and want to do that?

So many questions she could have asked on their drive up here, so little time now. Joe follows her up to the house front entrance and stands two steps behind of her on the stairs, allowing Juliana to ring the bell.

While they wait for Hellen to answer, she cannot deviate her eyes from Joe, looking for a sign, anything really, that explains what sort of relationship he’s got with the Smiths. He doesn’t look away from the door, putting on a fake, broad smile when they hear Hellen’s heels approaching.

“Julia!” Hellen greets with an exuberant smile and an over-the-top embrace.
 
“Sorry I’m late,” apologizes Juliana, kissing Hellen on the cheeks. “But I did come bearing gifts.”
 
Hellen’s smile and composure literally drops as he sees turns towards Juliana’s so-called guest. She freezes at the doorstep, her hands checking her clothes, her hair. Juliana sees Hellen’s face change and go white upon the arrival of such a distinguished guest.
 
“Joe!” she blurts out, a syllable that gets an incredulous raise of eyebrows from Juliana and a head dropped from the man, a bit nervous and embarrassed. Hellen doesn’t even notice as she herself is trying to overcome her own shame. “I’m sorry, that was stupid of me. Herr Heusmannn, it is--”

“Please,” interjects the man, smiling politely at her. “Joe. It’s still Joe.”

“John will be so pleased to see you again,” promises Hellen, nervously welcoming them inside and shutting the door behind them. She asks for their coats and Juliana’s purse as she raises her voice to call out her husband. “John, look who’s here!”

Both Joe and Juliana hold their breaths as the Oberstgruppenführer comes out of the living room, staring first at Joe and then at Juliana.

“Sig Heil, Oberstgruppenführer,” greets Joe formally.

For some seconds, no one knows what John’s first reaction’s going to be--perhaps not even the Oberstgruppenführer himself knows--and tension spikes up the longer they remain silent. Juliana forces herself to stay put and not say a word, knowing she could very well mess up instead of fixing things, but can't help sending Joe a look, letting him know that she will expect some answers as soon as they're alone, and away from danger.

“Sig Heil, Joe. What a surprise!” the man says instead, almost a warm smile on his lips. He steps closer to offer his hand, which Joe takes after a two-second deliberation. “I thought you were in Berlin, with your father.”

“Well, not anymore,” he laughs, dropping his arm, looking back at Hellen. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Nonsense!” replies John. “I’m sure there’s food for one more guest, right, Hellen?”

“Of course,” nods the woman, smiling broadly again--even she is relieved at her husband’s pleasant and welcoming reaction. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

Chapter Text

“This stew is delicious, Hellen. I really must ask you the recipe one day.”

“Oh, thank you, Julia. Remind me later,” replies Hellen politely.

Seated by Juliana’s right side, Joe can’t help but marvel and being at awe at Juliana’s prowess for pretense. Sure, he knew she coud lie--she tricked and trapped him more than once back in the Neutral Zone and later--but this level is truly impressive. They’re all seated at the Oberstgruppenführer’s table pretending this is a somewhat ordinary dinner, when it’s nothing but.

It’s the second-highest ranking military member from the Sturmabteilung presiding his family’s table, inviting over a former citizen of the Pacific States ruled by the Japanese, a known member of the Resistance and a woman who was granted by some miracle of nature asylum into the Greater Reich, plus. . . A man whose feelings and loyalties are, to say the least, conflicted. What in the world is he doing here? He meant to meet Juliana, talk with her and retrieve her if possible, nothing else--meeting Oberstgruppenführer was never part of the plan.

“So, Joe, tell us about Berlin,” begs Hellen, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” he nods, wiping his lips with his napkin. “It’s hard to explain. If you’ve never been there, it can be difficult to adjust. Everything’s so grand, so pristine, so--”

“So perfect,” Oberstgruppenführer finishes his sentence. For the first time since they sat down for dinner, Joe looks up to him and they exchange one strange look neither of them can label.

“Yes,” agrees Joe after a second. “The epitome of the successes and innovations of the Greater Reich. A live exposition of the best advances the fatherland has to offer.”

“Proving that the fatherland is stronger and safer than never before in history,” adds Oberstgruppenführer.

“And so if the Führer,” concurs Joe. “Just the beginning of the thousand-years empire.”

Even though Joe was actually answering Hellen’s question, the last couple of interventions happened with Joe and John looking at each other and no one else at the table, whereas Hellen and Juliana, surprised and a bit intimidated, remained silent and kept on eating. For two long seconds, as the two men hold each other’s eye, no one dares to say a thing.

“Wouldn’t you like to see Berlin, Julia?” Hellen asks then. Her question finally makes the two men break eye contact.

“Oh, yes,” nods Juliana politely. “I would love to see the heart of the empire with my own eyes. Although coming to the Reich after living so long in the Pacific States was already a shock; I don’t think I’ll survive visiting the beating heart of the Greater Reich.”

Her joke makes Hellen and the kids laugh and so, tension deescalates, allowing Joe to take a deep breath and pull away from the difficult tension with Oberstgruppenführer. To avoid John altogether, he looks down at Juliana, barely caressing her arm.

“I’d love to take you there,” he whispers, grabbing her hand under the table.

Blushing just so slightly, Juliana drops her head and laughs softly, but when, seconds later, she looks up at Joe, her face is indecipherable and tormented.

What in the world did he just say? It was just a spur of the moment, he doesn’t know what possessed him to say such a thing, and Joe scans the room to assess how they all took it. Hellen’s smiling warmly at them both, whereas Oberstgruppenführer’s face is, once again, unreadable--just as it has been since they met. His heart sinks again and Joe drops his head to his almost untouched stew, for he’s been unable to swallow no more than a couple bites. Dear Lord, this is almost as if he’d brought Juliana in for her to meet his parents, only a thousand times worse, because this is the Reich standards they’re supposed to meet. How are they going to get through this whole meal?

Somehow, they manage, especially thanks to Juliana’s efforts. When, half an hour later, she and Hellen start collecting the dishes to wash, Hellen commanding the two girls to give a hand as well, Oberstgruppenführer summons Joe back at his office. The same room where, ages ago, after he got back from his assignment in the Neutral Zone, Oberstgruppenführer found out he’d been lying and that Joe had feelings for a female Resistance operative.

The irony doesn’t escape neither men’s attention as John shuts the glass door behind him, burying his hands deep inside his pockets. Leaning against John’s desk, Joe buries his hands in his pockets, expectantly. This meeting won’t end up like last time. The time spent apart has given Joe some perspective and, also, some control.

“Well, Joe, let’s be honest here,” Oberstgruppenführer begs.

He keeps silent, waiting for an open question from the Oberstgruppenführer that forces him to speak up. John accepts Joe’s stand graciously and stops beating around the bush immediately.

“What are your plans with Julia Mills?”

“Why the interest?” asks him, shrugging.

“Don’t be coy with me, Joe,” warns the Oberstgruppenführer.

“We’re both free citizens. Juliana will soon be a legal citizen of the Greater Reich. So I ask you again, why the interest?”

“Oh, Joe, don’t be naïve. We are never free. That’s the beauty of our Empire and the intricacies of safety in the fatherland. We all have duties to perform for the greater good of our fine nation. Julia Mills, or Juliana Crain, will never be free.

“And neither will you--you’re only living in a pretended state of freedom and security, which is even worse than knowing you’re being watched by the enemy. You have your duties to perform as well.”

“I haven’t forgotten where my duties lie,” says Joe, a statement that gets an incredulous scoff from the Oberstgruppenführer.

“Infatuation can hardly be called duty.”

“Bullshit. What’s that all about, then?” presses Joe, vaguely pointing outside with a wave of his head--at Hellen, at John’s children, at his almost happy, wealthy and rich life he’s got to enjoy every day. That’s all he wants too.

The Oberstgruppenführer, after taking a short look through the glass door at the spot his family members were seated minutes ago, smiles again.

“Having a family is a duty, Joe. To preserve and maintain the glorious future of our Empire, we need to have children. Whereas an infatuation over a known member of the Resistance. . . That’s treason.”

At that last word, Joe clears his throat, straightening and buttoning his jacket again. He’s unable to stand any more insults from Oberstgruppenführer towards Juliana.

“I’ll be the judge of that. But let’s be honest here,” he suggests, mirroring Oberstgruppenführer’s words, standing as tall as he is. “We both know the Führer isn’t in vigorous health. He isn’t fit to rule the fatherland anymore. What you don’t know is, the Führer’s appointed Reichminister Heusmann to be acting Chancelor for the time being.”

The news were supposed to surprise Oberstgruppenführer, startle him for a couple of seconds, long enough for Joe to catch his breath and regain control of the conversation. But Oberstgruppenführer only smiles, with that infuriating and condescending smile Joe’s come to hate over the years.

“And you think that’ll protect you? That it’ll protect her ?”

"She’ll be away from you. I won’t let you manipulate, control and use her as a puppet the way you did with me for so long.”

“Don’t blame me for the actions you made, Joe. You say you haven’t forgotten your responsibilities nor our allegiances? Well, then, infatuation has blinded you more than you can possibly imagine. I tried to warn you about her kind, Joe--they're not eligible nor trustworthy. She'll end up betraying your so-called love, slitting your throat in your sleep and doing the same with any Nazi member she comes across with.

"And that's why under no circumstance can I allow you to take her to Berlin. Can you imagine what a disaster would that be?”

At a loss for words, Joe sits back on the desk. What the Oberstgruppenführer’s implying, it’s not possible. . . Juliana and the Resistance. . . How does he know? Shit, he needs to take her somewhere far away from Oberstgruppenführer. This isn’t even a question anymore. He will save Juliana from John’s strings, from the claws he’s got well wrapped-up around her fucking neck.

“Of course I know, Joe,” says Oberstgruppenführer as if he’d heard his thoughts, shrugging, “do you think I’m that stupid? I only let it slide because I wanted to know how far she’d go even under my protection in the Greater Reich.

“And the answer is frightening, Joe. We cannot allow her to go to Berlin. They’re a plague--they’re everywhere. You’d be putting everyone in danger. The Führer, Reichminister Heusmann, the fatherland, yourself. . .”

“She wouldn’t,” promises Joe. “She’s had every chance to get rid off me.”

“She’s just waiting for the appropriate moment, until it hurts the most,” replies John, stepping closer to Joe. He instinctively looks for a way out, the door being the only option, but doesn’t budge from his spot over the desk.

“Maybe so,” grants Joe, shrugging--that is the preferable MO of the Resistance, after all, and he knows that. “If it comes to that, I’ll stop her.”

John laughs again. Unable to stay put anymore before he does commit treason by attacking his former boss and a high-ranking member of the Reich, Joe stands, pushing the Oberstgruppenführer’s shoulder. He starts walking in circles around the study, whereas John steps between him and the door again, blocking the only way out of the study.

“She is not suited for Berlin,” he proceeds. “On national security reasons, I will not let her on any plane out of the States.”

Whatever else Joe wanted out of this meeting--punching Oberstgruppenführer, finally telling him all he thought of him--a negative answer was not amidst the possibilities he’d expected. He steps ever so close to John, hoping he can read the hatred in his eyes, his body language. His words and voice.

“I know you sent me to Berlin so one day you could cash in a favor. But you controlling me, pulling the strings even from so far away, that ends now--today. I don’t work for you anymore. I don’t want to hear from you again. I’m taking Juliana back with me and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.

“So unless you throw me away into a cell or an interrogation room, which I’m guessing the acting Chancelor wouldn’t exactly approve of and congratulate you for, you’re going to let me get out of this room. You’re going to let me and Juliana leave this house, and you’re going to let us get on a plane headed for Berlin. You will not speak a word, raise a flag, or send any spies of yours to watch our movements and interactions back in Berlin.

"Anything you'd like to say about it?"

His whole speech makes Oberstgruppenführer chuckle with a soft laughter and he stares at the ground, shaking his head--not really answering Joe’s question, but out of incredulity for Joe’s behavior and actions. Joe waits for some seconds to make sure John really has nothing else to say or do, before he leaves the study and slams the door shut behind his back.

Outside, Hellen and Julia have cleared out the table and washed the dishes and after sending her children upstairs, Hellen has poured two glasses of wine. Seated at the kitchen table, Julia looks down on the card recipes Hellen has fished out for her, trying her darnest not to look overly anxious or worried over the conversation Joe’s having with Oberstgruppenführer Smith.

“Thank you so much for this, Hellen. I can’t wait to get on working with this pie,” she says politely. “Although I’ve never been a good cook. Back in the States, I used to get on my Mom’s nerves whenever I stepped into the kitchen.”

“I’m certain it wasn’t that bad,” chuckles Hellen, caressing her arm. “And in any case, when you’ve baked the pie, bring it over. We’ll see what can be improved."

“I’ll appreciate that,” nods her.

“That’s what we do here in the Reich--helping each other,” says Hellen, and Juliana can’t help but wonder if that statement had some kind of hidden meaning as well. “And don’t worry, even if you’re not really used to the kind of cuisine we prepare here in the Reich, the girls and I will give you a hand. You’ll learn the basics in no time at all.”

“But I’ll never be as good as any of you.”

“One step at a time,” says Hellen fondly, patting her arm reassuringly. At Hellen’s confidence, Juliana can’t help but smile too, almost believing her words.

They take a sip of wine at the same time and then, despite her best efforts, Juliana peeks at the door, as if hoping Joe or John could have appeared right there without them noticing. Beyond the dining room, she sees again that door to the study and wonders once more the subject of their private conversation.

By her side, she realizes Hellen was also blatantly staring down the hall, and Juliana clears her throat for both their sakes.

“Have you heard from Alice lately?” asks Juliana. “How’s she holding up?”

“She hasn’t left home much since the funeral,” answers Hellen. “The girls were thinking of paying her a visit this next week, would you be so kind to join us? I know Alice would like that.”

“I’m not sure it’s appropriate,” replies Julia politely. Her presence at the funeral felt strange and out of place, forcing herself into Alice’s home when she’s in mourning just seems rude and an invasion of privacy. Then again, here in the Reich they’d call it ‘stand for each other’s needs’, but still. . .

“Oh, nonsense. She’d be delighted to see you too.”

“Julia,” Joe calls her out, and her head shoots right up.

There he is, leaning under the threshold. Before he puts on a fake smile for Hellen, thanking her the meal and the pleasant evening, Julia gets to see a glimpse of hurt and pain in Joe’s eyes. The Oberstgruppenführer, however, is nowhere to be seen. What did they talk about? What happened inside that office?

Questions will have to wait, unfortunately.

“Let me drive you home,” says Joe, waving outside.

Hellen and Julia stand at the same time, the wine glasses forgotten as the former leads the two guests back to the entrance and hands them their coats. Joe excuses John’s absence by saying--or lying--that the Oberstgruppenführer’s attending an important call, and Julia steps in hugging Hellen and thanking her once more for her generous hospitality.

“I’ll contact you regarding Alice,” Juliana bids farewell while Joe, a little hasty for everyone’s sake, holds the door open for her.

They walk up to the car and Joe keeps the pretense by helping Juliana into the vehicle, although he barely looks at her. Silence lingers as he drives off, getting away from the Smith’s and, a few blocks later, passing by Juliana’s building.

“I’m taking you to my hotel,” says Joe before she can protest. Those six words are the total extend of their communication throughout their drive through the city. As minutes and miles progress, Juliana sinks into the same sullenness mood Joe’s irradiates by her side, unable to find any subjects of conversation.

Finally Joe stops in front of a six-floor hotel and jumps out of the car, surrendering the keys to a valet before meeting Juliana on the crosswalk. He reaches out for her hand, which she refuses, but that simple gesture makes her breathe again. Joe’s not avoiding her or keeping her at arm’s length out of guilt, which can only mean good news--he hasn’t surrendered her to Oberstgruppenführer Smith.

In spite of herself, Juliana can’t help but admire the hotel they step into. Everything’s pristine, spotless, perfect. . . The higher the standards, the more magnificent the Greater Reich appears to be, she ponders to herself. And for a brief second, she understands what Joe and Oberstgruppenführer were talking about earlier. As soon as she was granted access to the Reich she saw the differences in the less crowded streets, the tailored uniforms and dresses everyone wears, but this is a completely different level. It speaks to the commodity and comfort of the guests, but also an expression of the marvels the Empire can provide its citizens with. To some degree, she can accept and understand the admiration everyone’s got towards the marvels the Führer’s achieved.

As soon as that thought pops into her mind, Juliana almost wants to chastise herself. She’s falling into a trap and she knows it, an intricate and beautiful but highly life-risking trap, and she cannot forget that there’re enemies all around her, wherever she goes.

Right now, Joe’s taking her across the hall and towards the elevators, grabbing her by the arm so she doesn’t fall behind.

“Please don’t argue,” he begs in a whisper when the doors shut, barely moving his lips or looking at her. “I’ll get you another room later, but for now come to mine. It’s clean and no one would dare to install any recording devices.”

The doors opening at the third floor prevent Juliana from speaking, and Joe points to the right. His hand on her arm softer than earlier, he leads her to the room 305. She breathes easier as well now, maybe because of the distance they’ve put between themselves and Oberstgruppenführer Smith, or maybe because of the promise of the very first safe environment she’s been at since she got to the Reich.

They both let out a sigh of deep relief when the door shuts behind them and Joe secures the door. He takes both their coats and even hangs them in a cupboard, but then he just puts a halt to all the unnecessary courtesy as well and drops on the double-sized bed, running a hand through his hair.

“I want my room now,” says Juliana, a defying declaration that makes Joe scoff and drop his head between his legs. He’s got the tiniest smile on his lips, as if her showing defiance and resistance doesn’t come as a surprise anymore.

"We need to talk first.”

His insistence on talking only manages to make Juliana more nervous and she looks around, unconsciously searching for cameras and microphones. There is one thing that crosses her mind by them being alone at last, at one hotel room. . .

“Joe, whatever you had in mind by bringing me to your hotel room, it is not happening.”

He stands abruptly, a movement so fast and energetic that gets a yelp from her, but she forces herself to stand her ground and not take a step backwards.

“This goes far beyond whatever feelings you might have for me and I for you,” he scowls, the intensity of his words and his eyes scaring her a bit. “This is about your life. About your future. I’m not planning on letting you out of my sight now that I’ve got you back, but what really matters to me right now is--you staying alive. I’ll do whatever it takes for you to see the sun rising tomorrow.”

“What are you talking about?” she demands, finally taking a step back and putting some speck of personal space between them. Joe immediately saves the distance, but respects Juliana when she raises her hand to stop him. He just leans so that her palm is resting directly over his heart. She feels his erratic heartbeat, his gasping breathing. “I’m in no danger.

“No immediate danger,” she mends the next second.

“Yes, you are,” scowls Joe. “Oberstgruppenführer Smith knows who you are.”

“He debriefed me before I got access to the Reich,” nods she. “I explained what had happened in the Neutral Zone, how I’d met you. . . I omitted some parts of the story, of course, but yes, Joe, he knows about me. That’s no news.”

“No, listen! It’s not just that! He knows you’ve been working with the Resistance right here on Nazi soil. He’s got tabs on your apartment and has watched your every movement since you got here. He knows, Juliana.”

Out of breath, Juliana turns around and walks on circles around the room for some long seconds. Muttering to herself, brushing her hair in desperate movements, Joe gives her time to process the news. In the end she meets the desk again and takes a seat on one of the chairs, her eyes still blank.

“But. . . It doesn’t make any sense! Why hasn’t he arrested me yet? He--”

“Wanted to learn as much as possible about the operation, its mission and its members before taking you all out,” Joe explains slowly. “He was just letting you play to see how far the scheme would go.”

“Oh, god. Then he knows about. . . About everyone. . .” George. Susan. Everyone else she met whose names were never unveiled, for all their sakes and for the future of their mission. Even her meeting the Man in the High Castle? Does Oberstgruppenführer Smith know all about it too?

A screeching sound startles her, pulling out of her worse thoughts, but it’s only Joe taking a seat by her side. He pulls her arm and leans to be eye-level with her, trying to bring her comfort in her distressing times. She tries to pull it together and keep the priorities in order.

“How. . . How much does he. . .”

“Believe it or not, he didn’t exactly give me any details about what he’d discovered before throwing me out of his house,” interjects Joe. His voice tells her there’s something more to the conversation he had with Oberstgruppenführer Smith, but she cannot focus on that at the moment.

Maybe that’s good news, reckons Juliana, taking a steadying breath. “Say he was bluffing. He knows nothing about me or the Resistance.”

“I wouldn’t put my money on the Oberstgruppenführer’s ignorance.”

“Then I need to alert them,” decides she, looking around. She stands and heads straight for the telephone resting on the bedside table, but she hasn’t taken two steps that Joe’s grabbing her wrist, making her spin and throwing her on the bed.

“You will not contact them again,” he forbids.

“They’re all going to die!” she yells, trying to shake off Joe’s hands.

“And you will too if you contact any of them ever again!” insists Joe. “Smith will take them out as soon as he’s got the proper resources now that you’ve been alerted--maybe as soon as tonight! If you’re found anywhere near where the cell is hiding, you can be certain they’ll execute you too. After torturing you for days to extract all the information you can give them.”

“No! That’s a lie!”

“Juliana, listen to me! It’s over! You can’t do anything for them!” he shrieks in the end, over Juliana’s never-ending complaints.

Despite the sobs, those words finally sink in and Juliana freezes. Joe’s only a blurry image in front of her through her tears, but his last words echo time and time again in her ears, until her mind can comprehend their meaning. She pushes Joe and he releases her now, allowing her to pull away, until her back hits the wall.

“What. . . What have you done? You knew this would happen?”

Joe sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight. Out of instinct, Juliana folds her legs under her body, to be as far away from him as possible.

“I didn’t know Oberstgruppenführer Smith knew that much,” he says, low voice, avoiding her eye--guilt eating him alive. “For fuck’s sake, I didn’t even know you were still working with the Resistance until three hours ago. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. But the thing is, if somebody from that cell manages to escape, they won’t be able to find you. After doing some research, they’ll learn that you were last seen with a high-profile Nazi operative and assume you’ve been executed too. Everyone will have to move on. That resistance cell is officially gone.”

“Goddammit, Joe,” scowls Juliana, hiding her face behind her hands.

She starts crying, shivering and spasming out of tiredness, shock, anxiety and who knows how many other feelings she can’t name right now. She’s been through so much ever since she entered the Reich, let alone since she saw Trudy getting killed, and sometimes the stress and the death toll. . . Are just too much.

After some minutes, the worse of her anxiety subsides and she takes a tissue to wipe her eyes and face. Joe has remained on his side of the bed, without moving or without uttering a word, giving her the time and space she needed. How come that simple gesture means so much to her broken heart?

"My life isn’t worth all of that, Joe,” she whispers.

“It is to me,” he replies, scooping just a little bit closer, still not touching her.

She refuses to give him an answer and tilts her head to look through the window, to a waning sun announcing the end of another day. Is this the last day on Earth for all that cell she’d gotten in contact with?

"What happens now?” she demands, eyes glued on the window.

“You stay away from Oberstgruppenführer Smith,” says Joe right off the bat--he’d clearly given some consideration to this subject before. “And if possible, also from the Resistance. Which means you should stay away from New York altogether, somewhere I can make sure Oberstgruppenführer’s web, or the Resistance’s, can never catch you again.”

“And go where? Berlin?” she asks, giving him a smile, however false and mocking it was.

“Maybe,” he grants, getting a little bit closer yet. “My father can protect you, Juliana.”

“I doubt that very much. However powerful Reichminister Heusmann might be--”

“He has his contacts.”

“We’re a plague, Joe,” she proceeds as if he hadn’t interrupted her. “The Resistance is everywhere. I’m sure someone would try to recruit me as well in Berlin--the Führer be damned. Can you imagine what sort of damage could a resistance cell do at the heart of your beloved fatherland?”

“Just. . . Give me a chance to prove it,” he begs. Under a stern look from Juliana, he sighs deeply and just cocks his head to one side. “It doesn’t have to be Berlin. We can go anywhere else in the world.”

Escaping this nightmare does sound nice. Juliana’s almost ready to accept before she can seal her lips and avoid Joe’s eyes again. But it’s not possible. There’s no place on Earth safe for either of them. The world is split between the Japanese empire--where she can definitely not return to--and the Nazi Reich, where her contacts with both the Man in the High Castle and high-ranking Nazi officers make her attractive and useful for literally any resistance cell out there.

Also, Joe coming with her is definitely out of the question. She’s proven she’s a worthy member of the Resistance and wherever they could settle, he would stop her from those suicidal people and planning. He wouldn’t risk it all, not when he’s apparently followed in his father’s footsteps so nicely.

No, the best thing for them is to stay apart. If Joe can smuggle her out of the city, away from the Oberstgruppenführer--she’s smart enough to understand she needs to get away from the man--perhaps they could manage.

Joe misinterprets her silence. “I could take Frank out as well. Him and everyone else you want to keep safe. Just give me time, Juliana. Let me get you to safety first, then we’ll deal with everything else.”

For the first time since they’ve seen each other, Juliana reaches out a hand, looking for Joe’s touch instead of the other way around, and he grabs her hand without a second of doubt, entwining their fingers. Holding his breath, waiting for her answer, he takes her hand to his lips and then to his chest--his erratically beating heart.

“Okay,” she says in the end.

His face lights up with that single word, confused, as if he’d expected a much longer fight.

“Are--are you--?”

“Okay, take me out of here,” she elaborates her answer so they’re both in the same page. “When can we leave?”

“First flight in the morning,” he promises, and his voice tells her that yes, he’d do anything for her, anything within his power to grant her every wish and need she has, starting with that flight out of New York. She’s never needed--or asked for--a white knight to save her, but once in a while it does feel freeing to let someone else worry and take care of things, letting her mind rest for a little bit.

“Thank the gods,” sighs Joe. As if a heavy burden had been lifted off his shoulders, he’s got tears in his eyes when he climbs up the bed and, without pausing to assess her reaction, he kisses her on the lips. Shocked, at first she simply cannot correspond, but Joe just deepens the kiss, uttering her name under his breath, tangling her fingers on her hair, the other hand searching for the buttons of her dress, and she ends up dropping all pretense and all the defenses she’d needed so much time to raise. “Thank God, Juliana,” Joe repeats over and over between breaths and kisses.

Frank, the Resistance, Oberstgruppenführer Smith, the Man in the High Castle, Hellen, George Nixon, her parents, Ed. . . It all goes away, along with her worries and headaches and troubles, even for a brief period of time. Joe has, once more, given her a time out, a bubble out of time and space where she can feel safe, rested, away from the rest of the world and the dangers they live in. She can’t but indulge in that strange sensation she’s barely enjoyed in her life before.

Chapter Text

With a deep sigh, rubbing his eyes, he grabs the transportation report that was delivered to his office earlier in the day and had no chance to look at until now. “More” is the universal goal around here: bigger and faster planes, higher passenger capacity, all while being as ecofriendly as technology can provide.

Still, after a whole day of meetings and discussions and reading varying reports, words do not have a lot of meaning to him now, figures have way too many zeros and charts dance in front of his eyes. His father might be quietly proud with the level of productivity he’s shown since he got back, and Nicole may be thoroughly impressed with the way he’s handling things working side by side with the Acting Chancelor, but it still feels like tedious work to Joe. He just accepted the post because it was his way of honoring the Reich and fulfilling his duties towards Reichminister Heusmann and the fatherland.

The double doors open and Officer Uwe steps inside the office, stops in the middle of the room and raises his right arm high in the air. The Acting Chancelor and Joe correspond adequately, seated behind their desks, and the Officer turns towards Joe.

“Her Heusmann, there’s a call for you.”

“Put her through,” orders Joe immediately, putting down his papers. Needless to say he knows exactly who it is.

As he collects his desk--unaware, perhaps, that the caller would be unable to see his workplace--and straightens his clothes, his father stands from his desk, buttons his jacket and, without a word, leaves the study behind Officer Uwe. Joe only realizes his father's absence when he turns towards an empty room, one hand hovering over the phone.

There’s no time to go after his father, for the telephone rings then, and his heart skips a beat as he throws himself to take the call, afraid they’d hang up in the other end.

“Juliana?” he greets, his voice almost a question, although it really couldn’t be anyone but her. Not this late, not his personal landline, not after weeks of late-night calls to keep up some kind of pretense, or charade, neither of them understands. "Please, I need you to say something so I know it's you. I promise you, the line's safe.

"Juliana," he begs after some seconds of silence at the other end of the line.

“Joe,” she breathes out finally.

The man closes his eyes. A single monosyllable, his own name he’s heard a million times, miles away from where he’s standing, brings him peace and purpose. He drops on his chair again, relieved to actually hear her voice instead of someone else’s to just report Juliana had gotten herself killed at last.

“Are you recording this?” she demands. “Or tracking me?”

“Of course not,” promises Joe. “You were put through, Juliana. I don’t even know the number you’re calling me from. And I won’t ask for it either.”

This seems to help her relax a little bit, as he hears Juliana letting out a deep, shaky breath. Now that the routine part of their conversation is over, soothing her nerves and paranoia concerning her safety as he so usually does, Joe smirks against the phone, leaning back on his chair.

“You’ve literally saved me from the most boring report on transportation,” he says conversationally, shuffling through the papers on his desk, “so I really must thank you.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m useful to someone.”

“You really were. How’re you doing? You’ve settled in already?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she nods, her answer prepared beforehand. “Thank you for setting everything up for me.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” he replies, mirroring the same words he once said back in the Neutral Zone. Actually, this time he isn’t the one she should be thanking. Her apartment, her job, her bank account for life and her being out of harm’s way, it was all because of his father’s doing. Joe doesn’t even know where she is or where she’s calling from. And that’s alright, as long as she’s far away from New York and the Japanese Empire. Her safety was his paramount concern from the beginning and he isn’t ashamed to confess he begged his father to arrange all that was necessary.

“Do you know anything about Frank?” she asks. Once more, that name tingles Joe’s heart, but he’s learnt to cope it. She was open about her relationship with Frank from almost the beginning.

“Sorry. He’s still off the radar,” he explains again. “Probably in the Neutral Zone, can’t be sure. We could send officers down there to investigate. . .”

“No, don’t do that,” she forbids. Of course, if Nazi officers were to follow Frank’s tracks, he’d freak out. He might either attack the officers, which would lead him to execution, or he’d try hiding somewhere remote in the world, which would make it almost impossible for Joe and his resources to find him. Given the circumstances, it might be better to wait until Frank himself decides to pop out from wherever he’s hiding on his own.

“Okay. I won’t,” accepts Joe slowly. He will do everything in his prowess to respect Juliana’s wishes. “Other than that, how’re you doing? Have you been contacted by someone?”

“Is that genuine concern for me or are you just trying to gain information about me?”

Joe curses under his breath, but loud enough for Juliana to hear. He’s making an effort here, making all the possible concessions in the world, and damn it, she should know that by now. “Me? What about you? Do you realize you’ve got contacts with a high-profile Nazi officer, with a close relationship to the Acting Chancelor, don’t you? If the Resistance from wherever you are knew, they’d definitely exploit this--us.”

Only too late he realizes he spoke too harshly, anger riling him up and paying his tiredness and concern on Juliana. He rubs his eyes, runs a hand through his hair and, unable to stop himself, lights a cigarette.

“Tell me what to do,” he begs, the words ‘I’m sorry’ plastered in his voice. “Please, Juliana, just tell me what I have to do to fix this. I’ll do it, whatever it takes.”

She remains quiet for some minutes, so long that Joe fears she might have hung up on him--wouldn’t be the first time he pisses her off that much. But he can still hear her breathing on the other end and that gives him a speck of hope.

“Nothing, Joe,” she says in the end, after a deep sigh. “You can’t come up with a magical solution for everything.”

“There’s got to be something,” he insists, raising his voice, the smoke and the whole conversation making him feel dizzy. “Please, Juliana. Give me a chance.”

“Goodbye, Joe,” she says, and before he can beg her for another chance, for another minute, she hangs up the call.

Joe listens to the broken line for some seconds before putting down the receiver. The cigarette shakes in his hand as he stares blankly at the wall where the painting of the Führer hangs. He explodes and slams his fist against the desk, pens wobbling, some papers flying off the edge of the table.

His breathing ragged, head dropped, he hears the door open. It can only be his father, no one else would dare to step in here unannounced and without permission when there’d still high-ranking Nazi members in the office, and so Joe doesn’t bother looking up.

Judging by the steps, his father stops right at the other end of the desk. His silence affects Joe more than any pity or compassionate words would and after some seconds, Joe raises his head and locks eyes with his father. Yeah, he definitely didn’t need to see the hurt and sympathy in his father’s face. Did he listen to the conversation too. . .?

“If you wish to know where she’s staying. . .”

“No,” interjects Joe rudely. This isn’t the first time he offers, either. “No, I don’t need to know where she is. As long as she’s safe.”

“She is,” promises Herr Heusmann for the millionth time in the past few weeks. “She’s in the Reich under another name, another past--another identity. Oberstgruppenführer Smith nor any of his men don’t have enough clearance to reach out to her or find out her whereabouts. As far as my officers can tell, she hasn’t been contacted by any known member of the Resistance. She’s safe, Youssef. You have my word.”

Joe keeps nodding throughout his father’s speech. He’s heard it all before, of course, and he breathes easier every time he hears it, including now. Yes, Juliana’s out of harm’s way, and that’s all that matters. Even if she’s not here with him.

“No, all I want to do is go home,” he says, standing. His father approves the decisions with a succinct nod of his head and rests his hand on Yousef’s shoulder briefly as they make their way to the exit. That simple gesture is hardly enough for his father to make up for everything Joe suffered in his childhood, much less pick him up after that phone call, but somehow he does feel better. He tells himself it’s just the reassurance that Juliana’s alive and safe.

As soon as two officers open the double doors for them, Joe freezes and has to swallow down a curse. Nicole’s sitting there, her coat hanging from her arm, back straight. What with Juliana’s phone call he completely forgot about dinner with her.

“Miss Nicole,” greets his father, bowing his head slightly at the young woman. “Sorry to keep my son for so long.”

“Oh, please, you don’t have to apologize, Herr Chancelor--I’m sure you had important businesses to attend to,” she replies with a broad, bright smile. Her enthusiasm confronts Joe’s feelings right now and he tries to take a deep breath while Nicole and his father shake hands.

“I’ll meet you downstairs in a minute,” begs Joe when Nicole addresses him. She’d kind of expected a smile, a “it’s good to see you”, perhaps even a kiss, and freezes upon such a cold greeting. Shocked, albeit she doesn’t want to bring conflict and argue in front of the Acting Chancelor and so many officers, she nods, plasters a fake smile on her lips and takes her coat.

Everyone waits as Nicole gets further and further away, her heels tapping hard on the marble floor--proving Joe he’ll have one hell of an argument downstairs. Two perfectly atrocious conversations in the span of just a few minutes. Why in heaven’s name these things keep happening?

“So, you’re seeing Nicole again?” asks his father. He can barely keep the confusion and judgement from his voice.

“What other choice did I have?” Joe replies, defeated.

“You did--”

“No, I didn’t,” he interjects. “The woman I love didn’t want to be with me, and that’s the end of it. I can be happy with Nicole as long as I know Juliana’s safe and sound, which she is, so it’s all right. At least Nicole is a racially appropriate woman for me.”

“Youssef, that’s not all that matters.”

“It is, when your father’s Acting Chancelor.”

His father looks contrite upon Joe’s succinct and dry answer, lighting a cigarette to spare a few seconds more. “I don’t want my title or position being an imposition for your life choices, Youssef. I won't become a hindrance to your--”

“Let me stop you right there. Here's the thing, Father. I’ve got to settle down at some point, and Juliana’s certainly not the right choice,” Joe says, although deep down he believes none of the words that are escaping his mouth. He just leads the way to the elevator and blissfully, his father follows, silent.

On their way down, his father takes a very deep breath, putting on his coat. He takes a good look at Youssef, then just stares at the closed doors.

“Invite Nicole to dinner,” he says. “It’s high time I met her officially.”

Joe lets out the air he was holding in, afraid of what his father’s next words were going to be. He ordered the investigation on Juliana’s whereabouts, brought the information to him and even allowed Joe to leave for Berlin--no explanations needed--to meet Juliana and talk to her. He’s done so much for him, Joe barely believes it’s the same man he used to hate and loathe. But this, he appreciates more than anything. He cannot chase that woman around the globe for all eternity.

“Someday,” Joe agrees.

Chapter Text

To any bystander, it could be difficult to express what it means exactly to work at the Reichtag. It’s still difficult for Joe to grasp the implications and consequences of his work. Every day on his commute, and every evening on his way back home, the strangest feeling overwhelms him. Right now, staring out of the windows, Joe’s breath catches, and sometimes he cannot even make it to his office. It’s ineffable, whatever it is that possesses him every time he sets eyes on the building.

When he first met his father here in Berlin, Herr Heusmann told him that the Fatherland is his home, and Berlin, the beating heart of an empire that’ll live for a thousand years. Joe didn’t understand then, and maybe he doesn’t yet, but he’s beginning to get it. These walls have heard meetings that changed and shaped the course of history. With time, it’s growing on him.

It makes him feel so small, too. Unimportant, even while working with the most powerful man on Earth. Here, they discuss the coffee imported from Colombia or the cotton imported from India; however, all of that it’s still a very small piece in the well-oiled machinery of the Third Reich, and yet a vital piece. One needs to see the bigger picture--the greater good--to understand.

Oberstgruppenführer Smith did. His father does. Even Nicole. As per Joe. . . His piece’s edges still need to be polished to fit in perfectly, he fears.

“Joe, are you even listening to me?” Nicole’s voice brings him back to Earth, and he sighs deeply, rubbing his forehead.

“I’m so sorry. You were saying?”

“I was just confirming tonight’s dinner, if you’re still willing.”

“Of course I am,” promises Joe, reaching for the box he’s kept inside his jacket’s breast pocket all day long. Truth be told, he simply cannot postpone it any longer. This is also related to him understanding his part in the system and acting on it.

“You’ve made such a fuss out of the evening, you've piqued my interest,” confesses Nicole, the hint of amusement in her voice. It makes Joe smile too, looking down on that box--she’s no idea.

“Trust me, it’ll be worth it," he says. “My Father and I will see you tonight.”

“Eight o’clock. Please don’t let any matters of state make you late.”

“I promise I’ll try.”

Joe hands up the phone thinking how it’s possible to look forward to dinner with a child's excitement and at the same time abhor and dread the same dinner so much. What is wrong with him? He knows he's hit the jackpot, everyone in Nazi Germany would tell him so, and yet, he still has reservations. He cannot possibly still be hopeful. . . Can he?

“Is that the ring?” his father asks.

Joe hadn’t seen Martin approach; in fact, he wasn’t even aware that he’d taken the ring box out of his pocket and had been playing with it for a while now, holding it by two opposite edges and making it turn over and over again. He lays the box back on the table--playing mindlessly is a sign of anxiousness--and then hands it to his father. He opens the box and smiles at the ring in it.

“Beautiful. Nicole’s a lucky woman.”

“I’m a lucky man,” responds Joe, taking the box back.

“You’re going to propose tonight, then?”

“Yes,” Joe forces himself to utter, staring at the ring and its emerald gemstone just to have an excuse not to look at his father in the eye, lest he reads the truth in them. “Yes, I am. I can’t keep acting like an ungrateful tomfool all my life, and Nicole is. . . She’s perfect. It’s high time that I settle.”

Staring down at the ring, Joe waits for his father to answer, but after some long seconds, silence remains. That makes him look up at his father again--he’d expected Martin to raise an argument over him calling himself a ‘tomfool’ or his need to settle down. Instead, his father’s got his lips pursed and is biting his thumb’s nail, which only manages to scare Joe a little bit more. He’s barely seen his father showing such signs of nervousness, only when he's uncertain if he should speak up or not. Given the fact that he’s the most powerful man on the Planet and could never face any consequences over anything he said wrong, not knowing what to say or not to say must be a new occurrence for the man.

“What is it?" Joe asks.

“I’ve just received notice,” says Martin, slowly, meeting Joe’s eye by the end of the sentence. “A miss Becker is flying into Berlin as we speak.”

Joe gives him a few seconds for a clarification, while he strains his brain to see if that name should ring a bell at all. But, at least in the past couple of months, he’s fairly certain they haven’t had a meeting with a Miss Becker. If it was something important, he’s sure he’d remember. He’s got a keen eye and good memory, two skills highly valuable for a Nazi agent.

“And that woman is relevant because--?”

“Why, it’s the alias I gave Juliana Crain when you asked me to keep her safe.”

At that, Joe stands abruptly, but no more actions or words follow as he stares blankly at his father. Juliana? She’s coming to Berlin? Right now? As they speak, she’s coming to Berlin? But, why? Why didn't she warn him? She's gone off the radar and stopped all communications three months ago, when. . .

The piece of paper he keeps in his wallet burns his clothes and his skin, his mouth dry again. Does she know? He thought she blamed him and that's why she stopped calling, forcing Joe into the position of asking his father for weekly reports on her just to be sure Juliana was still alive. . . But if that was it, why should she come back now? And why is his father telling him?

“I just thought you should know that before you made a commitment to Nicole that you'de come to regret,” says Martin, as if he’d read Joe’s thoughts.

“Do you know why?” he asks in a whisper.

“My men have not contacted her directly,” he says, almost apologetic voice. “I’m not even sure she knows about Mr. Frink.”

“It doesn't matter if she knows or not,” scowls Joe, trying to impose reason. The ring on the box, shimmering with the desk's lamp, forces him to cool down and think this through rationally. “Nicole is suitable, is the right choice from the Fatherland’s point of view. Whereas Juliana. . . You know what she is, Father. Who she is.”

“Yes. You told me. I remember the conversation we had a while back. And I also remember the result of said conversation,” nods his father, tilting his head to make his point. Joe nods to confirm that he remembers--of course, he remembers his father’s blessing to go search for Juliana in New York. “No official announcements have been made just yet. The work you do here with me is all the Reich expects from you, son, nothing more, nothing less. You can talk to Nicole and miss Crain, make this whole thing go away without much of a fuss. . .”

Standing by the other side of his desk, his father awaits. If Joe asked, Martin could snap his fingers and magically solve everything. Send a message for the plane to return to wherever it is it came from. Have a car collect Juliana from the airport and bring her home, or far, far away from Berlin and his life. Get Nicole an amazing job opportunity anywhere else in the Reich. There are a thousand possibilities. . .

Then again, those would be the cowardly choices. And he is not weak. The news took him by surprise, that is all.

“How long before the plane--?”

“Four hours,” his father provides.

Joe nods, checking the clock on the wall. That gives him plenty of time--or so he hopes. It’d even give him time to get to the dinner with Nicole, if he wished to. The ring remains on the desk, accusatorily. Although both Joe and his father know there won’t be any wedding proposals, not tonight, at the very least.

“All right,” Joe sighs, dropping back on his chair.

The intercom on his father’s desk buzzes and Herr Heusmann leaves to answer it. It’s Jakob, reminding them of the meeting they’re supposed to attend in the Control room downstairs.

“I’ll be right there,” says Heusmann, “my son has other matters he needs to attend to.”

The communication shut down, Martin grabs a few folders and files from his desk and, on his way out stops in front of Joe’s desk again, in case his son requires something from him before he leaves. Joe, who was staring at the wall beyond his father, needs a couple seconds to look up at him, and then some more to find his voice.

“Could you ask Christoph to pick up Juliana. . . Miss Becker. . . From the airport when the plane lands and have her brought here?”

“Of course,” nods Martin, smiling proudly down at his son. “Any other messages?”

“No. Thank you,” appreciates Joe. Only then does he remember he is also supposed to leave for that forsaken meeting he has no recollection of agreeing to attend at all--he couldn't even remember the subject of the meeting. “Don’t you need me downstairs?”

“I always appreciate your point of view, but I think we'll be all right without you for a day,” replies his father. “You just try to make up your mind in the meantime and decide what you want to do.”

That’s an excellent question without an easy answer, reckons Joe, watching his father leave the office. In spite of what the Reich tries to tell him, he’s not the master of his own destiny. His future depends on the wishes and whims of two women and their desires. He cannot make a decision without meeting Juliana first--that’s the one thing he comprehends right now. She might be here to kill him on behalf of the Resistance, for all he knows, but still, he needs to meet her.

He needs to see her again, even if it’s one last time.

Four and a half hours later, Juliana appears.

This whole time, Joe has stayed behind his desk, unmoving and unresponsive. His father has returned from his meeting without him noticing, and then left for the day. Afterwards, Christoph announced he was leaving for the airport to collect Miss Becker, and still, Joe hadn’t the slightest clue of what he was supposed to say when Juliana arrived.

He first sees her in a black-and-white image through the monitor, from the surveillance cameras out in the hall. As he stares intently at the screen, unable to breathe properly, he can barely believe his eyes. It's not that he thought his father was lying to him, he just. . . He’d hoped he’d been mistaken, that is all. Letting Juliana go for her sake was difficult enough the first time around. If he's forced to do the same today. . . Even if that’s what Juliana wants, even if it’s the best for her, he might not be able to recover.

Her hair’s shorter, Joe reflects. She maintains the perfect façade, her back straight without leaning against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles, her hands covered in gloves resting perfectly still on her lap, her bag lying on the empty chair by her side. She takes one look around her, her eyes falling ever so slightly on those doors leading to the office where Joe’s hiding. Apparently, she's not at all nervous--contrary to Joe, who feels the sweat pouring from his forehead, and cannot tie his tie for shit. Maybe she isn't, for she’s had time to prepare herself for this meeting in advance. . . But, is her apparent calmness real, or just a façade?

She’s only going to wait for so long, he fears. He’s had her brought here maybe against her will, and even if this is the Reichtag, she could very well leave at any time. Joe wouldn’t find it in him to stop her if that's what she wanted.

And so, he goes to fetch her.

As soon as he opens the doors, Juliana jumps off her chair and raises her arm in the usual Nazi salute. Joe freezes under the doorstep, feeling terribly nauseous as she stares at Juliana.

Only Jakob’s presence, who’s also jumped off his chair at Joe coming out of the office, reminds him of where he is and the pretense they need to maintain in public. Buttoning his jacket, Joe clears his throat, addressing Juliana and at the same time not meeting her eye to avoid any suspicions from Jakob.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Becker. Please, come in.”

She picks up her bag and heeds the order, Joe stepping aside to give her plenty of space without risk of any awkward physical contact. She drops her gaze too soon as well, and Joe takes a deep, silent breath as she shuts the door again. This isn’t going to be easy.

When he turns around, he finds that Juliana can’t help wandering around the office, looking at everything and nothing at the same time. If it were anyone else, Joe would be forced to remind her that all the papers and folders on sight are confidential. . . But it’s Juliana, he can barely form a coherent thought, much less utter the words.

She's here, and the picture feels so wrong on so many levels, Joe couldn’t even name them. Standing by the windows, the waning sun hitting the side of her figure, those never-ending Nazi flags hanging outside the building, the gigantic portrait of the Führer on the wall. . . Knowing who she really is, this is sixty shades of fucked-up.

Silence lingers and neither one of them seems willing to break it. Giving her time to gather her thoughts, giving himself time to adjust, Joe leans against his desk, stretching his legs, watching Juliana’s expression as she inspects the office.

“You weren’t lying when you said your Father had connections,” she jokes after a minute.

“No, I wasn’t,” confirms Joe, laughing under his breath. “You could say he’s kind of powerful.”

Juliana turns around and Joe has a hard time breathing, now that he’s the chance to really look at her. It's been so long.

Also, that look tells him something else. He knows at that instant that the time for jokes has long past--if there was ever a moment for jokes. He clears his throat, straightening, proving that he is willing and ready to tackle any subject she wishes to discuss.

“Are there any. . .?”

“No,” he promises softly. “It’s safe here, you can say whatever you want.” This office is probably one of the only places safe for her in all of Berlin, actually. No one in their right mind would ever bug the Führer’s office, and in any case, the whole place is checked once every two weeks.

“Frank is dead,” she blurts out, right off the bat. However, wrong as it is, some part of Joe sighs in relief at her knowing about Frank--if he had delivered the news, he’d have blown any lingering chances he had with Juliana.

She starts crying and Joe takes one step towards her, but stops right there. She might not need, she might not even want, his comfort. By the sounds of it, it’s the first time she even says the words out loud. She wasn’t able to contact any of her former friends and family members, she couldn’t tell anyone about Frank.

“I’m so terribly sorry,” he whispers.

“You knew?”

“Yes,” he confesses. “I wanted to tell you. I wanted nothing else than to be the one to tell you instead of you reading it on the papers. I just. . . I didn’t know how.”

“What, you couldn’t have picked up the phone and say that Nazi officers had killed my Jewish boyfriend for working with the Resistance?” she dares him.

So she read the whole article regarding the execution of a whole rebel cell in the Neutral Zone, not just the list of dead, sighs Joe, trying his best not to react to Juliana's anger. She’s got the right to be. And, luckily for him, at least now there’s nothing else to hide from her. She knows everything concerning Frank’s death.

“I couldn’t stop it,” he says. “By the time I heard he’d been captured in the Neutral Zone and my father contacted the official on charge, the cell had already been executed. I tried retrieving the body to give him a proper burial. . .”

“But since he had Jewish ascendants and worked with the Resistance, he was incinerated,” Juliana finishes the sentence Joe hadn’t dared to utter. “No burials or memorials for a traitor. I know.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

Juliana wipes the tears off her eyes and turns her back on him, looking outside. However, those flags can’t bring her any comfort or good memories, for she spins around within seconds, leaning against the windows. By her body language, her arms crossed around her chest, Joe knows better than to try and step closer.

“That’s why we never had kids,” she explains, her voice so low he has a hard time hearing her. Joe knows saying all of this isn’t helping her, but can’t find the strength to stop her speech now that she’s started. “His grandparents were Jewish. . . Even with that eighth of Jewish blood in their genes, they would have been tagged as ‘not pure’ by your standards, marked for life. . . I couldn’t bring to the world an innocent child who would suffer so much because of his heritage. It wouldn't be fair. . .”

With nothing left to say, Juliana falls silent. Tears are still dripping from her eyes and she’s long given up wiping them off, and she still avoids Joe’s eye, instead staring at the Führer’s picture.

After giving her some long minutes, to make sure she was finished venting and making all the confessions she needed to make, Joe straightens and steps closer. Juliana eyes his movements with a weary expression but does not speak against him approaching. Respecting her boundaries, however, Joe stops about at about five-step distance from her.

“Why are you here, Juliana?” he asks.

The tears in Juliana’s eyes almost give Joe a heart attack, but he stays where he is, in case Juliana pushes him away. He couldn’t handle rejection.

“I miss Frank,” she says, the words hitting him like a semi-truck at a hundred and ten miles per hour. “I miss you, too. . . It’s a difficult and lonely world, Joe, and I don’t think I can survive on my own.”

Funnily enough, Joe's certain that Juliana could very well fend for herself the rest of her life. She’s so courageous and brave, so tenacious--even more so than some agents he’s worked with throughout his career--that he’s certain no mountain could be too high for her to climb, no ocean too wide to cross.

Then again, she could fight the nightmares by herself. . . But she shouldn’t. She doesn't have to.

“Why are you here, Juliana?” he insists, his voice no more than a whisper now, taking another step. He needs a straight answer, he needs her to say the words aloud. He doesn't dare to hope unless she reaches out to him.

And she does. Her hand searches his, and Joe saves the couple of steps that separated them.

“I’m here for you,” she says. At that, Joe moans, without meaning to, and wraps his arms around Juliana’s waist. “I’m not sure how this is going to work out, I’m not even sure it can work. . .”

“Hey, I’m willing to try,” he interjects, making Juliana laugh at his eagerness. He laughs too, but just because he loves that sound coming from her, not because he wasn't being serious. “I promised I would do whatever it took--let me prove it, right here, right now, please. Give me, give us, a chance.”

He leans down, ever so slowly, giving her time to reject him and send him straight back to solitary Hell. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t move away, she doesn't speak against his intentions, her eyes don't even waver from his, and so his lips meet hers.

It’s such a long, tender, and soft kiss, that to both of them it feels as if it was their first. This is the first time they’ve kissed with everything out in the open, without any lies or secrets hidden, knowing exactly who the other person is--and loving each other in spite of that knowledge.

All of that honesty, need, urging, and so much more lies in their eyes as they pull apart, but never releasing each other. Joe will never let her go again.

Juliana shakes her head and rests it against his cheek.

“We’re completely crazy, aren’t we?” she asks.

“Oh, absolutely," nods Joe, gently bumping against her, forcing Juliana to lean against the windows. “Bunkers. Completely nuts. Insanely stupid.”

At that string of insults, Juliana laughs and gives him a peck to get him to stop.

“Don’t make me regret coming over here so soon?” she asks.

“All right,” nods Joe.

He holds her tight, right there, as he feels Juliana’s tears dripping down her cheeks and staining his tie and shirt, but he doesn't care. All he can think about is that this is Juliana’s rightful place, and that he'll keep her here, in his arms, safe, for as long as she’ll have him. It’s not even a question. It is as simple as that. Why did he have any doubts whatsoever a few hours ago? Why did it take him so long to understand?

Chapter Text

He takes the jacket from the suit stand and buttons it in front of the mirror to check his final appearance. Only one last item: the swastika arm band he always keeps in his top closet drawer. He’s got no other option but to wear it whenever he leaves the bedroom, just to keep up appearances to the whole damn world, but every day it gets harder and harder. He feels like an asshole and a hypocrite, knowing how Juliana feels about it. There is, however, no way around it.

Sighing deeply at the reflection the mirror returns, Joe needs to fight the urge to smash the glass with his fist, or maybe punch himself on the face instead. He feels so wrong he can hardly get out of bed in the morning. It’s eating him alive, bit by bit, every day. He ends up leaving the bedroom before he makes an irrational mistake such as taking that band off and burning it, or worse, quitting his job. None of those are feasible options where they stand.

Down at the dining room, Sylvia has set out a magnificent breakfast, up to her usual standards serving Joe and the Reichminister for so many years. Her meticulous and careful services haven’t worsened at all upon Juliana coming to the house and Nicole suddenly disappearing, which was a relief for Joe, but he knew how the household members gossip. It was just a matter of time that the fact an unknown and ordinary woman staying within Herr Heusmann’s home made the news. So, Joe’s arm was forced to present Juliana out into the world all too soon. Before they even settled down and fixed things up, that’s for sure. Then again, even if they had years ahead of them used the assistance of couples counseling, things wouldn’t get easy between the two.

For example, Juliana’s nowhere to be found, although she does know they need to stick to strict schedules to at least keep up the façade and the pretense that they are indeed an official and stable couple, per the Fatherland’s teachings. Joe takes his coffee cup and leaves the room to search for Juliana--he hears her voice close by.

She’s only in the next room, sitting on an armchair, the phone on her ear. Without interrupting her, Joe stands under the threshold, holding his breath, watching the scene in front of him in regret.

The only few times Juliana looks remotely relaxed in this house is when she’s talking to her family back in the Pacific Sates, and he could never take that away from her. He treasures the way she’s sitting in the chair as comfortably as it gets, not with her back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, muscles tense, ready to jump and run off at the slightest signs of troubles or trap. His heart skips a beat whenever he hears her laughing through the phone, wishing he could, somehow, make her laugh, too. Laughter is just so rare these days, and he would give her the world if that’d make her happy, but he just fails at being the reason for her joy.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you soon,” promises Juliana then. “Goodbye. Take care.”

When she hangs up the phone, Joe knocks on the door to announce his presence. Stress catching up with her by his mere presence there, Juliana jumps off the chair, spinning on her heels, tight lips, and Joe’s heart aches at the suspicion and wariness he sees in those deep eyes of hers.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“Were you eavesdropping?”

Joe shrugs, without any other answer than an affirmative one, and knowing Juliana would just dismiss his attempts at explaining himself or calling it any other way. He wasn’t exactly eavesdropping because of any ill-meaning reasons, he just wanted to know who she was talking with and if she was alright. It shouldn’t be a capital punishment, but. . . Well, here they are again.

“Would you like to debrief me again, Joe?” she asks coldly, crossing her arms. "Should I climb into that car with you so you can take me to the SS and an agent can interrogate me, if more convenient?"

“Come on, Juliana,” he begs in a whisper, feeling a headache coming--and he’s got half a dozen meetings scheduled for today. That night, when she returned and he took her home, he did spend an awful amount of time asking Juliana about the months she’d spent all on her own God knows where. She thought he was questioning, or debriefing her, but he was just genuinely curious. He just wanted to know all she had been doing during their time apart. Nothing else.

“It was only my mother,” she says. “But I’m sure any of your men could have been able to tell you that.”

“You are not being watched,” Joe insists one more time, sitting down, slow and tired, by the end of the sofa in front of Juliana. “And no one’s listening in on your conversations. I don’t know how else to tell you, Juliana, but here you are free--you are safe.”

“No one’s free in this world, Joe. And I am not safe, either.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” he scowls, leaning to reach out for her hand. For once, she doesn’t push him away, and he breathes just a little bit better for that. “I promise you, you are safe here. I would never allow any harm come to you under this roof. You’ve got nothing to fear from me, from my father, from Oberstgruppenführer Smith, or any other Nazi agents. But I want to keep you that way, and if you’re ever approached by any members of the Resistance. . .”

“Relax. It was only my mother,” insists Juliana.

Her voice breaking, she avoids Joe’s eye by looking out the window. Out to Berlin, the beating heart of the Empire--out to that whole world at her feet that doesn’t seem to appeal her at all. The way she crosses her arms around her chest, Joe knows what aches her. He scoots closer to her, bringing her hand to his lips.

“I can bring them here. I told you so already.”

Juliana wipes a tear off the corner of her eye and Joe leans, cupping her cheek. At that, she does turn towards him.

“They won’t come,” she whispers. “They’ve lived for decades in the Pacific States and, however horrible life is there, they believe it’s still better than the Greater Reich--that’s what we’re told over there, you know that. I still don’t know which is the lesser evil out of the two, but they know, and wouldn’t dare leaving the Pacific States and come here to the terrible menace of the Greater Reich. You don’t want to know how frightened they were when I called them with this area code.”

“We could make them understand,” Joe suggests, but his voice is defeated, the underlying apology clear in his statement. He already knows the answer.

“No,” Juliana replies. “It’s OK.”

It is not okay, Joe would like to say, his heart in a fist upon seeing the tears she’s shredding. But they also know there are a lot of wrong things in the world they can do nothing about, and complaining about their uselessness won’t make a difference. Even if it comes to one’s family.

He offers her the handkerchief he had on his outer pocket for her to dry her eyes and nose, all while he caresses her hair, keeping it away from the moist areas. She settles after a couple of minutes, keeping the handkerchief inside her sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers then.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he promises softly. “Come on, Sylvia’s cooking will solve all of your problems,” he says, standing and dragging Juliana with her. At least she cracks a smile, appreciating Sylvia’s amazing just as much as Joe.

Sitting side by side at the dining table, the housekeeper serves them with proficiency all of Joe’s favorites--hasn’t had the chance to spoil Juliana rotten just yet in the past few weeks. All this concern keeps the smile on Juliana’s face all throughout breakfast, her head low. Whether it is because she misses her mother--anyone--taking care of her, or because she’s just trying to look strong in front of Joe and the housekeeper, Joe will take it either way.

“What’s on the agenda today?” asks Joe at some point.

“I’ve got a couple of interviews scheduled for this morning,” she says.

Joe sighs deeply, tired of the subject. Looking intently into his coffee. She hasn’t had any luck with her job hunting for the moment. Coming from the Pacific Sates, she doesn’t have any provable work experience. She never worked in New York and the eight months she spent in Moscow working at a retail store thanks to Herr Heusmann’s influence are not enough for a job here in Berlin.

“I wish you would use my name,” he says. “Or better yet, just let me or my Father find you something. . .”

“That wouldn’t be appropriate, Joe,” she insists. “Only because you’re who you are. . .”

“Come on, nepotism rules over everything here in Berlin,” scowls Joe.

“Probably,” grants Juliana. “But I do believe some distance a few hours a day would be beneficial on our case. Please, just give me a vote of confidence.”

After that plea, Joe raises his hands in surrender and takes another sip of that excellent coffee. He’s not saying that Juliana shouldn’t work--that’s not appropriate either, since everyone needs to find their own place in the greatest empire the world has ever seen. But women in Nazi Germany usually contribute in different ways than having an eight to five job, especially given the fact that he can provide for the two of them. She could dedicate her days to building the community. Yes, he also knows she’d hate being the perfect housewife, and so he just wishes he could find her a good job.

She’d find that repulsive, too. So he’s just letting her be for the time being. In a few weeks or months, if things don’t improve, he’ll insist.

A few minutes later, Joe needs to leave. Although he agreed with his father that he’d get a few late mornings these first few weeks, for Juliana’s sake, he does need to show up for work at some point before lunch. He offers driving Juliana to wherever her interview is, but, per usual, she refuses.

He drops his napkin, places the chair back to its place, and stops by Juliana’s side to give her a soft, goodbye kiss. Such a mundane, mechanic gesture even, freezes them both for a second, Joe’s hand on Juliana’s shoulder holding her with a bit too much strength. It’s not as if they’ve been keeping each other at arm’s length these past few weeks, Juliana’s growing stomach’s the living proof of that, but acting like a normal couple is just still. . . Strange and confusing.

Silence lingers for so long that they can hear Sylvia working down in the kitchen. After a beat, Juliana bursts out laughing, which is the last response he’d expected, and she takes Joe’s hand hanging mid-air. Mirroring Joe’s gesture earlier, gives him a gentle kiss on the palm.

“It’s okay. Go,” she says, saving him from having to fix this one conundrum.

With her blessing, Joe dares giving her another peck, and spins to leave. Just before reaching the dining room’s door, he peaks above his shoulder. Juliana’s gone back to breakfast, taking another one of those delicious strudels, and so doesn’t catch him staring. Every day feels like a dream. A daze. An enchantment.

Every morning he wakes by her side, he’s amazed. In this world, hope is so fleeting, love is just a word in the dictionary, and happiness is barely conceived. Family is just a duty to fulfill, scarcely linked to any real endearment or affection at all. Life is work, is struggle, is thinking about a greater good and not one’s selfish wishes. And yet, he’s hit the jackpot and has got it all, now. He’d thank the Gods if there were any.

It can also be a nightmare, sometimes, he reflects as Ruprecht meets him outside the house, seated behind the car’s wheel. There’s a folded newspaper waiting for him on the seat, but Joe sets it aside without even reading the headlines, a bit of a headache coming in behind his eyes.

Juliana was right. He wants to believe, maybe to a naïve degree, that this can work out, that there’s a chance. But it’s not easy. Making amends, compromising, walking on the thin line constantly. Suspecting each other’s motives and actions at all times, loving each other so deeply and desperately at others. It wasn’t like this with Nicole, not by a long shot, and just once he chastised himself pondering if this is really what love and a life-long relationship is supposed to look and feel like.

They’re trying, trying as much as they possibly can, but they’re not succeeding. He wouldn’t say Juliana seems unhappy. . . But he’s not joyful either, and it pains him to know so. More than anything, he wants her safe, and he wants her happy. If he could give her those, he could die in peace. It would be all worth it.

Unable to stop himself, he throws away the newspaper and reaches out for the landline installed in the car. He dials home and asks Sylvia to put him through to Juliana, who picks up after letting it ring for a terrifying amount of time.

“Joe? Did you forget something?”

The man almost laughs at that. If he said his keys or some papers, it would just be such a normal and ordinary conversation between man and wife that he’d almost believe there’s a chance for them. But that’s not the reason why he called home, albeit he wishes it was. Life would be so much easier then.

“I want to make things work,” he says right off the bat, because they’re not far away from the Reichtag now. “I know this isn’t the first time I come to you with this, but I really mean it, Juliana. Whatever it takes, whatever you need, I want this to work.”

“We’re doing everything we can,” she sighs deeply, defeated. Joe closes his eyes and pulls the phone away, as not to let Juliana in into his anger, and to avoid giving her a rude and out of place remark. “I’m here. You’re here. What else is there to try?”

“Nothing,” scowls Joe. It isn’t the answer he wanted to give, but it’s also the only answer he could give her. Every night he tosses around and lies awake for hours pondering this same exact question, and comes up empty every time without fail. “Of course, there’s nothing, you already know that. Everything’s perfect.”

“No, it isn’t,” replies Juliana. “Only thing that matters, however, we are doing our best.”

“Right,” nods Joe, unable to say if it’s enough for Juliana too. Ruprecht’s pulling into the Reichtag already; their time’s up. Even if they had all day to talk things through, they probably wouldn’t reach any solutions. “Gotta go. You won’t be telling me where you’ve got that interview, will you?”

“I’ll tell you in the evening.”

“See you then,” approves Joe, hanging up the phone just as Ruprecht parks the car at the reserved spot for the Reichminister.

Is doing my best good enough to keep her here, where she’s safe? Joe ponders, rubbing his tired eyes. Most of the day, he’s worried about the millions of civilians living in the Greater Reich and how to improve their lives. He spends most nights worrying over the safety and well-being of a single citizen. He’s scared as hell, still to this day, that she’ll flee without a moment’s notice.

Of course, she wouldn’t. He’s not going to keep her here a minute longer than she wanted to, but as she said herself, there are few places in the world where she could be truly safe, other than here in Berlin with him, under his father’s protection. She cannot go back to the Pacific States, nor the Neutral Zone, and she’s stated she left nothing behind in Moscow.

It’s also the safest place for her and the baby. Although there are medical options for them, and Joe could provide Juliana with the most discreet and the quietest of options, she decided to keep the baby. And so, they’ve fallen in the grand scheme of the Reich, they’re providing the Empire with a new generation to follow in their footsteps and make the Reich even greater still. . .

Given the circumstances, it’s hard to know if that’s truly what Juliana wants, Joe sighs, regretting most of the actions that have happened lately. She might be just fulfilling her part, accepting her role by his side--which is the last thing Joe would ask her to do, settle and accepting a set of beliefs she not only doesn’t believe in, she also loathes. With everything she’s seen, with everything she’s endured, could she ever want to bring a child to this hellish of a world? Are they really doing the right thing, or should they just elope halfway across the globe?

“We’re here, sir,” Ruprecht says, opening his car door for him.

Chapter Text

The house has a dozen rooms per floor--lots of free space and hundreds of areas to play. Through the windows, the magnificent views of the half-acre grounds, a private playground in Heaven for kids. She can picture a bunch of toddlers running wild and having the time of their lives hiding and seeking in here, their laughter and games filling all the empty rooms.

It is not what Juliana sees, though. For her, these are all empty rooms, cold walls. She has barely stepped foot in every room and, in her current state, it’s becoming harder and harder to walk across the wings.

The armed guards protecting the Manor and the stewards who wouldn’t give her the time of day do not help her feel any more secure--much less feel like she belonged--in a Manor she knows she should start considering her home. She’s got nothing else. Nowhere else. She’s stuck in her freedom, freedom where she’s watched and followed wherever she goes on the excuse of protection.

Protection for the baby she’s carrying, of course. Once he or she is out of her womb, Juliana won’t matter. Only the kid will be the future Führer. The most powerful man in the world. Judge, jury, and executioner. A God. Or possibly, bigger and more important than that, too.

At long last, she makes it out of the house and she stops for a minute to catch her breath. The two guards by the front door entrance do not react at all at her appearance, although a steward does see her and comes running to check in on her. She waves her away, mesmerized by the sunset scenery in front of her. Nightfall lurking close, the last trails of sunlight taint the Manor and the trees with red, pink, and golden gracious touches. Every day she falls a little bit more in love with the view.

Following the lingering sunlight, battling through its last minutes of existence without realizing it’ll always be a lost cause, Juliana turns to her right.

Despite the many spare rooms in the Manor, there aren’t many places Juliana can go to avoid people and have some alone time. Stewards keep coming and going around the clock and if more than an hour goes by without Joe having a report on her, he sends the Staff to check on her. Otherwise known as to spy on her.

One of those places is the outer terrace, in fact. Stewards don’t go out there unless they’re needed to and so Juliana has enjoyed one too many afternoons sitting there under the shades. Contemplating her fate. Wondering. Watching the city outside of these walls. Seeing the world go by as she stays behind, having a central part in the future of the Reich while, paradoxically, remaining somehow a nameless character.

But today that zone is occupied too by none other than Reichminister Heusmann, leaning against the veranda, staring at the same sky she was also marveled by. His shadow stretches out behind him, in a dark symbolism, Juliana can’t help herself but make the comparison, to how his claws and power stretch all across the globe.

She should try to make a run for it back to the house unnoticed, but there’s no use: a steward has seen her already. There’s always some staff member around Herr Heusmann to attend his every need.

“Miss Becker,” he greets, stepping forward.

At that, Herr Heusmann turns around, a cigarette between his lips.

“Afternoon, Julia. Please, join me. You must be tired,” he says upon seeing her disturbance and uncertainty, pointing at the table. At once, the steward moves away an armchair to help her sit down.

“Would you like a soda? Lemonade?”

“Just some water, please,” says Juliana, wiping the sweat off her brow. At Herr Heusmann’s signal, the steward leaves, but Martin doesn’t squander the chance to give her a poignant look. She could have the world at her feet, he lectured her one day, if only she dared to ask. The thing is, she doesn’t want to ask for that much. All she wants is a safe and quiet life.

Which is nearly as impossible as asking the whole damn world, a voice reminds her. There’s no easy or quiet today.

Interrupting her thoughts, the steward returns with a glass of iced water. Despite her reluctance, Juliana must confess she’s tired and she’s broken a sweat only by walking across the Manor, so she does appreciate the drink.

“Here,” says Herr Heusmann, handing her a napkin to wipe her forehead. She takes it, forcing a smile up to her lips, but does not know what to do with it.

Herr Heusmann has been nothing but a gentleman towards her from the moment they met and yet, to this day, Juliana feels uneasy and uncomfortable around him. Probably because of all the power he holds, all the things he could set in motion by saying a single word or snapping his fingers. The billions of souls' fates he's completely in charge of, free to do as he pleases with. How he can shape the future of civilization and, if he wanted to, changed the past, as well. Because of the values he represents and defends, an ideology she felt so strongly against that she joined the Resistance.

And yet, that same man has willingly offered her a second chance, a new life. As safe as she could possibly be. Despite knowing all of her transgressions--she doesn’t doubt for a minute he knows everything she did since she started sucking on her thumb--he still offered her a privileged position in the Reich and a future. All because Joe loves her, or claims that he does, anyway.

Love, sometimes so diminished and undervalued that it’s lost all meaning, apparently is still able to move the world and start wars. Is she Hellen of Troy in this scenario?

Herr Heusmann misinterprets her look and takes the cigarette from his lips.

“Excuse me,” he says, putting out the cigar on the ashtray that was laying on the veranda. Everyone pays so much attention to whatever might harm the baby, sighs Juliana.

“That was not necessary,” she says.

“I think it was,” replies Herr Heusmann, pointing at her belly. “Are you in any pain, my darling?”

“Not at the moment, thank you. Dr. Neumann is taking real good care of me,” promises Juliana. She’d say they’re all going overboard with taking care of the child, but swallows the remark just in time, seeing the pleased look on Martin’s face.

“As he should be,” he approves. He sits across from her at the table, where he can still stare at the sunset by crooking his neck.

“It’s beautiful,” sighs Juliana, unable to come up with any other subject than the weather.

The sun it’s almost gone beyond the horizon now, the darkness lurking at the terrace. They spend those lingering seconds in silence until nightfall wins sunlight.

“With all our power, we cannot yet control the laws of the universe,” chuckles Martin.

“Even the Third Reich has its limitations.”

“Just give us time, young lady,” Martin winks at her, conspiratorial. “We still haven’t reached the full potential of our machinery.”

Juliana nods, the only appropriate response she could give him besides shivering in fear. What delusions of grandeur have gotten to Martin’s head following the Führer’s madness? To what crazy scale will Joe drag the Empire and its citizens to? And much worse, what will their child do with the world he inherits?

Around them, the steward has turned on some lamps and lit a few candles. Slowly, the lights once more fight the darkness.

“Thank you, Adalbert. You may go now,” says Martin, dismissing the steward. He bows once and rushes inside--probably off to help set the table for dinner, Juliana guesses, given the time. As a matter of fact, Joe should be back by now.

“Well, the coast is clear now,” whispers Juliana when they’re all alone, a funny smirk on her lips. “Any reason in particular?”

“Does an old man need a reason to spend some time with his daughter-in-law? Or is that being too sentimentalist?”

For the first time in days, Juliana lets out a good-hearted laugh. “No, I think it isn’t.”

Martin nods in appreciation at her and leans back on his chair, looking with earnest at the cigarettes pack on the table. Juliana would try and convince him to go ahead and smoke if he wants so didn’t she know the results of said conversation in advance. She starts caressing her belly absentmindedly, realizing she should have taken a sweater against the evening breeze, colder than she’d expected.

“Are you suffering any cramps?” asks Martin, eyeing her with worry.

“Not at all, really,” says Juliana. “To be honest, I think I’m having an easy pregnancy, compared to some women I’ve talked with.

“The only thing that does worry me is if I’m going to be able to raise him properly.”

“You need not worry,” chuckles Martin with a reassuring smile. He reaches a hand and caresses her arm warmly, as if trying to scare away her fears and nightmares just like that. “There are nurses to spare to take care of that child, plus many rearing programs for planned parenthood. To my deepest regret, he will one day hold the weight of the world on his shoulders, so he will need to be properly trained for that since childhood. Everything will be alright, you’ll see.”

Comforting as Martin thought his words would be, he manages the opposite results. Juliana freezes, unable to say a word. If she felt remotely insecure two minutes ago, it’s nothing compared to how scared out of her mind she is right now. How has she avoided this subject altogether for seven months of pregnancy? Why haven’t they talked about it long ago? How come Joe didn’t bring this up before?

Or was it. . . He didn’t want to talk about it with her, because she had no say in the matter whatsoever?

Martin’s personal aid steps out to the terrace then, bowing by the waist. Saving Juliana from being forced to say something inadequate, he informs that there’s a phone call for Herr Heusmann.

“I’m afraid I have to go,” says Martin, apologetic tone, standing.

“The Empire cannot run itself,” replies Juliana.

“That, it cannot,” Martin agrees. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”

He takes his jacket and his pack of cigarettes and then bows his head at Juliana in a formal farewell note. He then joins his aid inside, although Juliana can hear traces of the beginning of their conversation. “Have someone take Miss Becker a jacket and warm tea--”

Once more, taking decisions for me as if I didn’t matter, scowls Juliana, leaning back on her chair. As if she didn’t exist. As if she were. . . A woman. Only a person who carries the future Reichminister. The most insignificant mother to the man who one day will be the most powerful person on Earth.

A steward comes around after a while, laying a cup of tea on the table and throwing a blanket over her shoulders. Before he can ask if there’s anything else she needs, Juliana dismisses him with a wave of the hand, lazily. She does not want to deal with people serving her on a daily basis, much less today, of all days. She’s tired of it all.

“You’re so stupid,” she scowls, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders.

Joe did tell her, what feels like a thousand years ago, that he was Lebensborn. It was difficult to understand for Juliana--she can imagine it was a shock for Joe too--but he’d promised her those were practices of old days long past. He promised that if she ever got pregnant, their child would never be put through something like that. She believed him, of course.

But the subject was never brought up again, not even when she told him she was pregnant. Joe hasn’t mentioned any breeding programs whatsoever, albeit his father seems pretty convinced the child will be enrolled in all sorts of programs from the minute he’s born.

What is she to believe? Will they have any control in rearing this child or has every step of his life already been discussed and planned behind her back?

For the next few minutes, a steward--Juliana doesn’t pay enough attention to know if it’s the same every time or if there’s a change of guards--comes around every now and then to check on her. She gives no answer and, without any explicit orders, the steward dismisses themself quietly. At some point, however, Joe returns from his meetings at the Reichstag and, alerted by either his father or the Staff, comes straight to the terrace, to her.

After announcing his presence so Juliana isn’t startled by his sudden appearance, he rests his hands on her shoulders, realizing she’s stiff and cold. He makes sure the blanket covers her properly before sitting by her side. Juliana doesn’t look up at him and Joe has a hard time finding words.

“What is it?” he asks, worried. “Should I ring for Dr. Neumann?”

“No,” she shakes her head. The last thing she needs right now is medication and losing control. She cannot let that happen. She needs to be there for the baby, protect him, for it seems she’s the only one willing to do so.

“I’ve ordered your supper,” he says.

“Don’t want it.”

“You shouldn’t skip any meals,” Joe reminds her, warmer than she’d expected. “You’re going to eat it.”

“Sure. Manhandle me any way you want, just like you’ve been doing all this time.”

“What does that come from?” scowls Joe, irritated now. “The minute you came here to Berlin I told you no one was following you or spying on you. I’ve said it again every day since then. How many more times do you need me to say it until you believe me?”

“I don’t care if you or your father get daily reports on my activities and who I’ve got contact with!” yells Juliana, wiping the treacherous tears off her eyes. “This isn’t about me anymore, is it?”

“What is, then?”

“You’re Lebensborn!” Juliana shrieks, hitting the table. She freezes for a second when she sees the hurt look on Joe’s eyes. It’s obviously a sore subject for him and he cannot comprehend why would she bring it up now of all times. “Who’s to tell me this child won’t be too?”

“Me,” he says, forcing the words out while trying to remain as calm and contempt as possible. “He won’t, Juliana. I told you so long back.”

“Really? I was talking to your father earlier. He seemed to believe--”

“I apologize in his stead if he gave you that impression, but I'm telling you, he's the first person in this family who will oppose this child to go through a breeding program as I did,” Joe insists through clenched teeth. “Of course, he’ll have to go to school, and Hitler Youth, and so on, but you cannot oppose to all of that, Juliana, can’t you see? He’s a son of the Reich and that’s the bottom line.”

“This is supposed to be our child, Joe! Can’t we have some spec of control over his life? Or does he solely belong to the State, for who his father is?”

At that, understanding, finally, the conundrum, Joe sighs deeply and drops his head. He grabs Juliana’s hands into his, warming her fingers. When he attempts to kiss her hand, Juliana pushes away, expecting an answer. What can he say to placate her, really? Nothing can comfort her, because she’s right. The realization has just hit her a bit too late and she’s got the right to be as mad as she wants to be about it. She’s got no option but to accept it, even if she doesn’t like it. He wishes he could give her any other answer, but that’s how it is, and she wouldn’t appreciate a lie, either.

“This is how things are for us,” he whispers.

“I refuse to accept that!” Juliana yells immediately, crossing her arms.

Too tired to engage a debate that’ll last a lifetime and lead them nowhere, except tiredness and further exasperation, Joe decides to drop the subject. He sighs deeply and stands, his chair making a horrible noise against the floor.

“Believe what you want, but I’ll remind you, I’ve given you no reason to mistrust me ever since you got back to Berlin. I wish you could at least see that.

“Now, I’m going to leave before you exert yourself and harm the baby,” he says softly, trying to plaster all of his love and concern into his words. “Just tell the stewards where would you like to have your supper.”

“Joe,” she breathes out, calling him back.

But he’s gone and she finds herself unable to follow him. She’s just too clumsy and slow these days to follow him into the Manor and, either way, she couldn’t possibly spend more time discussing the subject.

All alone again, she caresses her stomach again, her movements a bit desperate this time around. This is a dangerous world, but at least she knew the rules in the Pacific States. She had her family, she had Frank. Out here, at the heart of the Reich, she’s got no idea what’s north and south, or who to turn to for help and support. Despite all of Joe’s promises and vows of safety and everlasting love, she feels terribly alone and in danger.

She feels a powerful kick on her side and lets out a low yelp, thanking the fact that she’ s alone. She does not need the concern of the stewards nor the overprotective Joe right now.  

“It’s going to be okay,” she promises. The first time of many, she fears, that she’s forced to lie to her child for their benefit and peace of mind. “I’m right here, baby. You’re safe. Don’t worry about anything. Everything will be fine, you’ll see. I will make sure you're spared from harm.”

Chapter Text

Exhausted, she keeps drifting off to unconsciousness, but she wills herself to stay awake time and time again. She knows she’s pushing her body, denying herself the rest she so desperately needs and wants, but there’s little else she can do.

She’s not the priority anymore.

A nurse appears, having the decency of knocking on the door before barging in, and Juliana almost scowls. Are there any more nurses at the hospital who have yet to stop by her room? Just like the past three nurses, she asks about her well-being, checks her stats, scribbles down something on the clipboard hanging from the bed. Again, Juliana nods to prove that she’s alright, a deep sigh instead of words coming out of her mouth.

“Where is he?”

“He’s fine, ma’am.”

Another nurse who seems to miss the fact that she asked ‘where’, not ‘how’, or maybe they’re all just pretending at this point. She’s of no consequence now, after all. She’s done her duty. Her role in the Reich is all but over, she’ll be cast in the shadow, useless, ornamental, even with being married to the Chancellor’s son. She thought she was prepared to be invisible, and yet. . . It stings more than she can confess.

The nurse, who must have had a hard time all her life because of her funny red, curly hair, must see the tears in her eyes. She’s the first medical practitioner who drops, for once, the professional façade and shows some compassion instead. Dropping her pen and the clipboard, she walks around the bed to meet her, patting her shivering shoulders.

“The doctor will be back to adjust your medication for the pain,” she says.

That would bee a wonderful idea, if Juliana’s pain was, in fact, physical after the taxing process of giving birth. But what she wants, what she craves, it’s not sleep--it’s her son, goddammit.

“Where’s my son?” she asks between sobs.

“He’s fine,” the nurse repeats, and that same answer on a row is the straw that breaks the camel’s back for Juliana. She explodes and pushes the nurse’s hands away, who yelps and leaves hurriedly.

In the silence of the room, her imagination, her nightmares, run riot. Back in the Pacific States, she’d heard many stupid and crazy rumors about growing and living in the Greater Reich. Some she learned were far off reality when she spent some time in New York City--although in other cases, the reality was far worse than rumors could ever accomplish. Joe promised her that things had changed, that the mistakes made during his father’s generation would never be made again, but she never stopped worrying ever since she learned that she was pregnant.

And now. . . Well, she can barely keep her fears at bay. She’s incapacitated, without a voice, without any power. They could take her child away and she wouldn’t hear for hours to come, days even, and by then it'd be too late.

The fact that she hasn’t seen Joe or their baby for what feels like hours doesn’t help soothe her worries, either. She’d barely had a few minutes with the baby in her arms before the duties began--and will last until the poor creature’s last day on this Earth, Juliana fears. Everything he says and does will be scrutinized. Who he’ll marry, where he’ll live, that’s probably been planned out already, out of both their hands.

Was this truly her dream? She always wanted children, despite knowing how bad a world they lived in. But she never imagined this. This level of scrutiny, of rules, of deception, of power. . . In one word, she’s in the Greater Reich now. And not only that--she’s just given birth to the heir of this world, who will inherit everything and who will rule the land, according to the precedent left by Hitler himself.

“He promised,” she keeps saying, bitter, through her tears. A reminder of how stupidly naive she was by trusting Joe’s promises and, to an extent, his father’s. He’s broken his vow, he left her and took her baby hours ago, and she should have seen it coming. It’s all her damn fault.

Maybe Frank was right. Maybe bringing children to the suffering and misery of this wrecked world is the biggest mistake one can make--without a new generation, all the teachings of the Greater Reich, even the Japanese Empire, would be lost to oblivion. She could have used the excuse of that bus accident and said she couldn’t bear children, and that would be the end. Everyone had accepted it back in the States.

Worse part is, that was never an option for Juliana. The Chancellor’s son couldn’t be married to an infertile woman, so the best doctors in the land were summoned. She was subjected to many examinations and tests, took medication, tried everything they told her. . . Until it worked.

But, to what end? To care for this child, to love this still nameless kid, right until the moment he would be taken away from her arms?

Two more knocks on the door interrupt her reveries and her tears.

“No more doctors,” she begs.

“Juliana?” Joe’s voice, finally, blissfully, raises, and Juliana could have jumped out of the bed, hadn’t she been so physically exhausted and emotionally drained. “The nurses sent for me. Are you OK? Does it hurt?”

The flashes are blinding. He’s been standing here for so long, he doesn’t even remember what’s going on anymore. People keep congratulating him, blessing him for the wonderful gift he’s given the Reich. He’s shaken the hands of almost every doctor at the hospital and yet he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember a single name.

And now he’s growing tired of standing here in the middle of the conference room, the child in his arms being photographed and recorded for all eternity. He’s abided all of the reporters’ demands so far, they’ve even given them stats on the baby that seemed insignificant to Joe, such as his weight and skin tone, amongst so many other things that in normal circumstances, would be kept private. But not them, of course. That is not an option here.

They’ve struggled through so many arduous months. It all ended with such a long, painful, and difficult delivery where his sense of uselessness was doubled because he could do nothing but to hold Juliana’s hand through it all. They should be allowed some time alone now, as a family, which wouldn’t be such an extraordinary request to any other family. Of course, they are aware of the place and role they fulfill, but they are in a position of asking for some spec or normalcy in times like this. Especially when reporters have been following them every minute they spent outdoors since the pregnancy was announced to the public.

This is getting ridiculous, Joe sighs.

“I think that’s enough,” he scowls. He’d gotten used to this side of the job, to the notoriety, the press constantly around, every word and look scrutinized. He knew his son would be under the spotlight the moment he was born. But there’s now another duty he must tend to. He promised her and he’s not about to break that promise.

The cameras stop clicking at long last, although Joe sees black dots in the corners of his eyes. The reporters, a bit taken aback, look at his father, who clears his throat and checks his tie.

“You must have all you need, mustn’t you?” he asks. Immediately, all the reporters apologize and put away their notepads and cameras. “There’ll be a press conference tomorrow morning. Thank you very much.”

Joe barely manages to bite his tongue in order to correct his father in front of the press--there will be no such conference in the morning. He could care less right now, and he hardly registers all the reporters finally giving them a break and leaving the room. He’s got only eyes for his child, sound asleep in his arms, unbothered and unfathomable by the press. Unaware of the humongous pressure he finds himself as of now and forevermore. 

By his side, Martin checks his tie and shirt, patting Joe on the shoulder. He’s got a warm smile Joe has rarely seen on his face, except for maybe those few first days where Joe decided to stay in Berlin.

“He’s beautiful,” says Martin, prideful voice.

Joe agrees, of course, showing the first honest smile since he came down here to address the press. As his father places a careful hand on the head of his grandson, the future head of the Reich, Joe bounces gently to help the kid sleep--instincts that he picked up who knows where.

“He’ll grow into a strong, brave man, just like you. Someone worthy and capable of, one day, leading the Reich.”

How many times has he heard that same speech today? Dear Lord, Juliana was right, per usual. They have condemned this child from now to the day he dies. How much he wishes he could let him sleep for years on end and to protect him for the burden that soon enough will rest upon his shoulders, but neither he nor the baby have any choice in the matter. Their future was written long ago, the minute Joe decided to stay in Berlin, the minute he married Juliana, the minute she got pregnant.

That’s the significance of this moment and the reason why every cable news in the world wanted to report this birth. Present and future. With Chancellor Heusmann, the baby, and himself, the pictures will show three generations of this family. In other words, the current leader of the Reich and the Empire’s next two generations. Together, united, stronger than ever, and with one promise: the Reich that will last a thousand years. The one mistake the Fuhrer committed: marrying a woman who couldn’t bear any of his children, positively securing his dynasty forever. Martin made sure to mend that small detail by introducing Joe to Nicole.

Yeah, that wasn’t a simple family portrait back there. The whole world will look upon this baby in his arms. Every step he takes will be followed, whichever direction he chooses, the world will follow suit. That’s a whole lot of power for a toddler who’s only a few hours old.

“I need to check on Julianna,” says Joe after a while.

“You go do that,” approves Martin, patting his arm again, “and try to get some sleep, both of you. You can rest easy now. You’ve done great. I’m really proud of you, my son.”

“Thank you,” Joe manages to utter. When he came to Berlin he didn’t come to get his father’s validation. He wishes he could say that none of the actions and decisions he’s made ever since were to get his father’s approval, but. . . Well, he’s not really fooling anyone, is he. A son is always aiming to make his father proud and looking for validation, there’s no way around it. And him, with his father being the most powerful man on Earth, had much higher goals to achieve in order to bring honor to the family.

Martin’s long gone and Joe sets off to Juliana’s room, barely imagining how anxious she must be. Behind him, two SS agents follow, and Joe sighs. He brushed off the protection detail Martin assigned him by saying--and proving--he could take care of himself, but there’s no brushing them off this time. They’re here to protect the baby, not him, not Juliana, and Martin would never change his mind about it.

“Herr Heusmann,” a nurse says, raising her hands to take the baby--as expected of her.

“No, thank you,” Joe replies, shocking the nurse to her core. But he made a promise to Juliana that he’s going to keep. If that means raising this child unconventionally, even though he still will be reared by the Fuhrer’s teachings, so be it.

“Herr Heusmann,” another nurse, this one with funny red hair, says. Joe’s about to snap at her when he sees the distressed look on her eyes--and there can only be one reason.

“My wife?” he asks, his voice breaking.

“She’s been asking for you, Herr Heusmann,” says the nurse, unnecessarily cryptic.

After that, he sets off towards Juliana’s room. He’d feared that much and, to be honest, he’s surprised no nurse barged in during the conference or the photoshoot, per Juliana’s insistence. He should have been by her side all this time and yet, as soon as the baby was born, his duties started. Chores had to be fulfilled.

Some feet from the room he can already her Juliana’s weeping. By the time he reaches for the door, he braces himself for what he’ll find in there.

“Juliana?”

Her whimpering stops as she hears his voice, turning towards the entrance. She breathes upon seeing the baby Joe’s holding and stretches her arms for him. Immediately, Joe steps closer, sitting carefully on the bed, still holding the baby in case strength failed poor Juliana.

“Does it hurt?”

“I’m alright now,” she breathes out and Joe sees her smiling for the first time since the delivery was over with. “You promised, Joe.”

“He never left my sight. I promise,” he says vehemently, hoping she doesn’t mistrust his words now. She asked her not to let the Government taking their child, putting him into some weird breeding program like Joe suffered. Despite all the shit the baby will be put through during his entire life, right now, with them, he is safe. “He will not be taken away.”

Resting against his chest, Juliana nods a few times and, for once, she seems to believe his words. She’s caressing, ever so gentle, the baby’s cheeks and forehead with her little finger, drawing small circles to help him sleep. Joe leans to kiss her hair and sees how exhausted, out of her mind really, she seems to be.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” he asks.

She snuggles closer to his side, pulling the baby tighter against her chest, in a silent statement that neither Joe nor the baby are going anywhere.

“Yes, I think I can try to, now.”

“Then sleep,” Joe says, throwing his arm around her shoulders. “Do not worry about anything else right now. We both will be here when you wake up.”

Although asking her not to worry is kind of a useless and idiotic suggestion, Juliana nods again and, to Joe’s biggest surprise, she even closes her eyes. Within minutes, she’s sound asleep, just like the baby in her arms, but this time around Joe does not want to break his promise. He doesn’t leave the bed, doesn’t take the child away, not even to his crib, so Juliana can find them both right there come morning.

The same red-haired nurse as before comes back a few minutes later to check in on the three family members.

“Herr Heusmann? Is there anything I can get for you or your wife?”

Joe appreciates her kindness and dedication before sending her away, for she’s not needed here. He barely looked away from Juliana’s face, at rest for once in her life, and now tucks behind her ear a stray lock of hair, wishing that he could keep Juliana asleep, or protected from harm and hardship, for far longer than just the night.

They will tackle it all in the morning, he sighs. Together. They’ve come so far, they can endure it all a bit longer. All they need to do is take it step by step--starting with the baby’s name, which they need to decide as soon as possible. But only after Juliana gets her well-deserved rest.

Chapter Text

She struggles out of her room in the wheelchair because, for some reason, she could not find any solicit nurses around. 

What in the world is going on?  Joe had promised her that things would settle down from now on. Less press, fewer portraits, fewer interviews, fewer doctors. Time for themselves and their kid, whom they haven’t yet named. Gone home. 

Of course, she doesn’t know why she bothers believing anything the man says. Ever since this morning, she hasn’t seen their baby, she hasn’t seen Joe, and the doctors and nurses have stopped showing up altogether to check in on her. Also, although he’d said there would be no more interviews, she’s seen the TV--there are reporters broadcasting from the hospital entrance. Her German is not yet good enough to understand what they’re saying, unfortunately, and the TV is still on behind her as she tries to maneuver the wheelchair out of the room. 

After eating lunch all alone, Juliana decided that if no one was going to tell her what’s going on, she will get those answers herself, with or without help. Although someone pushing her wheelchair would be in handy, in the end, she manages. 

Once more, Juliana finds herself disbelieving and cynical regarding the Reich and all of Joe’s promises for the future. Part of her tells her Joe never actually broke any of the promises he made her, but she cannot think clearly and act upon that knowledge. Her gut tells her something's wrong. She needs to see Joe right now. She needs to see her baby, or she'll panic. 

The corridors and halls are unusually empty, she meets no nurse or doctor, no one tries to halt her. Through random open doors rooms, she sees at the very least half a dozen patients crying while watching the same news channel she was staring at a few minutes ago, and would ask for a translation, if she didn't feel like this is something she needs to hear from Joe himself. 

At long last, a door opens in front of her, a doctor and a couple of nurses, tears in the eyes of the two women, coming out. They're shocked to see her up and about, but Juliana's more interested in the people she saw gathered in that room. 

“Miss Becker,” says the doctor, his voice soft and low, as if he addressed an injured animal on the road. “Let the nurses take you back to your room--”

“The only place they can take me is into that room,” replies Juliana succinctly. “Otherwise, they can go, too.”

After pondering for half a minute, the doctor nods once. A nurse positions herself behind Juliana’s chair and he knocks a couple of times on the door. He waits for a signal from inside before opening it, standing right at the threshold, so Juliana cannot see inside and cannot slither in. 

“Sorry for the interruption. Herr Heusmann, your wife would like to see you.” 

The silence inside only manages to annoy her further. She would stand from the wheelchair and push the doctor aside if she didn't know that's the perfect way to get sent to her room high on painkillers. So she awaits the decision, as calm a person as it gets. 

“Send her in,” finally Joe's voice raises, tired. 

At that, the doctor steps aside and the nurse wheels her into the room. So it wasn't an illusion: Joe, his father, Himmler, and many high-ranking political members of the party are standing in the dark room, whispering in German. The first thing she notices, however, is that no one is holding her baby. She looks around, looking for a crib or perhaps a competent nurse taking care of the child, but she sees no one. 

“I thought you’d be sleeping,” whispers Joe, leaning forward to caress her hair. She would expect that treatment for a child, not Joe's wife, and the anger comes out of her system at a very bad time, in front of the wrong people. She just cannot stop herself. 

“I was. Now I’m here.” 

Joe pulls back biting his lip, swallowing a chuckle at her response. He had not missed her lip. He then looks over his shoulder at the dozen men in the room. 

“Gentlemen, give us a minute.” 

It wasn’t an offer and right away, everyone starts filing out of the room, some wishing Herr Heusmann--both of them--good luck. General Himmler stays behind, polishing his hat from inexistent dirt, and rests his hand on Joe's shoulder. 

“There’s no point in blaming anyone. It’s the genes, that is all. We still haven’t reached the full potential of our scientific exploits.” 

“Thank you,” Joe appreciates, although that short speech only managed to freak out and confuse Julianna even more. Without another word, Himmler leaves. 

It's only Joe and his father in here now, but after sharing one look, the Chancellor clears his throat and buttons his jacket. He's the only person who dedicates Juliana a few words, taking her hands into his and kissing her palm.

“It’s going to be just fine, you’ll see.” 

“What is?” she demands. 

“Joe will tell you everything,” the man says, dropping her hands and leaving. 

Piercing Joe with an angered look, Juliana waits until the door closes behind them again. Joe sighs, afraid of the upcoming conversation more than anything else. 

“What the hell happened?” she demands, struggling to stand from the chair. 

“Sit down,” Joe recommends her. 

“I don’t want to sit down, I want answers!  Where’s my son? What were you talking about in secrecy all of you? What’s going on?” 

“I’ll tell you everything,” he promises upon her raising her voice at him, “but I need you to sit down first.” 

She accepts the deal--her side ached either way--and he gives her a hand sitting down. After she's settled, she looks up at Joe, waiting for those answers, and he turns around to pour himself a glass of some ambar liquid. 

“The doctors thought there was something wrong with our baby, so they ran some tests.” 

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Didn’t want to worry you, I suppose,” he shrugs, but that's not the whole truth: he didn't dare to tell her about their son. 

“We’ve just received the results.”

It’s bad news, Juliana knows before Joe needs to say a single word. The worse kind of news. Joe looks reluctant to keep talking and struggles to find the appropriate words, because probably there aren't. There's no easy way of saying this and sparing a panic attack from Juliana. 

“He's got spinal muscular atrophy. Don't ask me the medical term, because I cannot for the life of me remember it. But you can understand what that means, surely,” sighs Joe. “We were just discussing possibilities, although there's only one bottom line.”

“What. . . What are you saying? Speak clearly, goddammit!!” 

“Juliana. Our child will not be able to walk properly."

After that line, Juliana waits for further explanations. She waits for almost a minute.

"What does that mean?" she asks in a whisper. Joe tilts his head, questioning that she shouldn't understand what he's saying.

"Juliana. The future Chancellor cannot be--” 

“Where is he? What have you done with him?! Have you killed him?!” 

“No,” he says and, with that monosyllable, oxygen returns to her lungs. “He’s alive, for now. We’re keeping him in a private room in this hospital. My father. . . He can deal with. . . The situation. He’ll do it quietly with the help of our most trusted people and no one needs to know.” 

“I will know! You will know it!! I don’t care if your father drops him in the river, we'll have pulled the trigger, Joe!! And all because you bigot people cannot accept flaws--” 

“Juliana, stop it,” he begs her. He hopes the walls are thick enough to contain the shrieks that are deafening him. 

“I don’t give a damn if anyone hears me!! This is murder, Joe!” 

“We call it compassion.” 

“And that’s called lying to yourself. Screw you and all your beliefs, Joe!! I will not have it!”

“I am not having this discussion again. We are important people, Juliana, and that gives us freedom. . . But it comes with duties and responsibilities. You cannot have one without the other. Had it not been for my social and political status, you wouldn’t be here, safe. Alive.” 

“I’d rather die before being responsible for killing a defenseless and blameless child!” 

“Don’t say that,” Joe begs her, almost out of breath. He cannot even fathom the possibility and takes one step forward to hold Juliana, but she shakes off his hands. 

“It’s the truth! There’s got to be another way than killing our son!” 

“We cannot keep him. It’s out of the question, Juliana. And the press has already been informed that there were complications from the delivery and--” 

“I don’t give a damn about the press. Just hear me out. You owe me at least that.”

Sitting inside their private car with tainted windows, the silence is unbearably uncomfortable, but having a driver take them wasn’t a feasible option. No one can ever know about this. 

Juliana checks her watch for the tenth time this past five minutes. It should be here any time, now.

Unless, of course, Joe lied to her. The possibility has crossed her mind ever since they left the hospital and has popped out with increasing regularity for the past thirty minutes. Joe could have pretended to listen to her and to prepare everything--after all, he was an SS agent who lied through his teeth to stay alive. This whole thing could be a convoluted plan to quiet her complaints and deal with the whole situation quietly. . . As he and his Father wished. 

It wouldn't be too difficult. Juliana’s not strong enough yet to protect their child. A hand over his nose and mouth. . . And he’d be gone within minutes. 

At long last, letting Juliana breathe again, an engine breaks the quiet night and the tension inside the car. 

“There it is,” she sighs out of relief, knowing, however, the worse is yet to come. 

Before she’d seen the movement, Joe has abandoned the car and opened her side door to help her out--and take the wooden box from her hands. He’s been itching to pry it from her the whole time they've been waiting. 

They get out to the private hangar while the engines haven’t been turned off yet, their coats and hats willowing in the strong wind caused by the turbines. They see movement inside and Juliana has to swallow a yelp of fright, pushing aside the possibility of the passengers being SS agents as well. After today, she expects anything from these people. 

Your people now, you idiot, a voice inside her head reminds her. 

At some point Joe falls behind, carrying that box, letting Juliana climb on board first and make the necessary explanations. She looks up the stairs that have been placed, aware that all the strife she’s endured in the past few months will become pleasant experiences now. 

Behind her, Joe, the man who supposedly loves her. The embodiment of the Greater Reich--the good the bad, the ugly. The Empire that could be threatened by atrophy. A life of secrecy and plots and fallacies. 

Right in front of her, an escape. 

“Mom,” she breathes out. 

“Juliana!!” shrieks Anne. Arnold stands too, shocked to the core--they were never informed of what was going on. “This was you?! What in the world possessed you to have Nazi agents forcibly take us from home and fly us halfway across the world?!” 

“I’m sorry, Mom, but we couldn’t explain before. I need your help. And you cannot tell anyone, either.” 

“Start explaining, now!!” 

“I will, but Mom, stop screaming.”

“Juliana, darling, what’s happening?” demands Arnold, a bit calmer. “How on Earth do you have the resources to pull this whole thing off?”

“I think I can answer that,” says Joe, stepping into the plane, a steward behind him carrying that wooden box. 

Joe’s presence explains a lot--Anne and Arnold immediately know who he is and hence, the power he holds--but at the same time, raises even more questions. Before giving any of those explanations, he instructs the steward to lay the box on a leathery seat and then waves him away with a nod. 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Walker, Mrs. Walker,” Joe says, never forgetting common courtesy. “I’m Joe--”

“We know who you are,” Arnold stops him, not as rude as Juliana had feared. Despite their hatred towards Nazism and the Reich, they do realize if they say or do the wrong thing, they could face dire consequences. They’re in Berlin, the beating heart of the Reich, after all. 

“Hold on,” Anne demands, still not quite over the shock, looking alternatively between Joe and Juliana. Trying to glue together the pieces, she stutters, collecting her thoughts. “The news said. . . The baby. . . The Heir. . . You’re the mother? You’re sleeping with the enemy?” 

“Are Japs our allies?” Juliana retorts, before realizing this isn’t the debate they need to have at the moment. In the meantime, Joe has sat down with the box by his side and has taken out a pack of cigars, but does not light any. “Mom, please, you need to listen to me. We need your help.” 

“What could you possibly need from us?”

“The baby was born with a congenital disease,” Joe explains, pointing at the box by his side. “For reasons you surely understand, we cannot keep it.” 

“Because you still believe in killing people for who they are.” 

“We believe in creating the best society that can be created,” replies Joe in what must be a textbook answered ingrained in his system since childhood. He reaches for the cigars and then reconsiders, although he looks as if he would kill to have one between his lips. “But, before killing the child, Juliana thought to reach out for you.” 

“You want us to raise the kid you daren’t take care of?” 

“We want you to take care of your first and, for now, only grandkid,” Juliana says. “In our stead.” 

“But. . . Are you crazy?  What are we going to do? What are we going to say?” 

“The story is up to you,” says Joe, standing. As he steps closer to Anne, she retreats, but Arnold does not, standing tall in front of Joe in defiance. “But you could tell the truth. Or part of it, anyhow. It’s your grandchildren and Juliana couldn’t take care of him alone. She had a job opportunity she couldn’t refuse. You can work out the details yourself. 

“That’s, of course, in case you decide to keep him. If you don't want to have anything to do with the kid, the pilot knows a destination in Rio de Janeiro where an SS agent will take care of everything.” 

“What are you saying?” demands Juliana. She did not know that part of the plan, either. 

“Just covering all our bases,” Joe shrugs. Despite the timeframe Juliana gave him, he did have time to think the plan through and through. “You have to know too that this family and the Reich will never acknowledge the existence of that child--enemies of the State could try to act against us through him and we cannot allow that to happen. If you attempt to go to the press or blackmail us with this information, you will suffer the loss of your reputation, of your acquaintances, of your jobs, your home. . . In one word, you’ll face total bankruptcy in a matter of weeks. And just as easily, you could also be named enemies of the State and be forced to spend your whole life on the run.” 

“Joe--” Juliana tries to mediate. 

“You wouldn’t do that to your own child,” scowls Arnold. 

“He isn’t, that’s the whole point,” Joe insists. “To our beliefs, he should be dead.

“Now, the third option. If you decide to keep him, we have opened a bank account in your name that should be enough to cover all expenses for a while. If you need more, you just have to send a letter to this address in Moscow, Juliana's former address, and we'll wire the money,” instructs Joe, handing Arnold a piece of paper. 

“We do not need nor want your filthy money!!” scowls Anne, spitting right at Joe’s feet. 

Utterly unconcerned by the outburst, the man takes it graciously, hiding his hands inside his trousers pockets. It’s clear now where Juliana's temper stems from. 

“Just tell the pilot where you’re going. Don’t worry, you can decide mid-air, they need to refuel. 

“Five minutes,” he says Juliana, tapping his watch before he descends the plane. 

Inside, all three family members keep quiet, until they see Joe’s figure through a window disappearing into the darkness. Leaning on the seat, Juliana sees him entering the car behind the wheel. At the very least he’s giving them some privacy. 

“I’m sorry about all of this,” she says, straightening. In truth, she’s got no idea what she’s apologizing for: Joe’s behavior, her lies, their unspeakable request? 

“Juliana, what in the world are you doing here, with a man like--?” 

“Believe me or not, this is the safest place I could be. I know what I’m doing.” 

“Evidence points to the contrary!” shrieks her mother, pointing at the box with her son inside. 

“I’m doing what I have to do to stay alive,” Juliana says, knowing how much those words will hurt her mother, “and that’s all we can say in the times we live. I’m sorry I lied and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you anything about this. I’m trying to keep a low profile, despite everything else.

“Please, do not worry about me. I’m fine,” she insists, pulling her mother into a hug. “That’s all you need to know.”

“But. . . What about Frank? And. . .” 

“The more you know, the more danger you’ll be in. I thank both you very much for coming all the way here,” Juliana says, hugging Arnold in turn. 

She then grabs the box and for the first time since they left the hospital, she peeks inside. The baby sleeps, resting in a blanket and diapers, unfathomable despite all the arguments about him. 

“I’m not going to ask you to keep him and raise him when I couldn’t,” she keeps saying, delivering the box to Arnold before she reconsiders the whole thing. “Just do what you have to do. And tell no one.” 

“Darling, we want what's best for you, but this. . .” 

“Then trust me when I say that, with all the things I did, there’s no place safer for me than here in Germany.”

Someone climbs up the stairs and they all freeze, expecting Joe--or maybe a trap. But it’s the pilot, who takes his hat off, asking for permission to come aboard. Arnold was quick enough to hide he box behind a seat. 

“Fuel tank’s full, ladies, sir. I’m afraid to say that we’re already behind schedule,” he says, formal voice. 

“Two minutes,” begs Juliana. 

When the pilot disappears, she hugs her mother and Arnold again, kissing them both, briefly relishing on their touch for the first and last time in months. 

“Call if you need anything or if you’re in any trouble.” 

“And you call more often, honey.” 

Tears in her eyes, Juliana’s unable to accept the deal. After this, she knows what’s waiting for her at every phone call: reproaches, astonishment, disappointment. She’s got enough of that on her plate, already. 

A couple of minutes later, she descends the plane. Joe gets out of the car to meet her, dragging her back to the vehicle, and they stay in silence as they watch the plane take off. This time, however, through their tears, they don't let each other go. 

Chapter Text

She’s been dozing off during the whole trip—or, well, tried to, but she doesn’t get the luxury of having peaceful slumbers anymore. Pictures of faceless and nameless babies populate her nightmares and, more often than not, Juliana wakes in the middle of the night yelling, in a cold sweat, searching and aching for a baby that she will never find there.

At the very beginning of her nightmares, Joe would come running to her chambers and try to console her, scared out of his mind too because of her shrieks and yells. After a week of such routine, he even asked for her permission to return to the bedroom, just so he could be closer for her and no guards or SS agents would be alerted by her sobs every night. She refused.

And after that, it didn’t take long for Joe to stop showing up at her bedroom at night and come to the rescue; Juliana always pushed him away. His is not the touch she craves for. His words will not console her. His gestures can only bring her nightmares.

Every morning when she wakes up, she suffers about a minute of utter and terrifying numbness, where she does not know where she is, or the reason behind the deep ache within her heart. And then, every day, like clockwork, she’s hit with the same horrifying wave and overwhelming memories of what they did. The baby they gave away—not lost, because, if she were living still in the States with Frank, she would still be a mother.

Doctors and nurses promised it would get better. But every night she suffers from the most terrible of visions and sleepless rest. And every morning remorse sows in her mind and doesn’t leave her once throughout the day. The nightmares have come to stay and they will never go away.

The chances of her falling asleep on the car were null, to begin with, try as she might. But she pretended she did, because having a conversation with Joe would be that much more frightening and horrifying. And staring at him while he works, in tense silence, felt such an awkward and taxing struggle that Juliana didn’t even want to try.

She and Joe barely speak anymore—it goes without saying that they haven’t even discussed what transpired, what they did. Maybe a normal couple could talk about this sort of thing out, share each other’s thoughts and feelings. Juliana knew they weren’t ordinary people, for good or bad, and she’s been proven so every minute since she landed in Berlin.

Some part of her still believes she should have fled the city three weeks ago. Never descend that damned plane and returned to the States with her parents. . . And her child. In a place where she could nurse and love him. It still sounds appealing and she knows that if she were to ask, Joe would arrange a plane for her, no questions, no arguments. He would deal with the Kempeitai and all the legal circumstances, maybe even give her a new identity to live a peaceful life. He would arrange an apartment for her and her child. He would find her a job and give her alimony for life so their son would never want for anything. Make any excuse to the Reich and the Berlin elite for her disappearance, find a more suitable wife, and live the life that was set out for him.

It would solve so many problems and struggles. They’d have a somewhat easier life if such an adjective can be applied to someone’s existence on this Earth.

Still, for some reason, she hasn’t asked yet. She’s stayed in Berlin to weather the storm. Hasn’t asked for a divorce or an annulment of the wedding, either. Has stayed at their Manor in Berlin, with Joe, and for the moment, gone into mourning for the loss of her child thanks to the privileges of Joe’s status.

She’s staying with one of the most powerful and terrifying men on Earth, who’s directly responsible for the disappearance of the boy that’s not in her arms right now. Some people, herself included, would call that masochism. Especially when it involves having a public life.

Juliana swallows a groan. Through the tinted glass, she’s gotten a glimpse of the town they’re headed towards. Joe decided that, after three weeks, she was supposed to re-enter public life and make an appearance after losing the baby. Just another act to show how strong and united the Chancellor’s family is. To ensure in front of the entire Reich—to ensure the whole damn world—that they will all soon know the face of the next Leader, who should, one day, rule the Empire.

I should have stayed in Berlin, she scowls internally.

Joe hasn’t quite realized she’s awake, and he reaches his hand for her. She shrugs it off her shoulder and immediately Joe retreats back to his seat.

“We’re ten minutes out,” he says.

The information was completely uncalled for and unnecessary, sighs Juliana, stretching in her seat. A jacket that’s not hers falls off her shoulders and Joe picks it up, smoothing any possible wrinkles on the suit. So it turns out she somehow did fall asleep at some point. Unable to decipher Joe’s motives behind such a gesture of covering her with his jacket, Juliana remains silent as he watches him collect his papers into the folder and puts his fountain pen inside his shirt’s pocket.

All too soon, they reach their destination. Juliana looks out the window, already hearing the roar of the crowd. It’s not as bad as it could have been in the capital, but there’s still a couple of hundred people crowd out there, waiting to have the honor of meeting and greeting them. She couldn’t miss, either, the banners and flags hanging from every window and balcony, or the live music blasting from the town’s main plaza. All of it, to show appreciation for the honor of the Chancellor’s visit.

I can’t do this, is Juliana’s first thought as the cars drive slowly through town, feeling completely alienated from its citizens. People cheer at them, everyone carrying that black swastika on their arms, saluting them with their right arms held high. She even catches people crying. It’s too damn much. She spends her days alone in the Manor, barely exchanging half a dozen words every other day with Joe or the staff. She cannot handle this right now.

By her side, Joe catches her reaction by the corner of his eye. He seems to read her mind and speaks softly, without even looking at her, instead he keeps waving at the crowd outside.

“Don’t worry, you can go ahead—we’ll excuse you. Ruprecht will take you to the Manor directly.”

With the words ‘thank you’ at the tip of her tongue, Juliana bites her lip just in time not to slip up. There is, really, no reason to thank him for. After all, he probably planned for her to go straight to the Manor, just so he and his Father could maintain the family’s public image.

Juliana still cannot find it in herself to forgive him.

Hand in the door handle, Joe gives her a few more seconds to decide, the unsaid invitation hanging clear in the air. He knows it’d be highly inappropriate to confess that he would really like her to join him out there. But, seeing Juliana crossing her legs and rests against the opposite door, he gets all the answers he needs.

Joe responds with a very deep sigh, checking his tie and jacket. Trying not to show how much hurt he feels.

“I’ll see you later. You just. . . Rest all you need.”

Too late, Juliana tries to stop him, but he’s already outside. Juliana watches him act out there, which seems to be his natural habitat, the theater he was born to stage at, just like Martin. Joe has somehow plastered a fake, broad smile across his face and waves at the crowd, who goes wild at his appearance, and then steps closer to some of the civilians to accept a bouquet of flowers. He delivers it to one of the security detail men while Joe shakes as many hands as he can reach—an older woman, tears in her eyes, even plants a kiss on his palm.

How can he do that? Juliana wonders, dropping her head, unable to stare at him no longer. Is he truly that insensitive? Has he really forgotten already their unforgivable crime? Doesn’t feel any sort of remorse? Or is it that he’s got a natural talent for lying and pretense? Can someone be that good of an actor?

Her questions unanswered, someone pats the car’s roof and the driver starts the engine, while some SS agents clear a path amongst the crowd ahead. The racket and the commotion soon at their backs, the sudden quiet car almost put Juliana more on edge. There’s only one car behind the vehicle, tailing her for protection or perhaps keeping tabs on her. She closes her eyes as not to get carsick on the winding drive up the mountains.

About fifteen minutes later, they reach the first security control. Unnecessarily redundant, Ruprecht surrenders Juliana’s identification papers—although no one except the current Chancellor and his immediate family could drive up this particular mountain and spend any amount of time up here. On the other hand, no one in their right mind would dare to attempt an attack against the Manor, but the protocol must be observed still, and the SS agents check the car inside out before letting them through.

Ruprecht drives the car under the porch, by the front door entrance, half a dozen stewards waiting for her with their backs straight. They move in as soon as the car stops, one of them getting the door for her, two more opening the trunk to carry her bags inside.

Albeit Juliana has seen the castle on the TV many times before, her breath catches seeing it first-hand. It’s even more extraordinary and imposing than the images would let on. Her heart beats at an irregular pace, although maybe she’s just jittery because of the ominous atmosphere exuding from the building. She can only imagine the sort of meetings these walls have seen. The decisions made that changed the course of the world. The people who lived in this Castle made history—this Castle is history itself.

She tries to brush those thoughts aside, trying not to think about the casualties resulted in the meetings held here. The death toll during the War and after, which includes her own son.

The stewards lead her through a long, carpeted stone stairwell before they reached the living room. Despite knowing better, Juliana couldn’t help but feel impressed. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a magnificent view of the mountains, a little spot of heaven barely affected by human touch. The whole place was pristine and superb, glistening in the afternoon glow, heightened only by the many gold ornaments. Only in this room, she can count picture and mirror frames, chandeliers, clocks, cutlery, and a grandiose piano made out of gold.

The ostentatious decoration and extravagancy are supposed to be the basic rules around here. This is the Führer’s standards they’re talking about—she shouldn’t be so surprised.

Whose brilliant idea was it to spend two whole weeks locked up in the Eagle’s Nest? Did anyone actually believe it would help her recover, or is this just a sick joke to fuel and unleash her wildest nightmares?

She paces, afraid to touch anything. She feels so out of place, she wants to make a run out for the hills and never return. She’s barely starting to getting used to their Manor in Berlin, where she’s just beginning to know the Staff. It goes without question that she doesn’t belong here, at the core and heart of the Third Reich. She shouldn’t be here. Certainly, the Führer would never approve of hosting a woman who was raised in the States, doesn’t matter who she’s married to.

“Miss Heusmann,” a woman’s voice says to her right.

Juliana turns around in shock, a yelp frozen in her throat. She was afraid that she was just about to figure out this was all a joke—or a trap, maybe. However, the person she sees right there in front of her is Fräulein Eva Braun. Her hair white, her face and hands covered in wrinkles, her eyes lost in the sorrow, her voice was, nonetheless, strong and sure.

“Apologies. I didn’t mean to scare you,” the woman says with a warm smile, approaching Juliana and kissing her both cheeks.

“Miss Braun,” Juliana manages to utter.

So long as she’d heard, they were supposed to be alone here at the Eagle’s Nest, without guests to entertain, or meetings that would require Joe or Martin’s presence. She’s too shocked to even muster the words, albeit Fräulein Braun seems to read her thoughts easily enough.

“I’ll give you all the privacy you need in just a few minutes. I wanted to be here to welcome you to your new house and to show you around. You can put that thing down, darling, someone will take care of it,” she instructs, pointing at the handbag Juliana did not realize she was still carrying.

“Miss Braun, may I express my deepest condolences,” she blurts out somehow.

The woman stopped for a second, the saddest of masks running through her face. She turned to stare at the huge portrait of the Führer hanging by the wall and she reached a hand for the silver cross she wore across her neck.

“Thank you, my dear. He lived a long, prosperous life. Unfortunately, we knew it was coming, sooner rather than later. . . Now I must disappear from the spotlight, and you’re going to take my place,” the warmth and vitality return to her voice with those last few words, facing Juliana again.

“I’m not sure I’m qualified to follow in your footsteps,” she confesses.

“You are. Joe chose you as his wife to stay by his side through the brightest and darkest of times. You must have faith in him and trust that his choice was right,” Fräulein Braun says, plain and simple. “And may I also express my condolences for your loss. I cannot even imagine, you must be devastated. . .”

“Thank you,” whispers Juliana, shocked that Fräulein Braun should be the first person to openly say those words. “It’s. . . It’s been hard.”

“I know it has. But you still have your husband to rely on. And you made the best decision coming up here for the holidays. You’re going to enjoy every minute. Come on, I’ll show you everything.”

Fräulein Braun links her arm in Juliana’s and leads her out of the living room. From then on, she shows her every single room of the Manor, telling her anecdotes and tidbits about each one. Her incessant babble means Juliana cannot even put in a single word, although that works out fine for her—she’s too overwhelmed by it all. Seeing the Führer’s portraits hanging in every chamber, the devotion and admiration Fräulein Braun and frankly half of the world professed him, only reinforces the feeling that she shouldn’t be here.

Unaware of Juliana’s thoughts, Fräulein Braun talks non-stop about the house plans her husband designed himself, the effort it took to build the house, the magnificent views, or the place of origin of every stone and marble and piece of furniture. At every corner, all the Staff members who cross their path bow their heads in deference. It’s hard to tell if they’re addressing Fräulein Braun or Juliana.

The tour finishes at the entrance, after more than thirty minutes of walking through corridors and stairs and talking nonsense. They’re just in time to welcome Joe and Martin home, two stewards taking their coats and hats. Upon seeing Fräulein Braun, they both hurry to meet her and lean to kiss her palm.

“Chancellor, may I welcome to your new home,” she greets both men in.

“Miss Braun, I did not know you’d be here. I would have come much sooner,” Martin says, bowing his head again at her. “Will you stay for dinner?”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Can we offer you a drink, at the very least?” Joe insists. He snaps his fingers and a steward hurries to pour some red wine.

“I really cannot stay,” Miss Braun replies, dismissing the glass of wine with her hand. As if on cue, a steward approaches with Fräulein Braun’s handbag and coat. She wraps the faux fur tightly around her long, white neck, and turns to Juliana with another one of her warm smiles. “No, I just wanted the chance to meet Miss Juliana. It was a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” she utters as Fräulein Braun gives her a farewell hug.

“I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“I’m sure we will,” says Martin, kissing Fräulein Braun’s hand again. Joel walks her to the entrance door, without offering her his arm at any point, thanking her for the trouble of stopping by for such a short time.

“Hope to see you and your wife soon.”

“Stop by our Manor in Berlin anytime you want, we’ll be delighted to dine with you,” says Joe. “Have a safe trip back, Miss Braun.”

As soon as the door shuts behind the woman, the spell breaks with a general sigh of contentment. All shades of courtesy have left with Fräulein Braun, the three family members gather as they exchange some awkward looks across the living room. The usual cold and uncomfortable atmosphere that used to hover in Berlin needed all of two seconds to settle up here, in the Eagle’s Nest, as well.

Martin goes straight to pour himself a glass of scotch. At the same time, the stewards also scatter away and the SS agents Martin and Joel brought with them spread around the Manor to find their surveillance posts. As per Juliana, she slithers out of the room silently, too, without sparing Joe nor Martin another look or giving them the chance to offer her a drink and sit by the fire. Doctors have her under medication, either way, so she really shouldn’t be drinking alcohol. And she couldn’t stand a single minute of chitchat with Joe and Martin, the two men talking about State affairs, pretending nothing awful ever transpired.

Taking her bag from where she’d dropped it earlier, and refusing the assistance of the stewards, she goes to her room, as Fräulein Braun had shown her. She slams the door behind her, then proceeds to close all the shutters and curtains, and drops on the bed.

For about ten minutes, her mind’s blank. Aikido practices gave her a good practice to clear her mind of fears and doubts when needed, in order to find her center, her focus, her unwavering strength. She’s needed peace of mind a lot, lately. Some part of her does realize the funny contradiction of resorting to Japanese martial arts and techniques to free her mind and find inner peace when she’s living at the heart of Berlin, with a husband, and a fulfilling life that should be the highest prize to win for most women.

However, there are not enough techniques, Japanese or not, to keep her nightmares at bay indefinitely. Her mind irretrievably goes back to her child. Wondering where he is, if he’s alive, if he’s properly taken care of, if he’s fed correctly.

She knows she’s only hurting herself with those questions, she knows she’ll never recover if she keeps driving down this road, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t even know if she wants to recover. That kid is the only thing occupying her mind, whether she wants him to or not.

As well as a portrait of the Führer, there’s a telephone in every room—not that she didn’t have such a luxury back in Berlin, of course. She could just reach out her arm, dial the number she knows by heart, call her mother, and simply enquire about her son. The thing is, she hasn’t had any contact with her parents since that plane took off from Berlin. That kid and her parents left her life at the same time and, to be completely honest, she’s too scared to raise the questions.

Were her parents as scared as she was? Or are they stronger and braver than she is? The possible answers scare her too much.

Hours later, she still hasn’t managed to fall asleep. Joe knocks on the door—the only one who still bothers with her. He doesn’t get any answer, but he steps inside either way, and closes the door. He rests against the wall and stands there for almost a minute, expecting some sort of reaction from Juliana, knowing fully well she’s still awake despite her unmoving and responseless figure just lying there.

Even without an invitation, he crosses the bedroom and leans on the mattress, the bed bending to one side under his weight. Measuring his movements, she feels his hand on her hips, where it rests for full ten seconds, and then Joe lies behind Juliana.

Joe has kept his distances up until now, sleeping in separate bedrooms and barely talking at all. In fact, whenever he addresses her, it’s more of a monologue than anything else, but he still tries, hoping that one day, she’ll answer.

This is the closest they’ve been since she gave birth to that innocent, helpless, beautiful child, Juliana reflects, and she doesn’t like it, not one bit. Every fiber of her being is on high alert because of Joe’s proximity. She now wishes she’d reconsidered and unpacked her bag, taken out the knife she’d hidden there for some reason.

As soon as she feels Joe’s hands back on her body, she holds her breath. Unable to stop him, unable to accept his advances, she shivers. He notices and freezes, on high alert, too, but then his hands start a massage on her shoulders and back, trying to get her to relax.

He’s highly unsuccessful. This whole place screams danger and so does the man lying behind her—as much as it hurts thinking so. She knows he’s done his best to protect her and keep her safe, but it’s hard to remember that after what they’ve been through because of the policies and lessons the Reich taught him. She realizes he’s been there through thick and thin, through each of her nonsensical whims these past few weeks.

“What are you doing?” she demands when she can finally find her voice.

“I miss you,” he says, only a whisper. There’s thirst and hunger in that sentence, but there’s also much, much more. This isn’t simply a matter of man missing his wife’s touch.

Joe leans and plants a kiss on Juliana’s neck, which is far too much for her. She spins on the bed, putting up her hands against Joe’s chest to stop him from making any more advances against her will.

“Stop,” she begs. She closes her eyes as not to see Joe’s face. She knows what she’ll see: pain at her refusing him but, above all, that forsaken ‘greater good’ insane baloney. She cannot hear those words ever again.

“Juliana. . .”

“Don’t you dare!” she shrieks.

She knows that voice, that intonation. He was just going to start babbling once more about the Reich and their duties and she cannot possibly deal with that again. Feeling the movement on the bed, she turns her face, forbidding Joe from coming any closer or trying to kiss her again.

“I don’t care, Joe! I don’t care about pretenses and the Reich or anything else! And certainly, I won’t fulfill all those duties only three weeks after you gave our child away!”

“Keep your voice down,” he orders, strained, trying to pull her in.

She slaps and kicks him as hard as she can. Trying to avoid a fight that will be heard all over the Castle and will start rumors they do not need, Joe lets his arms fall. Juliana hasn’t raised the white flag, though.

“Afraid spies will learn how unspeakably dishonorable you are?” she spits.

“Juliana,” he says through clenched teeth, trying to strike a deal. “You know my position. This isn’t something you nor I can choose. This must happen, and I promise you, it will happen, eventually. There’s no way around it, the same way winter will come after the summer. But I also promise you that it’ll be the last thing I ask from you. Once we have a child, you can hate me till eternity. I won’t mind.”

She tilts her head and squints her eyes at him. “Can’t eternity start now?”

Speechless and hurt, Joe cannot answer that question. Juliana finally manages to break free from his grip and so, hoping she got her point across, Juliana lies on the bed again, back facing Joe. He sighs deeply, unnecessarily delaying his leaving—he knows he’s not sleeping here tonight, much less sleeping with her.

“Alright, Juliana. Cards on the table here,” he starts again, trying to strike another deal altogether. “Would you rather I used a surrogate mother? Because we can get that.”

If he thought she’d appreciate the possibility, that it’d solve all of their problems, that it’d help Juliana deflate and simmer down, he now sees his words have resulted in the opposite of the intended effect. Juliana, hatred in her eyes, jumps to a sitting position and turns to face him with a shocked expression. She gasps for two seconds, gathering her thoughts, and Joe recoils, expecting a storm.

When she finally speaks, she’s much more collected than he’d feared—and yet, much more resentful, too.

“You don’t even need me to get your so precious heir,” she says, her voice not breaking by some miracle of God. “Divorce me, then. Throw me out of the house, put me in prison for the rest of my life, cast me as an outlaw, and send me back to the States and to the Japanese authorities. Tell me you don’t want me around!”

“You bloody know I cannot do that. I want you around,” he promises, caressing her arm. She flinches at his touch and he draws his hand away, hurting her further the last thing he wants in this world. “You’re the one making it terribly difficult.”

“Oh, I am, aren’t I?” she explodes in the end.

They never talked. Joel and Martin moved on as if they could just throw a veil over what happened and forget about the pregnancy and the child. The only thing is, she cannot do that. She’s a mother, for Pete’s sake. They never talked about what happened, what they were feeling, what would happen from now on, how were they supposed to go on living. That’s what hurts the most. Joe not sharing the pain, not even showing he felt remorse or sorrow over what had happened. She was the child’s mother, but he was the father, and he’s acting as if it had been the baby of a stranger.

This the exact conversation they should have had that same night they got rid of their baby and the plane with Juliana’s parents and the baby flew out of Berlin. But they couldn’t find the time. They couldn’t find the strength or the passion to throw so many accusations at each other. And even so, now that they’re here, who’s to say that they’re going to solve anything, or is talking just going to make matters worse?

“Well, if I’m such a pain to deal with, why don’t you spare yourself the headache and leave me alone?” she scowls. Without waiting to see his reaction, she buries herself under the blankets once more.

Joe doesn’t move for the longest time, reluctant to leave her alone again. Maybe he does see they need to talk, share, cry together. Maybe he’ll open up to her. . .

Whatever hopes she’d been foolish enough to muster, they all vanish in one instant, as quick as Joe is slithering out of bed and leaving the bedroom. He shuts the door gently and walks away with light, careful steps, as not to let any of the stewards—or worse, the SS agents everywhere in the Castle—figure out any of the inner family problems.

Alone again, Juliana hides her face and screams against the pillow. What other outcomes could she have expected from this conversation? Or from this goddamn trip? She’s just found out how useless she is to Joe, to this family, to the Reich. She’s not buying the whole Joe wanting her around—she knows not to trust his words or his promises anymore. If no one really needs her here in Berlin, why did she ever bother to come back?

And, more important still, should she leave? Is anything or anyone still linking her to the city or to the Reich? Is staying because of the protection Joe and his father can offer her the smart thing, or should she put everyone out of their misery, and leave? Settle somewhere far away, live her own life for once?

Chapter Text

“Here you have, Fräulein Heusmann. Please, enjoy,” says the steward, laying the coffee mug on the pristinely set table.

“Merci beaucoup,” Juliana appreciates fondly. The stewardess, however, barely reacts to Juliana using her native language, safe from the panicked look on her face. She bows at her and leaves hastily before committing any capital offense before Juliana.

She stares back at the closed door, regretting all the troubles she’s caused so far and is still causing to this day with her presence. Of course, fixing all of those mistakes would require a trip to the past and stopping the Nazi occupation of France in 1940. Given the impossible and naïve thinking, Juliana remains on her seat and takes a sip of the wonderful coffee. There’s no denying it, the food here is simply superb. She has met the most excellent treatment and privileges during her stay.

Including, of course, the magnificent views from her hotel room’s terrace. Every morning for the past two weeks she’s had the pleasure of waking up to the Eiffel Tower and having breakfast barely one-stone away from the statue, while enjoying the most wonderful croissants and coffee, under the blaring Parisian sun, with a soft breeze making the temperature perfect. Nepotism does surely have some major benefits in the world she lives in, whether she likes it or not.

And that’s why she’s here, isn’t she. To find out whether she can truly live the rest of her life in such splendor and nepotism, knowing what the real world looks like. Most women in the Reich have no idea of the atrocities happening across the globe—or they choose to turn a blind eye to it. She cannot. She’s been a victim of the horrors both sides are capable of and has known one too many people who didn’t survive the barbarities.

Resolute not to let such crestfallen thoughts get the better of her on such a fine morning, she puts down her coffee mug. She spends an absurd amount of time in the bathtub, getting ready for the long day ahead, before changing. Today’s clothes, specifically chosen for her, consist of a navy blue skirt and half-sleeve blazer plus a white shirt, decorated by a two-strand white pearls necklace and matching earrings.

Hanging a uselessly empty bag from her arm, she opens the room’s door. Leon’s her appointed agent for today, it seems, standing tall in the hall, back straight, shoulders back.

“I’m ready, Leon.”

“Will you be requiring a cab today, ma’am?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

By the elevator, another agent, Sophia, joins them on their trip downstairs without Juliana uttering a single complaint—she’s learned better, by now. They’re more of a nuisance than an impending need for her safety, really, but things with Joe were strained enough to start complaining about such small matters. If her being followed everywhere by SS agents eases his worries and makes him more compliant later, she will not object.

Still, none of the agents can’t be too happy exchanging their duties of protecting the future of the Reich for. . . Following a simpleton woman like her all around the streets of Paris and carrying her shopping bags. Can’t be the exciting, rewarding life they’d singed in for, to begin with. Nonetheless, she’s still yet to hear a complaint from them.

“Bonjour, Alaire,” she greets the front door clerk.

“Have a lovely day, madam. Shall we hold your reservation for lunch, today?”

“No, thank you,” Juliana answers in French. “I’ll be back late. Au revoir.”

She’s yet to hear a single citizen address her in French, despite her best efforts to learn the language in advance for the so-called holidays and to practice it with everyone she walks past by. They’re just too scared. French isn’t a forbidden language per se, just like the other unofficial languages across the world, but nowadays, speaking anything beyond German, Japanese, or plain-old English is frowned upon. Not to mention, no one in their right mind would dare to cross the line with her, the future Reichminister’s wife.

If only she could explain everything. . . They would know no one’s got nothing to fear from her. Of course, no one would believe a word.

It’s no use, of course, and instead, she sets off down the street. She’s so incredibly tired of staying out of the public’s eye as much as possible, an attempt not to disrupt people’s lives too much while being hundreds of miles away from Berlin itself. And that’s the reason why she heads in the opposite direction to the Eiffel Tower.

Leon and Sophia permanently shadowing her, her first choice for today’s route across the city is the Rue Crénieux, near the Jardin des Plantes. The first of many stops, of course. She didn’t plan on returning to the hotel until dusk, exhausted, and fulfilled, and she does exactly that. Even the agents tailing her look a little bit tired by the time they reach the hotel, but Juliana feels ecstatic above all else.

Once more, Juliana has dinner all alone at her suite. Eating at the five-star restaurant downstairs, as the manager and the clerk suggest her every single day, would mean they would have to clear out an entire wing to suit the reservation under Joe’s name. She’d have the stewardesses and the maître and the sommeliers breathing down her neck the whole time, barely giving her time to swallow. She’d have to put up with the most inane and unbearable chitchat from the most distinguished hotel guests at the moment, not to mention the manager’s conversation consisting of only solely sucking up at her.

She couldn’t deal with any of it. She came here to rest and ease her mind after everything that happened in Berlin with Joe, not to add Paris to the list of cities she hates for all she’s been through there. She’s managed to avoid the uncomfortable situation for two weeks straight, she’ll be able to dodge that particular minefield a few more days, now.

However, after dinner, Juliana opens her wardrobe doors again and browses amongst her previously selected cocktail dresses. She might be avoiding the restaurant altogether, but she does want to have the full Parisian experience—and that includes obscene amounts of alcohol drunk late at night, of course. The decision has nothing to do with her struggles sleeping and her dreading the otherwise comfortable bed, however.

The idea does not sit idly by with Ben, keeping watch outside of her door for tonight. Going out at night would require a task force she would abhor entirely.

“I’m only going downstairs for a drink,” she informs upon seeing the horror in his eyes.

Somehow, her late-night appearance in a mostly darkened room goes unnoticed. Most couples are too drunk to care for one more woman showing up and Juliana easily finds a place to sit by the counter without having the guests falling silent, vanishing into thin air. Even Ben manages to blend in, although his non-alcoholic choice of drink is a poor idea, given the context.

The Bloody Mary is pretty good, too. There’s no way around it, really. She is having one hell of a time here in Paris.

“I’ll have whatever she’s having,” says an all-too-familiar voice by her side.

She does her best to hide a face. The man sitting on the unoccupied stool by her side can be no one but Joe, of course. Ben would have scared off almost every man who dared to approach her, and everyone else would run for the hills as soon as they got a good glimpse of Juliana’s face and realized who she is. Doesn’t matter how much she hides and tries to blend in, somehow, the truth will out, eventually.

There goes your freedom, she sighs as she looks over the shoulder. The remaining guests are invited to clear out by not-so-friendly SS agents and everyone hurries to pay their checks, leaving their glasses half-full. Still, she won’t complain. Another Bloody Mary has appeared in front of her on the counter, so she might as well stay while there’s booze around.

On the other hand, too, there’s the undeniable fact that Joe has kept his promise to her: she’s barely seen him at all for the past couple of weeks, even though they’re staying at the same hotel, sleeping merely feet from each other.

“I’m buying the next round,” Joe says, setting a few bills on the counter.

Someone could make a comparison to that one time he paid for Juliana’s coffee and they shared drinks back in the Neutral Zone, when they didn’t know each other. Loads have happened since that innocent, naïve day. Although one thing has not: he’s still buying. Her drinks, her stay in Paris, her freedom, her own life. Juliana doesn’t want to use the phrase that he owns her, but sometimes, it does feel that way.

“Have you had a pleasant day?” Joe asks her formally, unaware of Juliana’s trail of thoughts.

“I did,” nods Juliana and then proceeds to tell him about the Royal Palace, or the Luxemburg Gardens—trying to make an honest effort here, just like Joe is. She’s sure that he’s been getting daily reports regarding her activities, whereabouts, and people she’s met with. She cannot forget that, despite the false sense of freedom she enjoys, she’s always and permanently under surveillance around here.

“Any more shopping that would empty the Treasury?” Joe asks, making her laugh for the first time in days.

“I could contain myself today,” she says, patting the necklace around her neck, a present she bought for herself just a few days back. Joe wouldn’t tamper with her shopping spree at the risk of Juliana biting his head off. “What about you?”

“I had a very profitable day if I may say so myself,” Joe says, in an extremely vague answer that Juliana appreciates nonetheless. He didn’t come here for some leisure holidays—he’s been working non-stop since they came out of the airplane, his days filled with back-to-back meetings, while Juliana enjoyed the most beautiful secret spots in Paris. At some point, she stopped asking about those meetings.

“Glad to hear it,” she says, non-committal.

“Want to dance?” Joe asks then.

Juliana ponders for two seconds. She could either ask for another drink or call it a night—Joe wouldn’t stop her, and neither would the SS agents by the door. But much to Joe’s shock, she finds herself nodding in acceptance.

He recovers remarkably fast, as he leads her to the empty ballroom. When he snaps his fingers, the band changes the song they were playing and offers them a waltz to dance to.

At first, Juliana doesn't even dare to look up at Joe, and she keeps him at arms’ length. As the song progresses, though, and as Joe keeps leading her safe and sound across the room, she scoots closer, her gaze inevitably drawn to those piercing eyes of his. For just a moment, she can read there the same pain and suffering she’s been through—the terrible loss of their child and the alienation between them that it caused, an alienation from the entire world. Two lonely and heart-broken souls drifting in the universe, uncharted, unguided, pulled by deranged forces called ‘the greater good.’

Then again, it all vanishes the next second, and Juliana is left to wonder if she made it all up in her despairingly isolation.

“Dammit, Joe,” she scowls, too low for anyone but him to hear. “You could, at the very least, talk to me, goddammit.”

He doesn’t react to her foul language, leading her to the end of the dance, and, finally, they halt in the middle of the ballroom. He gives her a kiss on the palm and then waves at the band players in an appreciative gesture for the song.

Groaning, Juliana dashes off, taking her purse and coat from her seat. Rupert, standing by the door, doesn’t stop her flight—but only because Joe’s coming after her. The two of them, plus half a dozen SS agents tailing behind, cross the hotel hall towards the elevators. He makes the mistake of sharing the ride upstairs, too, in the midst of an awkward silence that doesn’t escape the bellhop’s attention, however, he tries to hide it.

“Juliana,” he calls her out just before she enters her room, keys hanging in the keyhole.

She checks up and down the corridor, but there’s nothing to fear: they’re the only two guests on the whole floor, the SS agents are sworn to secrecy, and, furthermore, no one would dare to plant bugs anywhere on this floor. This is as private as it gets.

“Is that what you want? To talk?”

“We’re husband and wife, we’re supposed to be able to talk!” she snaps back. “And I don’t mean about the weather or our day, there’s. . . This big secret between us that makes any chance at normalcy impossible!”

“That’s what you take from these holidays, then? That we need to talk about that unspeakable thing? Would that really be helpful to any of us?”

“Talking would be a great start, yeah! Tell me you at least regret what you did!”

No more accusations follow. Joe’s hands are suddenly on her arm and waist and Juliana finds herself trapped against the wall, Joe’s entire weight crashing her, his lips caressing hers as he bellows at her.

“Of course, I regret it! I think about it, and about him, every single day! Do you think I’m such a heartless monster?! I know what we did was the right thing to do accord to our standards, but I keep thinking, every minute of every day, that those standards can’t be right if they mean we had to give up our baby!”

Breathing heavily, he drops his arms to the side and starts walking in circles, while Juliana cannot even muster a single word upon such a response. The fourth time he stands in front of her, she discovers tears in his eyes.

“Do you really think so?” she asks in a whisper, never breaking eye contact with him. She needs to know that’s what’s really in his heart, that he’s not simply speaking the words he knows she wants to hear. She’s fed up with manipulations and being manhandled. She could not stand one more deception.

“This entire thing is fucked up,” scowls Joe. “The entire system, more like it. My mother took me out of Berlin when I was just a baby in order to protect me and now that I’m a father, I was forced to make a very similar decision to protect our child from the Reich—the Reich I’m vowed to serve and, one day, lead! It is fucked up, I realize so. The only comfort I have is knowing that our child, even if he’s not here with us, is alive.”

At that, Juliana lets out a sob—she’s been holding onto that frail and small hope, too. Well, it took them long enough. Joe’s fucking finally opening up about his feelings. Was that truly so hard to achieve?

“I’d wished we could face it all together, but. . . You pushed me away,” he adds in a whisper, without meeting her eyes yet. Blaming it all on her might be the wrong move here, even if honesty was what she demanded from him. “I didn’t know what else to do. Even though I only wanted to be with you. . . The Empire needed me. The Third Reich didn’t stop spinning just because my whole world had crashed down and, I guess. . . I lost myself in my work. For that, I apologize.”

“I hated you so badly, Joe,” confesses Juliana, admitting that she did push him away, although she had good reason to do so, she reckons. “What we had to do. . . No parent in the States would have been forced to do the same. You used a pretty appropriate word—it was unspeakable.”

“I know. In life, we’re tested sometimes. It proves our strength and values:”

“And that’s why I hated you,” Juliana repeats, needing to get the words out of her chest, even if they hurt him—he’s still holding onto that past tense, though. “But now. . . I. . . You’re right. I. . . I miss you, Joe. Maybe. . . Maybe we don’t have to endure this alone.”

She reaches a hand for him and Joe, shocked out of his mind both by her words and actions, takes it. He caresses her knuckles with his thumb, wishing he could take one more step and wipe those forsaken tears off Juliana’s eyes and cheeks. With a nod of her head, she allows him to, and then he cups her face in his hands, closer than they’ve been in weeks. Both physically and emotionally.

“I am sorry, Juliana. Truly, deeply, sorry. I know I’ve caused you more trouble in these past few weeks than ever before since we met and I want to fix it. I mean it. I brought you here to France, but I can take you wherever you want to go, give you whatever you wish. . .”
“Start by coming in,” she pleads, opening her room door.

Stumbling a bit, Joe follows. He’s never entered the suite before and Juliana leads him straight to the main bedroom, but sleep or sexual intercourse was the last thing in her mind when she invited him in. They don’t even change clothes as they lie on the bed, side by side, a faint gleam from the streetlamps reaching the bedroom.

Holding each other tight and close, for the first time, they allow themselves to cry out without any shaming, without people telling them it’s wrong. In the trusting and supporting embrace of the person they love, the person who understands each other’s feelings and turmoils, they get out of their chests everything they’d kept hidden and buried, against reason or common sense.

A good cry was what they both needed to get, finally, a good night’s sleep. Juliana wakes up late, judging by the sun high in the sky, and the fact that Joe’s long gone from the room—his side of the bed is cold.

To confirm her worst fears, there’re two knocks on the door announcing breakfast. She jumps out of the bed and puts on a robe over her wrinkled dress before opening the door to the bellhop. While a string of stewards comes and goes setting a breakfast for ten people, she hides in the bathroom to remove her spoiled mascara, wash her face, and brush her hair.

Famished, she sits down to eat straight away, considering she needs to control her intake of daily croissants. She’s almost finished with breakfast when Finn steps inside the room, informing her that Joe would like a word.

After some frozen seconds, her brain reacts and she wipes her lips on the napkin.

“Of course. Send him in,” she allows, the smallest hint of panic in her voice—she couldn’t have refused Joe’s entrance.

Seconds later, Joe crosses the suite and meets her on the terrace. Awkwardly, Juliana stands to greet him, although Joe immediately waves at her to sit down again, and he hesitates at the terrace threshold. Why are they making this so damn difficult today?

“Now I know why they said yours was the better suite,” he says, making use of the first topic of conversation that comes to mind—pointing at the Eiffel Tower, which lies so close they could just reach a hand and touch its surface.

“The views aren’t too bad,” chuckles Juliana and then raises an eyebrow at him, which makes Joe break down and apologize profusely, perhaps forgetting that, according to Nazi teachings, apologizing is an unforgivable sign of weakness and lack of character.

“No, there’s no need to exchange rooms,” he says. “I’m stuck in meetings from sunrise to sundown, I wouldn’t enjoy the views nearly as much as you do.”

“Thank you.”

“I understand you haven’t been there yet?”

“Didn’t want to cause trouble.”

At that, Joe sits on the chair across from her, making himself comfortable, and brushes a speck of dust off his trousers. Even though he didn’t say a word, she reads Joe’s thoughts in his body language: being who she is, modesty should be the last of her concerns. Still, knowing Juliana, he gathers he won’t change her mind about that one subject and decides not to pick the battle. Instead, he unbuttons his jacket and a grin spreads on his lips as he takes in the plentiful breakfast before him.

“Would you like something to eat?” Juliana offers.

“I’ve had breakfast already, thank you.”

The pleasantries exchanged, they fall silent. Neither one of them is in any rush to bring back last night’s subject that brought so much misery and so many tears. After a minute or so, when Juliana finally relaxes on her chair, he starts talking.

“I realize it’s kind of bad timing. . . But I’m afraid I must return to Berlin. No, I’m not planning on dragging you back by the ear if you wish to stay,” he reassures Juliana upon the dismay on her face. He gives her one small, warm smile, and looks away. “Stay in Paris. It’s been good for you. As I told you last night, I want to make things right. . . And if you need more time and space, with us taking every night on the phone, that’s exactly what I’m going to give you.”

“Why so sudden?” Juliana asks. When they traveled to Paris, he never said there was a returning day scheduled.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Do I?” she retorts, a bit afraid now.

“No, you really don’t, trust me,” Joe promises her softly, and, somehow, Juliana knows his hasty return to the capital is due for a Resistance-related matter, which she prefers to remain unnamed. “In any case, I’m not leaving till tomorrow morning. There’s no rush, the aids can have your bags packed within a moment’s notice. What I’m trying to say is, you’re free to stay or to come with us—I’ll leave a security detail behind if you so wish.”

Unable to decide right now, Juliana stutters for a bit, desperately crumpling the napkin under the table. The struggle must be written clearly on her face, for Joe leans forward and takes her free hand, giving her a gentle squeeze. That simple gesture allows Juliana to breathe again and she lets go of the napkin, the tension releasing her whole body.

“You can stay if you want to. You’ll be far more comfortable without me here. And maybe it can be a reflection period for you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Finally come to terms with it all.”

He then looks at her in the eye, making sure she understands his meaning without Joe spelling it out for her. When she nods to confirm so, he lets out a shaky breath and stands, making unnecessary noise with the chair. This time, Juliana is unable to muster the common courtesy to stand in farewell or show him out of the suite.

The suggestion was clear: she’s to stay here in this Paris dreamland for however long she needs. . . And decide. She can’t blame Joe. He expects, and deserves at this point, a straight-forward answer from him. A decision.
If she does return to Berlin, she’ll have to fill in her ever-present rightful place in the Reich. Be a Nazi wife, a Nazi mother, the female face of the Third Reich, at least until her kid marries.

That’s her future. . . If she decides to go back to Berlin to Joe. Option number B is having Joe prepare her a whole new identity and an extraction plan to get her out of Paris and allow her to live an anonymous life outside of the Reich and the Japanese Empire. This could very well be the last time she’s seen Joe for the rest of her life. She could even return to San Francisco, to her parents, and meet her son. . .

Is there a good choice here?

This is the sort of situation she tried to avoid back in Paris, Juliana sighs, staring at the Reichtag in front of her. As far as she can see, there are only SS agents surrounding her—for they’ve cleared out every civilian from the park. All this attention, the struggles, the security, the scrutiny. . . It is not her.

No use in complaining about it now, of course. She had a decision to make. And, to every decision, there are consequences. The question was, could she live with that toll?

“Ma’am,” one of the SS agents calls her out.

Trying to muster a smile, Juliana turns around, plucking up her courage. Joe has just appeared into the plaza, his step slow and silent, wearing a three-piece grey suit. He’s frowning. . . Either he’s having a really bad day at work, or it's because of her. Her presence here cannot truly be a surprise—his informants must have told him she was returning, at the very least, two days ago. There was only one question hanging in the air.

He stops some feet from her, wary and cautious.

“Juliana,” he greets her in a succinct whisper. “Is this a welcome home or a farewell?”

Straight to the chase, then, sighs Juliana. She couldn’t really avoid this question forever. Joe returned to Berlin only a week ago, telling her to take all the time she needed to make a decision.

In truth, she'd already decided the moment Joe left the hotel. She only needed the remaining days to. . . Come to terms with her choice.

“The former, I think,” she says, and given the flash of pain she can briefly see on Joe’s face, Juliana realizes she has no right to use that uncertain tone. “It is, actually. For better or worse, I’m staying.”

It feels like she just said the magic words to break the enchantment. Joe saves the distance between them in two big strides and holds her tight.

“Are you. . . Are you sure?”

“I am,” she promises. “Under one condition, though.”

“Name it.”

His tone tells her that she could ask for the moon and Joel would probably build himself the rocket that would take her there. Her plea, however, is much simpler and down to earth.

“Let’s do it right this time,” she says, fire in her voice and eyes. “We talk to each other. We rely on each other. We trust each other. We don’t shut each other out. And, above all else, whatever happens, whatever comes, we do it all, together.”

“It’s a deal,” Joe accepts hastily. He leans to seal the deal away with a kiss and Juliana's last defense drops.

This is it, then. Her decision made, she can picture her entire life ahead of her. The views aren’t too pretty, but at the very least, she’ll have Joe by her side, every step of the way. It’s the only way she’ll get through it, at the very least, until she gets used to it all and forgets her previous, simpler life.

She can’t have it all. Barely anyone has it all in this forsaken world—and yet she’ll enjoy all sorts of luxuries and privileges. How could she complain? It’s time she gets her life back.

“Let’s get you home,” Joe says, an arm around her shoulders to lead her out of the park, motioning at the SS agents around the plaza. Juliana accepts eagerly, without mentioning Joe’s work and whatever meetings her impromptu visit took him out of. This is a very important first step for them, she can feel it.