Work Text:
27 April, 1945 // Torgau, Germany
Alfred sighed, eyes flicking from face to face as he walked, bored. Torgau. They had finally claimed the Elbe alongside the Soviets, their patrols having met each other at separate points along the river in the early morning of the twenty-fifth. He had been on one of them; stalking over a bridge at the outskirts of the very town they now occupied when from the other side he spied a familiar face. It was none other than Ivan, the giant Nation having recognized him with eyes wide in the gray dawn. Alfred didn’t know with what emotion it had been; Ivan had only become more challenging to read since their fast friendship in the 1700s and his harsh revolutions only years prior. He could only hope it had been with relief that the other man’s eyes had lit.
Noise packed his ears in a pleasant scape of ambiance. Men of the First Army and the First Ukrainian Front rambled together about the small town. Rejoice, embrace, and celebration. Brothers in arms despite the language barrier. Alfred had witnessed many a hug between winding words that mingled pleasantly in his head. It was unprecedented the response to their rendezvous. However, he wasn’t one to deny his men morale, not when they were so close to their victory. The Nation sighed again to the open air of the Rosengarten.
Yet he still hadn’t spoken to Ivan. Of course not, they were busy. Alfred shouldn’t have even been on the ground; he was meant for the air. But General Eisenhower had ordered he accompany the men in the crawl toward the Nazi heart. Who was an aviator—even a great one—to refuse the word of a commanding officer? Amused, Alfred supposed he could’ve denied the command, though not without marshaling of some type.
He reined in his thoughts. That morning had been the closest the two had come to interacting since the bridge. Posed for a picture, hand shaking hand, smiling at each other to show that they had lived, that they had made it to this point. Ivan’s massive hand heavy on his shoulder and wrapped in thick gauze, Alfred’s back still pained from the plane-chewing flak fished from it as he leaned into the other man as a show of camaraderie. After, they had been pulled their separate ways as lieutenants and messengers made their merry commands and plans for the days ahead. Brief respite for weary men, for they’d be marching by tomorrow morning. Mud-stained boots strode between topiary and hedgerow before finding a wide courtyard.
Mellow eyes and a round face found him there across the green of the garden, watching, waiting. Alfred raised his head to it. He knew that stare. One with the towering trees, Ivan meandered with hands behind his back, attention turned to his fellow. Alfred pivoted to join him in the cool spring shadow, soles thumping over cobble in long, quick steps. Step by step, boot by boot, and stone by stone, both men slowed to a stroll in the emergent gardens of Torgau.
“What have we done,” Ivan lightly rumbled, “to earn the presence of you upon the dirt, young hawk?” Low words in the immortal tongue of Nations, precocial for their kind. Privacy for their conversation amidst those affected by time’s claws.
Alfred responded with a laugh in kind, “Who am I to reject a direct order from Eisenhower? I could ask the same of you, so far from your distant battery.”
He could feel Ivan roll his eyes beside him. They both knew that Alfred’s heart followed only the wind, often changing just as sprightly if he thought it right. No sparrow song sweetened the lawn beyond them, merely a breeze through vivacious flowerbeds. Those that were still intact. A shout across the garden drew their heads. Three men—two Soviets and one American—played what by all appearances was a childish game of tag. Running together in their excitement of friendly faces by treaty blurred the olive of their uniforms together, yelling in their own song of competition, twin trumpets of despair and triumph as one of the Soviets caught the American hard enough to trip him. All three devolved into discordant laughter before sprinting to another part of the scenery.
“Wanna have a go like them?” Alfred asked in jest.
Ivan shook his head. “I have no hope of catching you as I am.”
“Finally admitting you’re slow, eh?” Neither were so foolish as to ignore the wrapped injuries on Ivan’s body, but condolences weren’t Alfred’s appeal.
“Easy does not a leopard catch a falcon when his quarry soars aloft his head many leaps over.” The tall Russian stopped abruptly, pausing to take stock of his gauzed hand. “Or when his own paws are worse for wear, I fear.”
A growling chuckle told Alfred that the other Nation was laughing at himself. He joined him. Whatever cuts and scrapes he had would be gone by the next morning, if they weren’t fine already beneath the restrictive wrappings. Far beyond humanity, they were, but appearances were necessary for a reality where your people could go mad in your presence after too long.
“In truth, big guy,” Alfred started, “there was no possibility of my staying at Bury St Edmunds when the brass could smell the end of the trail like this. The krauts don’t have the air and haven’t for a while. There are many willing to clear the skies. My President would have me side by side with the boys on the ground just so they have a ‘beacon of American spirit’, whatever that might mean now.”
“Mmm yes, yes,” Ivan nodded. “I was recommended much the same. It was easier, for I have always been grounded and was already on my way in this struggle for dominion.”
“They want us to be present in the capture of Berlin,” Alfred chanced, eyeing his companion. Ivan agreed with another tilt of his shaggy head. So, he wouldn’t say anything further, Alfred thought derisively, though he understood why. The Soviets had been gaining ground on Berlin steadily, just as the Western Allies were mirroring from the other side. Hell, thousands of pounds of bombs had been dropped by his own air forces and those of Britain; Berlin had already been entered by men on foot. Capitulation could not be far behind and he knew both of their administrations had plans. They all did, after all.
In silence, Alfred began to dig through the pockets of his field jacket. Intensely curious eyes watched him from above as he drew from his jacket a pack of cigarettes, their lighter following. A faded box of Lucky Strikes crumpled slightly in Alfred’s grasp as he pulled two thin stoges. Without looking up he handed one to Ivan who took it with little hesitation, gladly, even. Popping his between his lips, Alfred flipped his dirty Zippo’s cap and flicked the flint wheel until a spark whipped to life.
Fire rippled the crisp skies held in his face as he shielded the lighter with a cupped hand. Ivan could not help but think how dangerous it appeared, yet away he couldn’t look. Tantalizing smoke drifted between them. Tilting his face up, Alfred jerked his chin in invitation. Ivan obliged without bending to his level, holding his cigarette in two fingers to light it off of his colleague’s before taking a long drag. Both men sighed earthen clouds, dark and gritty in the spring afternoon like stale, bitter coffee.
“These are not the best I have ever smoked,” came a slow thought from above, “but neither are they the worst. Better than my own rations at least.”
Alfred tried to shrug noncommittally amidst the odd compliment. “My first trades were lumber and tobacco. I like to think I know the stuff.”
“Flaunting your youth in my face like this. The fact you can even remember such a thing. Come back to me when you’ve grown harder. But, if I remember correctly, it is native to your half of the world.” Ivan observed the hedgerows around them as he spoke, calm as day. Alfred followed. It felt oddly still without any movement of life apart from them, and even they stood sentinel in the quiet Rosengarten. Thoughts roved like hungry dogs yet neither would divulge them. What either would sacrifice for time to be merely human and live in such moments as these, but bound to tarnished and timeless honor they dutifully stay. Together they brought their cigarettes to ash upon the pebbled walkway, amicable silence blanketing their strange and peaceful corner of war.
With glowing embers reduced to dust, both Nations straightened. Voices grew in strength somewhere near and they knew a pack of young men missing their mothers and sweethearts would find them soon. Knowing nods. Alfred offered his hand as he had for their picture that morning. Recognition softened the constant furrow of Ivan’s brow and he grasped Alfred’s hand in his own. Before parting, Alfred spoke, “Until Berlin, Vanya.”
“Until Berlin, Fedya,” Ivan conceded.
In opposite directions they walked, away from the row of wildly growing bushes and towering trees, neither sparing a glance behind. Alfred found himself hounded by his men with happy shouts and asking if he would join them at some spot they had found in the heart of some city square for the evening. Back by the trees, he could hear much the same being requested in Russian. With a clap on the back, Alfred picked himself up and accepted. He’d find the nearest deck of cards and break them open, shuffling and dealing and teaching the tricks he knew. Brief respite for weary men, for moments of amity were rare between the bang of bombs and the crack of rifles.
— — —
“Now if any of you know this next trick, boys, then I tell ya kindly to keep your big mouths shut!” Alfred’s voice was bright in the dark night. It bounced from the hard surfaces of rough streets to war-trodden houses and carried over the tables of mixed infantry sat before him. American and Soviet patches blended together in the crowd as they all attempted to enjoy the spring air. Curious eyes watched him atop the box where he stood. Cards rifled swiftly between his fingers as fast as hawks in a coop, the thwip of the thick slices of stock against one another satisfying to each present ear. Bridging and collecting them in one hand, Alfred called for any brave man to come forward, waving an arm in invitation.
Shoulders were pushed and voices clamored until a scrawny kid, American—Iowan by birth, Alfred’s instinct supplied—was shoved to the front of their gaggle. “Whatchya got for me, sir?”
“Pick one, any that suits your eye, and show it to the people,” the Nation said as he fanned the deck. Alfred looked up at the inky sky as obviously as he could, to show he was not looking. “Memorize it, then to the bottom of the deck, kid.”
As soon as Alfred felt the card shoved back between deck and his bottom hand, he cut the cards, still looking away. Overhand, he shuffled again. Magic tricks, he scoffed to himself as he riffled, just simple misdirection with a performative nature. And he could perform. Knowing where the private’s card was in the deck, Alfred flicked his head back down to watch them all. He straightened the cards against the surface of his jacket quickly, letting the chosen card slip fast into the cuff of his sleeve. Shuffling the cards one last time, the glaze of eyes focused on the cards in his hand told the Nation his audience was none the wiser.
Looking the soldier in the eye, Alfred fanned the cards once more, flicking the top card and running his fingertips over the spread with a flourish. Suddenly, he made a show of dropping all the cards, fingers slippery, scrambling to catch a few out of the air as they fluttered slowly like autumn leaves. As Alfred bent, he shook the card from his sleeve and into his hand. Disappointed grumbles and exclamations peppered the air.
“Hold it, hold it!” Alfred called, reorienting himself with the handful of cards he had. He threaded the cards in his hand over and over, making sure his card was the third from the top. “I’m mighty confident I’ve got the card right here in my grasp. Let’s just get the kid to confirm.”
Offering the meager spread, Alfred pushed the soldier’s card just slightly to the forefront. Of course, it caught the young boy’s eye in its misalignment and he drew it from the deck. Wide brown eyes looked at the suit of the card in shock and he presented it to the crowd. Impressed whistles and hesitant applause followed—many ready for failure of the trick so they could jeer at the loud man on his makeshift pedestal. He took a bow from atop the box.
Stooping to help pick up the rest of the deck, Alfred handed it off so poker could be played at a group of tables shoved together. They betted with cigarettes and matches. Soon he sat himself on a low wall made of bumpy stones that pressed into the backs of his legs, watching the men mill about. A voice interrupted his thoughts.
“And here I thought you didn’t believe in magic, Jones.” Ivan materialized out of a dim side street, having circled behind the main crowd. The giant Nation bent to hover his head near to Alfred’s. It was then that he reminded the shorter man of an owl; quiet, curious, always watching.
“Well believe you me, I don’t. But anything to put smiles on grim faces.”
A thoughtful hum of approval, “Yes, yes. Well. It is now my turn to do the same, as is our duty.”
Ivan jostled Alfred’s with a nudge from his elbow. Alfred pushed back with his shoulder in play. Play, though, was not something they did amongst people. Nations in general could not play for long without struggle. The Russian’s boots tromped against the stone street as he left Alfred alone, joining a group of three Soviets—Ukrainian, as the name of their division declared. They pulled extra cargo boxes beside the one Alfred had used and stood atop them, except for Ivan. Even with the boost, all three men were still dwarfed by his overwhelming height.
All of them cleared their throats, waiting patiently for the crowd to fall silent. Ivan’s men waited for his count-off. He waved a hand in a slow tempo and they hummed in chorus. Ivan gave a meaningful look over his shoulder to Alfred. Alfred matched his tired eyes with ones open wide. Laden were they with mutual understanding after observing their people. They could be opposites, but they could still be companions above it all. It was not unheard of with their kind. Ivan turned to behold the crowd. Then, other Nation’s deep timbre warmed and slipped easily through the gathering as he began.
Tyomnaya noch’, tol’ko puli svistyat po stepi,
Tol’ko veter gudit v provodakh, tusklo zvyozdy mertsayut…
V tyomnuyu noch’ ty, lyubimaya, znayu, ne spish’,
I u detskoy krovatki taykom ty slezu utiraesh’. …