She opens her eyes and immediately regrets doing so. That incessant noise is back, besides the dull ringing in her ears, there is a constant shifting in gears on the floor underneath her and each time the gears shift the battered wood on which she lay throws her body forward a good inch of uncomfortable lurching. Such sudden movements that the surprisingly elastic vehicle repeats combined with the nasal roar of the engine make for a very uncomfortable scene to wake up in. The means of her current transportation, if she can even call it that, was not the leather upholstered automobile she is accustomed to, she can say that much.

The tires screech again and the caravan gives a muted rumble, causing vibrations she can feel all over her body, the same body that has just moments ago lay dormant for god knew how long. She turns on her side and fumbles for balance as she purchases her weight on her knees or at least tries to, the moving vehicle combined with her inexplicable nausea makes for a slow sense of awareness matched with a rapid pulse. Her hand slides along the curve of the bench, it is without padding and damp from the cold air that resounds in the rectangular space. A lot of bodies can theoretically fit inside the caravan, providing they are all sitting with matching pairs of boots and muskets slung over their shoulders or between their knees.

But she, oh she, is laying with her body prone in the measured isle of foot space between the benches that lined either side of the caravan and it is an uncomfortable and vulnerable place to be in. The task of slipping onto her front turns to be a complicated and slow effort for a woman as young and virile as she, but once she achieves her goal she is left unsatisfied. What exactly is she going to do with her new position? Hide, where? Run, where? Her attempt at sitting on the bench is more like rolling onto the bench, but at least with her cheek pressed against the roughly sanded wood and her knees and fingers hanging onto the higher structure with a muscled grip, she entertains the reassuring prospect that she is prepared for whatever is to happen once the vehicle eventually reaches its destination.

That destination is presently unknown to her but she assumes at some point that particular disadvantage will cease to exist. Perhaps, quite possibly in the same breath that her life will also be no more, all in the same pursed breath of air, the same snuffing of a flame purchased atop shaped wax. She rolls onto her back and takes a deep puff of air, feeling suffocated all of the sudden and her hands come to her chest in a vain attempt to soothe the pressure that is developing there. This pressure, this suffocation that she feels now is fear, pure and unmarred fear that grips her hard and steady. She has a perverse idea to smile for what a fickle and sneaky entity Fear is indeed. She had never been in a position to fear for her very life or existence, what-have-you.

No, this young woman in the back of a what felt like cedar but was most likely a cheap plywood military caravan, has never once had to measure against two disagreeable odds or take her chances at security and survival. She has turned a blind eye to the unfortunate wrong doings unto others so long as she herself will live out the war, stake her claim as a sideliner to the Third Reich and assumed that surely not one person would blame a mere Nazi wife-

When the tarp over the caravan is thrown open with a billowing, noisy flourish, the light is pure and sheer blindness. She does not care that she must look a sight, with the combs in her knotted hair surely broken, her skirt is riding up past her scratched knees and the grimace of an old hag cracks at her mouth , her eyes squeezed shut in a mute squint. Her left hand comes up to shield her face and with it her discomfort and hopefully but most unlikely, her fear. Two sets of hands clamp around her arms, thin as reeds they are now that the Reich has collapsed and its glory swept under the carpet along with the sweet meats, warm pastries and sweet syrups and honeys.

Twenty-four weeks of rationing preserves and hard cracker crumbs have pulled her young skin tighter across her rib cage and she has never felt so unprotected by her own flesh. How exactly did she end up here, the sun beating down hard on her forehead and two strange men propelling her forward into the unknown? Security. The pursuit of her own well being in its present as well as future was what spurred her on to reach out to her families solicitor, to dictate and purchase the documents that would indeed sever all ties she had with the gold band on her fourth finger of her left hand, on the same hand that is now raised against the chilly winter air shortly before she is hauled up and out to land on uneven pavement. She hears the strange mans words but does not reply, he speaks English and after a few moments of staring at her hoping to see a sign of understanding on her part and when he receives no such indication for she is confused and still adjusting to the brightness, he simply nods and continues to walk her to the awaiting building.

She is like a bucket of lead in front of these Americans, even as they sit her at a stark white table and chair and bring her water and tea and small biscuits, she is wary of their courtesy. She feels a spark of anger coil in the pit of her belly when she watches with half-open eyelids as a man in a green uniform sits across from her and smiles, all grins, all hospitality these silly, cheeky Yanks. Her anger is not directed at this man of course, not at this grinning and blue eyed Private Marks, but at the fact that by her own folly in filing official documents she has been lead to the presumed OSS headquarters, the one day trip that she quite accidentally but on purpose has tried to avoid. She is not a war hero, she is not even a known party member, all she is now in front of this young man is a lone German woman with no promises made to her save for the vows a man made to her very long ago, or at least it seems very long ago.

"Cigarette?" Private Marks flashes that full-toothed grin again. It makes his eyes crinkle and look like they are shining, as if he were to cry yet clearly he carried the highest of spirits. He had a spring in his step just now when walking to the table and subsequently sitting down across from her. She looks as if she is about to shake her head but pauses and reconsiders her refusal. She nods and selects one of the slim wrapped tobacco sticks from the case of a dozen and is careful that their fingertips do not brush. She slides the end between her lips, it is no lavender embossed silver cigarette holder and her fingertips will stink without one but she lets the quick discomfort pass.

Once she is lit by the Privates lighter she leans back in her seat but her limbs are not relaxed, she is no femme fatale, never has been and never would be. The hand that does not hold her cigarette up to her lips curves tightly around her body, her bicep rigid and shivering against her breasts. Her body feels damp with sweat and she desperately wishes to take her hand and scrub at the fine hair at the back of her neck as she can feel the dampness in her own scalp, and she wonders if her table partner can too smell the rank stench of her vulnerability.

The Private inhales his cigarette deeply and deftly flecks the ash against the table. "I was told about how you were transported to us and I can only offer my sincerest apologies, ma'am." He looks embarrassed as he speaks and there are two spots of color that swipe along his cheeks, childish in it's soft pink. She almost smiles, but inhales her own cigarette instead.

"Furthermore, with regards to your...ehm..files of divorce, they are not exactly a private matter if the woman..the wife files for said dissolution of marriage. You must give reasons you see, for the reason..the reason why you must..you wish, to end the legal union. Reasons that would prove foul play or false treatment-" He coughs then and pardons himself, catching the cigarette between his teeth as he looks over the contents of the folder spread out before him. He is reading his lines and still stuttering over them and the fact that she is being (interrogated?) interviewed by such a young soldier should give her comfort but it does no such thing, quite the opposite.

This young fellow may truly lack complete prowess in machinations of the mind or she may be witnessing one of the most fantastic actors she has ever met, and she has met quite a few. More specifically she has met a man that can make you smile and make your spine shrivel in a very small margin of time. The war has jaded her, as has the company she has kept.

The Private is looking at her now, awaiting a response. She automatically raises her eyebrows as if to say she understands and when she does this there is a look of relief on his face.

"Oh good, I was thinking you didn't speak any English.." he is sliding his finger down the right hand column of the page he is looking at and taps it firmly, smiling again. "But now I see your file says otherwise. Well good, this will go much quicker then I planned." he says.

She nods again, appearing unaffected at the mention of her 'file'. Of course there is some surprise and a general feeling of unease but these are, correction these were times of war after all. She watches with flickering eyes as he clears his throat and shuffles through the papers before him, making slight whistling sounds as he inhales and exhales air between slack lips. It makes the vein in her temple thicken and twitch with irritation and she flicks her thumb over her brow.

"Just to re-cap here, you filed your papers for legal divorce from your husband on the fifth of March for this year. Those files went to your family solicitor, Herr Goeren and because of the sensitive nature of those files he was obligated to submit them to us, the OSS, for review." he pauses, widening his cerulean eyes again in her direction. The way he says 'Herr Goeren' like "Hur Goorin" makes her smile and he takes the gesture as a sign to continue speaking.

"However, it is in the interests of the OSS to provide certain stipulations to matters concerning these papers-"

She interrupts him, a frown creasing her mouth and pulling at her temples. "Stipulations?" she says sharply.

He fumbles slightly with his cigarette and nods. "Yes ma'am, stipulations. Because you listed no reasons for the terms of your desire for divorce, the opposite party has the right to make claimants against..the claims..you make..made." He is looking down at the papers again and she is narrowing her eyes as she notices condensation gathering on his upper lip. It was sweltering in the room and it made the bile in her belly threaten to rise.

"I don't understand." she speaks slowly. "I have partaken in no illegal activity, I am a citizen of Germany and willfully offered my home to the Russians when they took Berlin-" she has her speech carefully constructed and memorized and while her imagination has envisioned more of a calm persona unlike the way her voice is now steadily rising in hysteria, she knows what it means when the enemy, correction the liberators, begin to speak in terms that she does not understand.

The Private raises his hand and she feels her mouth slap shut like a bear trap. However his face is not wearing an expression of annoyance, merely concern.

"Ma'am, the OSS is aware of what you are saying and that is not the issue here today. The issue is.. is that we have consented to meet certain demands of the Germans whom have provided us with aid and honorable peace making." Again, he looks as if he is reading from his page and she wants nothing more but to swipe the entire file off the table.

She flicks her cigarette and clutches her body even tighter, her fingers splaying between her rib bones. She jerks her head for him to continue.

"Long story short, I have been ordered to provide you with your proper documentation and declare you a landed immigrant of The United States of America." he claps his hands together, as if he has just purchased a fine automobile or won a chess match.

She sputters, literally sputters and coughs into her hand. The Private frowns then and fumbles for his handkerchief but she waves his extended hand away.

"I am to live in America? What if I want to live in Germany?" her voice is hoarse now and she cringes at it's hint of pleading. Alright, she didn't want to live in Germany exactly, not anymore. She has always thought of living in Vienna or Paris, though neither of those cities are exactly eager to invite Germans to nest.

The Private blushes again. "Well ma'am, I am sorry to say that is just not possible. The OSS has agreed to provide you with protective services and transport you to The United States for the duration of your legal dispute." His gaze shifts then, and she knows that by the nervous movements of his leg humming and bumping under the table that there is more to his orders but whatever it was he is not divulging them to her, not right now at least.

She remains silent and takes another drag of her cigarette and then snuffs it on the table. Private Marks nods and stands from his seat. "Safe traveling, ma'am." he tips his head to her and leaves the room, taking the folder with him.

The next three days pass by like a compilation of one very long lifetime. There is a train, a boat, another train and finally an airplane. The last method of travel has been the worst sort of torture she has ever endured. For a woman who has now only flown once, she can heartily shout out to the masses that she will never do so again if she had anything to say about it. It is on the second train that her chaperone's realize the skirt and blouse she wears is no longer passable. They stand on the outside of the train apartment doors as she bathes in cold water from a jug and braids back her dry and brittle hair that was once thick and luxe. She barely affords to see her face in the mirror but when she does she frowns at the purple under her eye sockets and the bright red in her tear ducts.

She squeezes herself in the middle of her two chaperone's in the back of the automobile and clamps her thighs together tightly so that her knees do not brush against theirs. She has been provided with a stark white collared mens work shirt, a tawny colored suit jacket and gray pinned slacks. She wears no stockings, just wool socks and loafers. The pants are the smallest they could find but still loose on her waist, she can feel the buttons folding against her belly and they rest low on her hips when she walks from the plane to the car. She wears her own brassiere, dirty as it is for the female chaperon has provided her with only a fresh pair of underwear for undergarments. They are also too big but at least she feels somewhat clean.

The older woman also insists on staying in the room while she bathes and dresses but she understands the precaution, at least it isn't a strange, leering man and for that she is grateful. However, compared to what she has heard of other women, those she has never met and those she has shared a conversation with back when she was another young beauty of the Reich, she will gladly endure a man taking pleasure in only watching her groom herself. She can see houses now through the window of the car and is unprepared for the vehicle to pull to a stop. She is expecting another slate gray building with covert American agents inside, only this time they will be less 'covert' seeing as she is now in their 'home front' so to speak.

The agent on her right steps out of the automobile and holds open the door. When she hesitates, he reaches in and takes her hand, helping her out of the automobile but letting go of her immediately. She almost prefers the boyish uncertainty of Private Marks to this stand offish forty-something agent but she has not seen the blue eyed American since their interview. The man turns and begins to walk up the path nearest him without saying a word and she casts her gaze to the female agent in the car. The woman does not look at her and she is overcome with a steady uneasiness. She hurries to catch up to her male chaperon. There is hedging on either side of the walkway which makes what she assumes is a house to be rather privatized from the remaining street.

She rounds the corner of the hedge and her eyes fall on the back of the agents head encased in his black bowl hat and she watches as he walks up two sets of four steps each and she follows, her eyes focused on that bowl hat. He is quite tall really, and the way he sways in his steps reminds her of a large oak tree. He stops in his tracks and she stumbles into his back but the only reaction she receives is a small grunt. Apparently, not every American prefers to indulge in conversation and she remains standing behind him as he knocks on the door of the house. She tries to look up and get a better view of the building but standing as she is on the steps and with the agents Neanderthal height (and demeanor) she fails to gain a fair view of it. Her head snaps back to attention when she hears her name and she remains rooted on her stair, even as the tall man steps out of her path to reveal something (someone) she knows to expect but still wears an expression of shock on her face.

"Ah, Mein Liebe. You have come to join me at last." his voice is soft and slippery, like oil. She remembers his face, his stature, his stride but she is unprepared for his voice, for that voice. He speaks in English except for the endearment, for he intends the American to witness and comprehend their reunion. She has never heard him speak English before. His smile is slow and heart-warming like that of a smile worn when faced with genuine surprise. He isn't surprised to see her, he has expected her. He walks down the steps, the heels of his shoes clicking on the stone and she feels her jaw grow tight in concentration. Those foot falls match the slowing of her heart beat, the blackness she can taste behind her eyelids, the closing of her trachea.

"Hans. You look well. I am glad." She speaks quietly though she had intended her voice to be strong and haughty. She curses herself, what she has meant to say was "Hans, sign the divorce papers and be done with me you bastard of a man." But no such words leave her mouth, oh no, how could they? Wasn't she now the victim of her own speculation that one had much more courage when theoretically speaking to another but when it came time for the words to flow and the performance to begin, all bravado was lost?

He tossed his head back and laughed heartily, exposing his throat, displaying such ease and regard as if she had not seen him in..well..she couldn't remember from the top of her head, '43 perhaps?

"Come inside, we have much to discuss with one another!" he speaks jovially, and then his hand is snaking around her waist and he is tugging her towards him, his fingertips firm against her covered flesh and she sees a brief frown shadow his smooth lips.

"And apparently you could use a good meal as well, that is no matter, I will take care of you." he speaks the words while looking exactly into her cautiously narrowed eyes while his remain flat and insistent, challenging even. She is no master on the mans expressions. She just nods dumbly and feels her feet lifting and dragging up the steps. The eyes of her husband crinkle in delight and she turns her face away from him in one last gesture of independence before she reaches the door. Her eyes follow the retreating agent, again with his back to her as he descends the stairs and disappears behind the hedge. Her mouth opens but any protests fall silent as she is walked into the American house and forcibly cranes her neck to face forward once more.

And then the door behind her is closed and locked.

And then she is alone with Hans Landa