Work Text:
“A-Are you sure this is a good idea?” asked East Germany, a slight tremor to his voice. “If V-Vati d-daddy finds out, you know how mad he’ll be.”
“Papa won’t find out,” assured West Germany, though he would be lying if he said he wasn’t anxious himself. He gripped his younger brother’s hand tightly, leading the way through the Reich Chancellery’s winding underground.
In West’s free hand was a large suitcase, built to contain a gramophone. He’d stumbled across it by pure luck a week prior, when he was exploring the Chancellery’s expansive basement alone to find someplace away from the prying eyes of his father’s officers: a small room filled with crates that housed what were likely hundreds - if not thousands - of music records.
However, that wasn’t what caught West’s eye that particular day. Atop some crates were dusty boxes, which upon closer inspection, revealed themselves to be gramophones. They ranged in quality and age; a few were from the first World War, and others were manufactured far more recently. He made sure to keep this room in mind as he traversed further, so he could return to it in the future, and borrow a gramophone.
And here he was, in the future. With father on his way to France to lead the front, West was free to slip down to the basement as he pleased, only needing to evade the guards. (In theory, he and his brother had more authority, but they were quick to learn that it did not stop the guards from reporting any ‘suspicious activity’ the siblings got up to their father.)
Sneaking into the small room again was easy. He had East wait outside to keep watch, as he hauled the heavy case down, his heart thumping violently as he did so. West had chosen one that was on the newer side of old, hidden in the shadows, so it wouldn’t be noticeably missing.
Adrenaline made the gramophone’s weight disappear as they currently made their way down one of many halls, the echo of their footsteps masked by the roaring of generators and the whirr of ventilators alike. Neither of them were particularly rebellious in attitude, mostly out of fear, but also because they didn’t really know how to rebel.
Sure, West was a little braver; he’d occasionally press father on the why’s of his policies, whilst East would nod along. But it was never to truly combat father’s choices, even if he found them to be trivial, and it could be played off as curiosity. This, well…they were unquestionably going behind their father's back to do something he explicitly banned.
West Germany gulped. Father couldn’t find out about this, he wouldn’t, because West had done too much to be cautious. Uncertainty curled in his gut, pulling tight. He’d always kept his head down at the end of the day and been an obedient son, grateful for what he was given.
Yet an odd thrill coursed through his system. There was a twinge in his heart - is this what rebelling felt like? Or…no, they weren’t rebelling, per se, not like how he’d seen the Poles do. He bit his lip, looking at East, who had his shoulders hunched. No, they weren’t rebels, right? Rebels don’t look like this. They don’t feel this way.
Arriving at a locked steel vault, West stopped, and let go of his brother’s hand to search his pockets for a key. It didn’t take long to find, and he slipped it in the keyhole, twisting it until it budged. Putting his whole arm into it, the lock finally clicked out of place, a cold draft of air sliding through the thin crack as the door opened.
“I’m scared,” East mumbled, fidgeting at the discreet brown record case he held. “What if the guards actually come down here? I know you said they wouldn’t, but…”
“I promise they won’t.” West set the gramophone on the ground, readying himself to pull the door to give them enough space to enter through. “Move aside, okay? Keep an eye on the corridor.”
East nodded, shuffling away. With great effort, West heaved, the steel protesting with high-pitched squeaks that reverberated around the concrete. It sounded louder than it ever had previously, making West wince. Realistically, it was just his nerves exacerbating the noise. They weren’t going to get caught.
Once satisfied with the size of the gap, West picked the suitcase up, being the first to step foot in the secret space he’d grown familiar with in the past week. It was immediately quieter inside. He flipped a switch, the dim lights flickering on overhead, and motioned for his brother to enter, shutting the door behind him.
The first thing East Germany did upon entering was sneeze. West did make note of how dusty it was, but it couldn’t have been enough to justify almost shattering the record on the floor!
“East!” West hissed, contorting awkwardly to catch it, careful not to drop the gramophone itself.
“S-Sorry!” East squeaked, sheepishly taking the record from his older brother’s hand. “I didn’t think that it’d be so, so–”
Achoo!
West was quick to secure the record, safely out of East’s grasp. “I’ll hold it,” he grumbled, placing the suitcase on a table nearby, where he’d specifically cleared the space for a couple days ago.
“Thanks,” sniffled East, rubbing at his nose. In all honesty, West had forgotten about East’s dust sensitivities, since it was rarely an issue with how clean their father demanded the Chancellery be kept. Even the underground tunnels were decently maintained, but apparently, their rooms didn’t get the same treatment.
With the large brown envelope in his possession, West carefully unsealed it. East looked at it intensely as the record slid out: a glossy black disc with small scratches littered across the surface, and a half-peeled-off sticker in the centre. In the bits of white sticker residue read ‘SWING HEIL!’, scribbled messily in black ink.
West felt his face flush as he lifted the record towards the gramophone. “Open the lid,” he instructed, nodding at the latch. East did as told with shaky fingers. He hadn’t used gramophones often, least of all one this old, so he’d made sure to study them extensively so as not to break anything.
Attached to the outside of the suitcase, on its right, was a lever. West asked East to wind it up until he felt some resistance.
“I almost forgot to ask,” East started, cranking the lever. “How did you get the record? Y-You didn’t sneak into one of those clubs, did you?”
“No,” he replied.
“Then how did you get it?” his brother pressed, curiosity seeping in. “Okay, I can’t move it anymore.”
“...I’ll tell you later. Check the needle under the head.”
East huffed, unsatisfied with the delay in answer, but titled his head to check nonetheless. “There’s no needle.”
“You have my word, I’ll tell you later. Promise,” said West. “Now get a needle from one of the cups, top right. Not that one, I think that’s for used needles…? Yes, that one, don’t prick yourself on it and screw it to the head of the player, tightly.”
Once East did so, West could set the disc on the gramophone, centering it using the nub in the middle that slotted perfectly in the circular hole. “Can you make sure the door is properly closed?”
“It is,” confirmed East, settling down beside him as West released the brakes. If memory served, it should be played at seventy eight RPM, so he adjusted the speed dial to match. He took a deep breath in.
All that was left was to move the gramophone’s arm to the edge of the spinning disc.
His palms were sweaty as he inched it closer, closer, and closer. He could hear the quickening of East’s breath behind him, and he’s sure that his own matched it.
Then, it began to crackle, a bit like how campfires did. West stepped away, East following his motion, treating it like it were an explosive that could set off any second.
Rum-pa-p’dum, rum-pa-p’dum, rum-pa-p’dum…
The drums mimicked the pace of his own heartbeat, pulsing in his throat. It worked. “Okay, okay, wait here, let me get something!” West called to his brother, prancing up to search for some clothing he’d left earlier. Navigating across the delicate paintings, vases, all sorts of art that decorated the room was difficult, keeping track of his limbs so they wouldn’t bump into things, and avoiding boxes of murals on the floor like they were landmines–
“...Are we in Vati's daddy's gallery…?”
It must’ve been difficult for East Germany to make out his surroundings, what with the dim lighting and his bad eyesight, but he looked scared for his life upon realising where they were. West had failed to tell him; he hadn’t even been trying to hide it from his brother!
Instead of giving a proper response, West only lifted his head, momentarily pausing what he was doing to look at East guiltily.
“H-He’s never going to forgive us if he finds out we were here! Oh, God, especially if we ruin anything–”
Honking saxophones joined in, interrupting East, playing a pleasant upbeat melody. Both of them looked at the gramophone, then back at one another. The song itself was beckoning them to forget their worries and celebrate the moment.
“Trust me,” said West, resuming his search. He came out with two long, checkered coats - clearly too big to fit properly on either of them - two waistcoats, two scarves, and two colourfully patterned ties. One had the design of palm trees backed against a sunset gradient, and the other was blue with gold square-and-diamond shapes that overlapped.
“Well?” West prompted, grinning.
“Vati's Daddy's right, they look ridiculous,” East murmured, eyes wide open.
It wasn’t that West disagreed, but the aesthetic was part of what drew him in. As much as he thought it clashed and looked weird, it definitely fit with the music. “Would you rather wear a girl’s dress instead? I have those, too!”
“No!” said East, grabbing the clothes thrown in his direction. “Hey, w-why do you even have d-dr-dresses–”
Achoo!
“I don’t know, I didn’t take them on purpose,” West replied, returning next to his brother, buttoning the waistcoat. “Do you want the orange or blue tie?”
“What does that even mean? How do you accidentally…I want the blue tie.”
Trumpets flowed in, short and punchy, similar to the tooting of a train. With every beat, it felt like they were ascending upwards. The trumpets pierce through the boom of the drums, stealing its attention away, becoming the main star.
West fluffed his hair outwards, copying the scruffy style of the Swingjugend Swing Youth,, though his wasn’t nearly as long. “When I led a group of Reichsjugend to take action against a club we found, I…I confiscated a few records. Uhm, when they took the members down to the station, I also…confiscated their clothing after they’d been made to change. I didn’t look at what I took, so…”
One benefit of being placed in charge of the Reichsjugend alongside East was his absolute authority when he was working; nobody dared to stop him from ‘confiscating’ goods, and nobody asked him about what he did with them. (They probably presumed he had them destroyed.)
“You’re a genius, West,” East smiled. “But if they find out the record still exists–”
“I’ll destroy it after. We have more, and we can always get more.” He winked.
By the time they finished changing, the song had come to an end. West reset it, fetching a couple fedoras he stashed to the side, tossing one at East. “Ready?” he asked, just as the drums rolled in.
Rum-pa-p’dum, rum-pa-p’dum, rum-pa-p’dum…
East nodded, tipping his hat, steading himself and getting a feel of the ground’s stability. West dragged a few small tables aside to give them more room, creating their very own dance floor in the Chancellery’s underground.
How very scandalous.
The saxophones started again, an exceedingly rich quality to the audio, despite the nicks the record had. Gathering himself, he closed his eyes, letting himself be lost in the rhythm of jazz once more.
His feet moved of their own accord, tapping against the concrete floor as he swung his hips, kicking his legs, shoulders and arms coming to life, too. Another pair of shoes joined in, East finding his confidence again; he had his own style of dancing, similar to West’s but not exactly the same.
The brothers revolved around, limited in where they could step, yet West hadn’t felt so free in so long. His wings were spread - not literally, else he’d certainly break more than a few items - as he took one of his brother’s hands; this was always his favourite part of their routine, where they matched up.
It’d been years since they last did this. Father had been increasingly harsh with foreign music in the past six years, and with Swing, he declared it ‘degenerate music’. It didn’t stop the siblings from attending Swing events, even if they got odd looks from some Swingjugend Swing Youth as the years progressed and laws became harsher, since they were meant to be the ones enforcing those laws.
He took East’s other hand, and the two slowly spun, bodies swiftly responding to the beats. West wondered if Swing was really this terrible plague on society, because he’d seen so much joy and had so much fun, from the conductors in grand halls to the participants, before it came to an end.
If he let himself drift into the past enough, he could imagine being surrounded by hundreds of other youth like him, engrossed in their own worlds as they flung one another around, glee evident on their faces. The twirling of bright red dresses, the flowing of long hair as they were lifted into the air by their partners…it left an unforgettable impression on West the first time he’d seen it. The clapping of the audience as they diverged to create a circle in the middle, spotlights projected on those who were daring enough to enter and show off their skills.
Then, their horror as they were interrupted by large groups of Gestapo or Reichsjugend. Teenagers and young adults were beaten senseless with batons, some dragged off by police, not to be seen ever again. Those considered to be ‘ringleaders’ were rumoured to face fates worse than death, yet they did not back down, protecting their people valiantly, all whilst East and West slithered away from the scene like cowards.
When father found out - he’d apparently hired spies to follow them after ‘having a feeling they were up to no good’ - to say he was livid was putting it lightly. From that day on, their only exposure to Swing music was when they were at the front of those…those raids. West had never felt more conflicted, and he’s sure it was the same for East, too.
So to dance to jazz in their father’s art gallery, to dance to music considered ‘degenerate’ - West couldn’t ignore the irony. He released his brother, running his fingers along the rim of his fedora, never stopping. At this point, he was starting to get out of breath, his brother visibly struggling to keep up, too.
“N-Not long to go,” West laughed, slowing only a smidge. East could only nod in acknowledgement. The former extended his arms, a request for East to take them and do their finishing move.
With a wobbly smile, East Germany did, gripping his older brother’s wrists tightly. Parting his legs as wide as they would go without losing balance, he slid East under, catching him as he came out the other side, just as the music cut.
East hacked into his elbow immediately after he stabilised himself, his flag flushed pink. He’d put his all into it, it seemed, the dust they kicked up probably not helping his brother’s condition. West sat down, motioning for his brother to do the same.
“How was that?” asked West after a minute or so passed. He’d shrugged the oversized coat off, a droplet of sweat rolling down his forehead, and East had followed suit.
“Horrible–” East said, sent into another coughing fit. “Can we do it again?”