Work Text:
The time was World War II.
Germany had annexed Austria not so long ago, which resulted in Ludwig having to live in Roderich’s house. Everyday they would live together, although you can count it as Ludwig taking care of the Austrian. While the German was out being the captain, Roderich would find himself alone. Usually he would love his alone time, but these days were different. His body was in pain, his mind was in chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. That was all he heard. Screams of agony echoed through his mind, calling for help, for anyone and anything to save them. They’ll be fine, he thought again. And again. And again, knowing fully well they will not.
Denial. It was always denial. The reason why he couldn’t let go. Let go of the past, his love for the beautiful Elizábeta, and many things he had done. He tried everything to silence these voices, though he knew he couldn't. Playing the piano may have numbed him a bit, but the mutters in his head were always growing louder. Help. Help. Help. Prayers and cries of people – his people – repeating itself, making Roderich sick. Baking, playing the piano, reading. That’s all he has done. Nothing to save his people. Guilt starts rising. Why hadn’t he done anything?
All of a sudden, a searing pain starts to stab Roderich. Pain. Pain. Pain. A usual symbol for nations telling them that their occupants were getting killed. Mothers wept for their children, children wept for their family, the country wept for his citizens. Good thing Ludwig wasn’t here, signs of weakness weren’t good in war. The stab and despair kept hurting him. Burning him with an invisible torch, prickling him with invisible thornes, stinging him with invisible stingers. The torment was almost unbearable, making Roderich wish he could just end it right then and there. Oh how he wished he was Switzerland, where Vash remained neutral, taking in people who wanted to run away. Had he not signed those god forsaken papers, he and his people wouldn’t have suffered.
The pain slowly became lighter after hours, in which he decided to bake some pastry for Ludwig. He knew that it was Ludwig’s boss who had inflicted the killing of his country’s Jews, but Roderich knew that it wasn’t Ludwig who had issued the decree, or rather he hoped. Just as the German reached his house, he was wiping his hands after washing them. “Guten abend, Roderich,” the blonde greeted the other, hanging his jacket and hat. “Ja, Grüß Gott. Do you want something to eat? If you do, have at it, you know where they are.” Roderich asked, hiding what had happened a few hours back. The german nodded. And the night went as quickly as their conversation. A few visits from Feliciano, and that was it, a silent night indeed.
Roderich woke up in a daze, hoping that there wasn't any sudden aching for the day. A nagging voice in the back of his mind told him that was impossible, but he decided to ignore that. He went about his normal routine, and went down as Ludwig was cooking breakfast. The smell of breakfast filled the kitchen and Roderich settled down to eat. Silence covered the table with the blonde eating as fast as he could to leave for his duties in Russia. The day started the same, it always does. It was unsettling at first, but he quickly adapted. As he was washing the dishes, a searing burn appeared on his hand. The hand turned red and even redder, making him feel like he put his hand in gasoline and someone lit it up. He tried dipping it into the cold water he was using, no effect. A minute passed. Two. Three. Four. Five, and the burning left. His hand looked sickly, so he covered it with bandages.
Hours and hours go by in a blink. Then shouting can be heard outside his manor. The aristocrat tensed as he ran towards the door. Nazi soldiers shot opened the doors, and looked at poor Roderich. They spoke in a heavy accented German, barking at him as he spluttered trying to answer them. The men pointed their weapons towards him, looking at him suspiciously. Roderich shuddered. Their gazes were cold and observant, studying him from head to toe.
“Name?” a man barked.
“R-Roderich.” The man raised a brow. The nation gulped slightly. “Roderich Beilschmidt, sir.” The Nazi soldiers looked to each other and muttered a conversation. Roderich looked around him, trying to find an escape plan, but he knew it was pointless. A soldier bumped his weapon toward him.
“Captain Beilschmidt only has one brother, and he works in the army. State your actual name.”
The Austrian gulped, he decided to just tell the truth since there’s no point in arguing. It took him a while to answer, fully knowing that his name was Jewish. “Edelstein.”
And with that, all hell broke loose. The soldiers began to call the others and Roderich witnessed all his life getting robbed. He was beaten. Beaten. Beaten. Beaten. Blood began pouring out of him. He was bruised, he was suffering, he was aching. He wanted to end this quickly. With one eye he saw his belongings getting destroyed. Roderich’s piano, Roderich’s vases, Roderich’s paintings. Nothing was left in his house, it was all burned to dust and ashes. Different feet kicked him in the guts, different guns hit him to the ground. Red. Red. Red. The ground was red full of his blood. All Roderich felt was the rifles that they were using, but it was only the beginning. When the Nazi soldiers were satisfied, they roughly dragged the aristocrat into a covered truck. This was never a good sign.
Train to train, days and days of riding to somewhere. He had a bad feeling – a really, really bad one – but he decided to focus on his surroundings. Families, families everywhere. Fear was obvious and he could hear the distant prayers. Praying for help, praying for safety, praying for a chance to see another day. So many faces, young and old. To those soldiers, they were all the same: Jewish. Roderich’s heart throbbed. The young ones had so much to live for, and the old ones were not meant to die yet. It saddens him to see all these different people clinging to each other with wide eyes.
He looked out the dirty window, and to his horror, he saw a tower. The tower of a building that most people would call hell. Roderich’s eyes widened in terror and alarm. He shuddered on the sight of Auschwitz, the building in Poland (annexed by Germany) that was used as concentration camps to torture the people they had brought. No, no, no, no! He was not supposed to be here! He was supposed to be back at Vienna, living with Ludwig. But the heavens seem to hate him, don’t they? The train halted and the door was opened roughly by a soldier, barking the prisoners to get out. The violet eyed man followed suit, not wanting to get in trouble. He heard different screams from the inside. He hated this place, he wanted to see Elizá, he wanted to be as far away from this place as possible.
Nothing could make him forget what they had done to him. He sobbed each night, in pain and in helplessness. Each day felt like an eternity, the Nazis saw it as a chance to try something new. Roderich had seen so many of his people die. Death. Death. Death. It was something haunting. To feel death looming around you, knowing fully well that you cannot die. His body tried its best to give up, and yet it couldn't. More torture. Torture. Torture. Torture. A new day means another day full of suffering. Roderich couldn’t tell anymore, how long has he been here? A week? A month? A year? Time was an illusion and he hated it. He tried keeping track of it in his cell, his hands barely usable after each day. He can’t take it anymore, yet he survived day by day, confusing the soldiers.
The soldiers liked playing with him. To them, he hasn't died yet. So it was fun to bet on who was going to kill the Austrian. Roderich woke up in surprise as the Nazis called on each cell. The pain from yesterday settled back, making him rub his back. He, then, was brought back to a cabin where the Nazis found were the favorites. He was stripped naked, making him utterly humiliated and embarrassed. In the cabin, he had been paired with another person, waiting for their turn. With every turn, Roderich became more restless, he heard shots and saw people dragging dead bodies. He looked at the other man. The other looked tired, full of scars, and already half-dead. When his turn came, he sobbed quietly. The soldiers were ready with their rifles, aiming at him and the other. Then they shot. Shot. Shot. Shot. Roderich cried in horror as he saw them shoot the already dead body. Yet he’s still standing, very much alive. More blood poured out of him, as if it wasn’t enough already. He felt searing pain with every bullet. Eventually, the aristocrat lost consciousness, but he was breathing.
When he woke up, it was dark. Dark. Dark. Dark. He hated it already. The window was bricked from the outside, there was only a wooden bunk. Rather than windows, the dark cells had vents covered on the outside by metal screens with air holes punched in them. The truth dawned on Roderich, he was in Block 11. He told himself he was lucky to not be put in a standing cell, where there were four spaces measuring less than 1 sq. m. each. The only source of air was a 5 x 5 cm opening covered with a metal grille. But he didn’t know how long he was going to be there, but he couldn't see either. So he was left helpless, alone, suffering with his own thoughts in a cold chamber where he was left to die.
Outside the chamber, though, there was another scene. People were murmuring, soldiers were confused. A man had survived the shots, and even only had scars instead of the usual injuries. It confused them, so they sent a letter to their leader and Captain Beilschmidt. Ludwig got the letter after a few days, and it was written that there was a man who never died. They called him “The Devil Who Never Dies” and were forced to put him into Block 11. The German looked up from the letter and thought if they had caught a nation, but he quickly erased the idea since they would probably be at their homes or fighting in the war. Ludwig ignored the letter as he looked into the snowy Russian terrain.
Who knows how long Roderich was in that hellhole. Months, that was what the voice in the back of his head said. He was starving, thirsty, dying. He wanted to die more than anything. Die. Die. Die. The thought of disappearing into the darkness, never to see the world again seemed nice. His thoughts were still full of voices and his body was still in pain, it was as if the Nazis were getting fiercer and fiercer. He hated this. He hated everything about this second great war. Hate. Hate. Hate. Nothing to love in this place.
A sudden light appeared in the cell, and a German barked at him. He was too tired for this, both mentally and physically. He just kept following the German to a room. While he was walking, he heard that the Allies were closing in on the Axis, which was causing a great unrest to the Axis. When he arrived at the door, Roderich’s eyes grew wide. He was getting thrown into the gas chamber. There were hundreds of people there, crying for help, crying for their lives, or simply crying because of the gas. Nails on the metal walls screeched, making a sound even worse than nails on a chalkboard. The gas was choking him, nauseating him. He was lucky to only be dizzy but Roderich saw as the Zyklon B was putting the other prisoners to a coma and killing them. His headache worsened as he unwillingly breathed in the gas, causing him to vomit and have shortness of breath. His stomach felt as if it was dropped from the top of the alps. It wanted to kill him, it was supposed to kill him. Kill. Kill. Kill. It was all these Nazis do. Roderich was getting weaker. How much longer does he have to endure this? This chamber. This hell of a place. This war.
Time was once again an illusion. He was nauseated, he was dizzy, he was vomiting. Roderich was too weak to even want to survive this. Death. Death. Death. Yes, it was all he wanted.
Suddenly, the door was opened and a blonde man with a french accent came. He has never been happier seeing Francis, for he was sure it meant that he was saved. That his citizens were saved. The Axis were defeated. Roderich’s brain was too fuzzy to register what was happening, and he slowly lost consciousness. Francis was horrified to see the Austrian in the chamber, calling in the other Allies to carry him out of this god forsaken place. Arthur ran towards the Frenchman, pushing a medical bed to carry the unconscious.
“Sacre bleu, what a horrible sight,” he mumbled to himself. Francis watched as Arthur wheeled him away.
A few years had gone by, and Roderich was slowly rehabilitating. Other nations would come and comfort him, although he grew leery of Ludwig and Gilbert. Gilbert made the first move, saying how sorry he was to the now-wheelchaired Austrian and playing the flute to him everyday. Ludwig was a bit late, he was tired of the division of Berlin and was scared of what Roderich would say to him. Elizábeta asked for piano lessons, which confused the poor pianist whose hands were not stable enough to play the piano again. It turns out that she wanted him to forget about his experiences, to let him teach her what he was passionate about.
Slowly but surely, though, Roderich began to rehabilitate from what he had seen and endured in the hell called Auschwitz.