-Ludwig Beilschmidt-

Ludwig looked at him with deep blue eyes, eyes that were liquid rather than ice. Human, rather than hawk. He pressed his lips together and sighed. "Shoot them. All of them. Order the men to aim well."

She was nearby. Perhaps she was an it, he had always thought of her as a she. Death was a better alternative than what the men would receive otherwise.

"But sir, we hardly possess ample ammunition for our own forces to use. We cannot waste it on Russian prisoners-"

"Shoot them."

"Sir, the Auschwitz camps are only a few kilometers away, surely it would be more efficient to bring them-"

"I gave you an order, Lieutenant! Shoot them now or I'll shoot you now!"

"Yessir!"

Voices and boot clicks broke Ludwig away from his memory. Broke him from the rumbling roar of retreating Panzers and the guttural cries of dying men. From the lightning strike of artillery hitting the ground. Of the cold Russian sun and her man-killing gray muddy tundra. Returned him to the cold cement floors, the vertical iron bars of which he stared. To the Gestapo and his muttered prayers next to him -no, wait- they had taken him three darknesses ago. The voices were not in German, he noticed, but in faint echoing English. Two voices, but three pairs of feet. Two were fast and strong, confident and powerful, one set of steps larger and sloppier than the neat and even other. The third was barely perceptible, quick and light footed like an arctic fox. He had learned well how to read footsteps in the last weeks. There was reason for many to pay attention to them. Ludwig knew he should fear these steps too, for he knew his name was on the list, but he did not cringe when he heard them.

"What did they want him for?"

"War crimes."

"What was the sentence?"

"Death by hanging. Rumors were that the request by firing squad was turned down."

"Ah."

There would often be footsteps. A lock clicked and a metal door creaked open. A few words exchanged, a click of handcuffs being placed on, more footsteps which faded to nothing. And somewhere far away, another widow to join the millions was made.

Ludwig straightened his steel gray uniform. They had given him another on the front. Several medals and tattered ropes hung from his shoulder, they meant nothing to him now. He wasn't entirely sure how he got them. But he would look presentable.

Two men striding abreast turned the corner. One tall, one short. They were accompanied by a young man in a green suit who was leading them down the hall. Laurinaitis, he had learned the others called him. A bit timid and jumpy he was, perhaps he had not made it well with one of the prisoners at one point. One of the fairer guards, although he did not seem to like Ludwig much at all.

The two unfamiliar men stopped outside of his cell. Ludwig tried to place a reason for their visit but he had been unaware of the exact date for some time. The little one was frowning in study as he examined him. Upon probably deciding this specimen was the most krautish German he had ever seen, his expression reverted to its previous taughtlipped smugness. The larger held several envelopes. He stared at Ludwig too, adjusting a pair of spectacles as he leaned closer, studying him closely. Eventually he nodded to himself in confirmation of some fact.

Ludwig smiled. "Hello officers. I thought it was not for a few days yet?"

The dirty blond and the lighter blond glanced at each other. Then back at Ludwig. "He doesn't recognize me!" he exclaimed in English. "The potatofaced bastard doesn't recognize me!"

"Well it's not hard to forget an ugly mug like yours." muttered the other.

"I'm Alfred F. Jones! And you're Ludwig Beilschmidt!"

Alfred Jones? He bothered to remember very few American names. He felt his jaw slacken in recognition. The crashed bomber pilot they had found in the forest along the road after leaving Auschwitz. They had encountered his Doppelgänger brother in Vienna. This was the American Gilbert had spared.

"Ivan owns this prison now. Matt told me you speak English alright. Is that true? Art here don't understand German."

Ludwig stayed silent for a moment more. If he remembered correctly, mat in English was like a rug, but smaller and usually of lower quality, often used for wiping shoes outside before entering a home. And he was certain he knew what art was. Perhaps his English had gotten rusty, or he was confusing it with some other speech.

"Yes. I speak English." Ludwig answered in the mentioned language.

"Ah. The barbarian speaks a civilized tongue, does it?"

Ludwig thought this was an appropriate time in English to use 'he.' His lips parted in confusion at the smaller man when the American cut him off. "Hey now, ain't gotta be so mean to him, Kirkland. He's not gonna hurt anybody now."

"Oh? He looks sad? I guess you like him because he didn't bomb your whole country. You were living luxuriously up in an airplane, while we were alone in the maelstrom for years. Well, perhaps I should be nice. Cheer the old chap up. Yes, I'll tell him a joke! Two Nazis walk into a BAR..."

They had jokes like this in his country. Ludwig looked at him expectantly. When the British uniformed one did not finish his sentence, an uncomfortable silence ensued. But the German was not alone in his misunderstanding. Jones and Ludwig exchanged a mutually confused glance before looking back to Kirkland.

"What's the rest of the joke, Art?" Jones eventually asked.

"They walked into a B.A.R. Browning Automatic Rifle. They died."

"HWAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh, I get it! That's hilarious! I got one! What's the difference between a German and a shopping trolley?"

"What?"

"A shopping trolley has a mind of its own."

Their laughing merriment ricocheted between the white cinderblocks and steel bars of the hallway. Laurinaitis was standing behind them, looking down and fiddling with the brass keyring in his hands. The other inmates in different cells were starting to look up. But of course they did not defend themselves. They never did. They just brokenly took it. And Ludwig did too.

The defeated man's expression sobered. He knew why these men had shown. The day at headquarters was boresome. This barred palace was a zoo, and there were animals to taunt.

"I spoke with Elizabeta and Feliks." Jones said.

Ludwig coughed. "What?"

"I visited them. In their house in Switzerland."

So they did not come to taunt. "How?"

"It was a clue that Gilbert gave Matthew that led me to Switzerland. My brother was very adamant that something be done. Cocky albino bastard thought ahead, that's for sure."

"Were they alright?"

"Oh, sure! Physically. But they left not long after the war ended... One to Budapest, one to Warsaw. I can't imagine why they'd want to go back. I guess they just both felt they had unfinished business."

"Sanctuary means nothing if you cannot spend it with those whom you care about..."

"You're right." It was the Brit who spoke.

"The girl." Ludwig said quickly. "Elizabeta. Was she with anyone, do you know? A pale one with blackish hair?"

The American's brows furrowed in honest befuddlement. "I didn't see her with anyone like that, no."

Ludwig sighed in relief. Those two were still alive.

"Well, how you been Beilschmidt? How's Prisoner of War life treatin ya?"

"There is little to look forward to, I believe your expression is."

He expected him to laugh at the gross understatement, but the American seemed sincere, in some small way. Jones sighed. "It's better this way. You could be walking down the street in sunny Buenos Aires. Bringing groceries home to the wife and kids twenty quiet years from now. When you're shoved against a wall with the cold barrel of a gun rammed against the back of your skull, police yelling in a language you haven't heard in years. Shuttled off to some prison in cold Europe for crimes you committed a lifetime ago, for some judge to read you all of the things you've done and call you dead."

Ludwig grunted.

"What would you say?" Jones accused. "If that happened? You were only following the orders of your superiors, right? It's an honorable tenet, to follow orders."

"No."

Jones arched a questioning brown eyebrow.

"No... Well, yes I was following orders. But I was no draftee of the Wehrmacht. I take responsibility for my actions. I knew what I was doing. I don't want your pity, Amerikaner."

"But did everyone know?"

"I heard what your General Eisenhower did. If any Germans did not know, they do now. He made all of us in the nearby towns over twelve clean up the camps. Bury the mountains of corpses. The women and children, even."

"At least this way..." Jones trailed. "At least you can't hide."

Ludwig agreed solemnly.

Kirkland leaned against the opposite wall between two cells. Jones began to pace the corridor, hands folded behind him. He lifted his strong chin when he spoke, looking straight ahead rather than at the prisoner. Each step was silently mirrored by Ludwig's pale eyes.

"Germany could deal with humiliation for years. For decades. For a century. You'll be dead and dust, and your great grandchildren will be told to feel guilty for what you did. Germany's people will be repentant to death of this war. And still, they will never be martyrs for their suffering."

Ludwig knew not if the wisdom was said in victory, warning, or even sympathy. He learned already the consequences of his actions affected not only himself. And he despised that the world worked in such cruel ways.

"I have some things of yours. Picked em up at the office." Jones said. He shuffled out the orange-tan envelopes, curving them between his thumb and fingers to stiffen them. He slid them through the bars to Ludwig, who accepted them. "A letter from some Italian who saw your name in a newspaper. Some life insurance documents." he explained.

"Thank you."

"Laurinaitis. It's time. Let him out."

The guard stepped forward as ordered and started unlocking the door to his cell.

"What are you doing?"

"Saving your life." the pilot replied calmly.

"And why the hell would you do that!? Are you ill? Have you any idea what I've done?"

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth." Jones said.

"A Trojan must have told him that." the Brit muttered derisively, rolling his eyes.

"I already talked to that Russo who wardens this place. Everything is in order."

"I... I do not need this favor. I appreciate your benevolence, but you must understand, there is not anyone for me to go back to." Ludwig reasoned.

The door swung open.

Ludwig backed away from the bars. He did not want the loathsome guilt of survival added to the guilt he already endured. He understood what he deserved. He had endured a punishment worse than that of death. And still it was not enough. Be it he ended in Russia by how he wronged the Nazis or executed here by how he wronged the allies it did not matter.

"The choice isn't yours, Beilschmidt. I owe your brother a life. I ain't a saint doing this out of the kindness of my heart. But I do know what happened after the last war. If the world needs anything right now, it's forgiveness. And I want you to go out and make a difference. Rebuild your country. Yourself. Into something better than was there before."

Ludwig wasn't entirely sure what to say. He felt no massive pang of epiphany or debt. To his disappointment the only dry words that came to his mind were I suppose I have to suffer more.

"Honestly, I didn't like you much then. Back when you tried to have me, Ivan, and Matthew killed. But people change. Times change. Chances are given and mistakes are made. You could be the last survivor of some old, dying generation of ideas. Or the first young pioneer in a new, better, accepting era of greatness."

"My change was made before you came to me today." Ludwig said hollowly.

Laurinaitis had stopped fidgeting with his hands. He looked up at Jones. "Um, excuse me, the Pole named Feliks. You wouldn't happen to know his last name, would you?"

"What?" Jones snorted. "Got yourselves a hot date?"

"N-no I just wanted..."

"Do excuse him. I'm afraid I didn't catch his last name though. Alfred?" the Brit prompted.

"Nah, sorry. Heard it in passing, but..."

"Łukasiewicz." Ludwig said.

"Gesundheit!" Jones added happily.

Ludwig might have rolled his eyes at the American. But the ecstatic smile that shot across Laurinaitis's cheeks left him in a mildly better mood.

"I'll escort you out." Jones said. "Art, you comin' with?"

"No. I have business to attend to."

As he left Kirkland sent him a glare. A chilling glare that made him stop walking. A glare that very clearly told him he did not deserve to live.

Jones's level shoulder brushing his instructed him to continue out of the jail. To his surprise the sergeant walked at his side as they passed the inhabited cells.

"What'll you do?"

"I guess I'll go home to Berlin... what's left of it. Tie a few loose ends. Let my mother know I am still alive. See if anyone has eaten the dogs and Gilbird yet."

"Christ's sake! You never wrote her? Well don't bother visiting! Broad's probably died of a heart attack by now!"

He had stopped writing home after the war started, when he had ran out of pleasant things to say. He shook his head, not feeling particularly guilty. "Gil was worse with writing."

"Is where you lived more in western Berlin, or eastern Berlin?"

"I suppose more western. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing."

Ludwig realized that he would have to find a job. A place to stay. That he was one insignificant molecule in the floodtide of a million displaced veterans with nowhere that wanted them. There were so many problems to combat upon returning home he had not considered. Death had solved all of them.

The interior building gates passed overhead. His eyes adjusted to the sun they had not felt in so long. The courtyard expanded around them and they walked along a cement path and beyond the barbed wire fences he saw the color green. He observed the watchtowers on the perimeter of the grounds come into detail. A tall man stood in an olive American uniform inside the window. Perhaps it was merely the shadows that made the figure appear so dark. Ludwig did not intend to stare, for he quickly averted his gaze to avoid being impolite, but his staring must have been obvious. For even Jones the brick had noticed.

"Aww shucks!" the American exclaimed, his lips drawn in laughter. "You've never seen a nigger before!"

"Not outside Birth of a Nation." Ludwig admitted. He was surprised by that word. In some small way he had wished the American different from that.

"You've seen that movie?"

"Of course. Silent ones are especially easy to translate."

"You should see their tails." Jones said nonchalantly.

"Their whats?"

"Their tails! Don't tell me you didn't know black people had tails? They only come out at midnight. One time in Belgium they had to desegregate us and this guy was sleeping in the bunk next to me, his tail was hanging off the edge of the mattress. Coolest thing! Long and furry like a monkey's!"

"Certainly they do not have tails..."

"Of course they do!"

"Does the brown rub off? If you scrub at it roughly?"

"Sure does! Underneath that, they're purple!"

Ludwig realized late his ignorance was being made fun of. Jones chuckled as he walked while Ludwig watched the cement. Eventually the American halted before the final open gates of the prison and Ludwig stopped too. Expression maturing, the young pilot turned to face him. "This is where I gotta let you go. Viel Glück."

Good luck, he had said. Alfred tipped his hat and smiled, in a farewell Ludwig found strangely cowboyish, but he guessed gentlemen still did in his country. "Life is a gift, the most precious gift that any man can receive, but one that no one can keep forever. It's up to you to make the most of it."

Kirkland's gaze haunting him, his brother's gaze haunting him, Ludwig stepped through the prison threshold. The grasses rustled in the slow wind, and birds too young to remember the tremors of bombs laughed outside the gates. In his whole life he had never felt more alone.

"Ludwig!" she called, her speech pitched high in greeting. He saw her shift on a lichen speckled boulder. When she could see him clearly the voice slowed to veil a taunt. "It wasn't easy to track you down, you know."

"I'm sorry, Elizabeta."

"What do you have? Oh no... You had to bring that?" the Hungarian scolded.

"It is how he would have liked it." Ludwig defended plainly as he approached. But as he turned his head away from the woman, he closed his eyes and smirked. He lifted one of the six beers he had brought and with a subtle swing of his wrist set it on the earth next to the grave marker. How he would have liked it indeed.

A modest faded gray wooden cross sprouted alone from the moist spring earth. The area was secluded as it had been, surrounded by pine trees and flowered grass, everything sunken beneath the white faces of the Swiss-German alps. An iron cross was affixed on a chain, hanging like a necklace over the shoulders of the wood, likely something Elizabeta had fashioned. A rain rusted dagger lay on the ground in front of it. White Edelweiss flowers cluttered the surrounding earth in front of the simple grave, likely also plucked and arranged by the woman. A few colored ones he guessed were from Feliks. The grass was green and the snows had receded to the peaks of the mountains. The earth was dark with spring melt. Ludwig noted that the feminine colors of the flowers were properly accented by the powerful amber of the bottle he placed.

They were both looking healthsome. At least considering the current situations of their countries. Ludwig included. He was not at his antebellum weight yet.

Feliks was dressed sharply. A dark suit that fit immaculately on his shoulders, but seemed almost out of place on the goofy teenager he had known. Feliks looked different, his face angled with the maturity of a man in his early twenties, his long blond hair neatly combed and his face cleanshaven. But his eyes held the same optimistic sparkle.

Elizabeta was the one to organize the reunion, writing on the papers the only information she had: their full names and their home cities. Her letters ended up on a notice board with thousands of others, combed through by everyone missing a loved one, and passed along by those who knew a relative. The text asked them to return to this spot on this date. The vilage had not been easy for Ludwig to find.

Elizabeta attired herself in traditional Hungarian clothes. White frills spilled out from the bottom of her black dress and her sleeves. A dark mesh veiled her hair. Vibrant red and green flowers were meticulously embroidered on black fabric of the bodice with more care than any village clothesmaker. She had made it for this occasion. She was even wearing a small amount of cosmetic to accent her features.

"You look nice." Ludwig said, before he had thought about it.

"W-what?" the alarmed woman stammered.

"You look beautiful. Gilbert would have enjoyed it very much."

She smiled and looked down to hide her face from him. "Thank you, Ludwig."

He realized too late that he had caused the woman to silently start weeping. For a moment he did not know what to do. He never had to console anyone before. But he knew Gilbert would not tolerate her crying now, and in a rush decided he had to do something. And in a stiff, awkward, bearish, way he held her. He did not wipe away her tears.

"I'm sorry. It's just, seeing us three together... I know I didn't know him as long as you did. But I still miss him a lot, Ludwig."

"I too, Elizabeta. I thought of him every day in Russia. It is okay to cry."

She sniffled once, perhaps uncomfortable showing weakness in front of him, and the heaves of her back ceased. The red-faced woman silently produced a medium sized picnic basket woven from wicker. She distributed sandwiches to everyone.

"You are sure we shouldn't try to kill an innocent woodland creature instead? In his honor?" Ludwig suggested, perhaps hoping for a smile.

"I have a feeling he'd like this better. Lili Zwingli made us these."

"What did you eat in Russia? Dirt and ticks?" Feliks said turning his attention to the German. He had been watching Elizabeta protectively, but perhaps decided Ludwig had performed sufficiently.

"Things of similar nutritional value. Something that might have been turnips. Mysterious gray gruel. Horse meatballs."

"What? You ate ponies?"

"I hoped it was ponies."

Feliks's eyes widened to dinner plates and his lips gaped into a comically mad 'o'. "How was the rest of Mother Russia, Luddy?" Feliks chided.

"Well!" Ludwig exhaled. "It were as if an amused hateful demon was watching over me and preventing me from dying. Having a damn fine time watching me suffer. The insects in Russia want you dead. Do not get me started on the soldiers or the winter."

"Is it as bad as they say?"

"Six times as bad."

"I don't think you were supposed to survive." Feliks snickered.

"I was not..."

Ludwig realized he had delayed his contribution. He handed a beverage to Elizabeta and Feliks. He opened the one he left at the foot of the cross. Lastly he opened his and raised it subtly to the air. "To Gilbert."

The three raised their drinks and clinked the lips of the amber bottles together. "To Gil."

No call needed to be made for silence, but it was observed anyway. The birds and insects were no longer so loud, and the only sound was a single gust of wind that rustled the needled fronds of the trees above.

Elizabeta broke it with a forlorn laugh. She slowly examined the bottle in her hand. "Heh... I remember he got really drunk in front of me once."

"I remember once Gil was so drunk at a bar on leave in autumn '44, in favor of taking a Polish whore, he decided to tell me about an absurd woman he saw at work."

"Was he actually drunk?"

"No, not then."

"We dug out of camp. What was I thinking, to let him do something so overcomplicated? It wasn't a prison movie."

"He once protected Feliks, after he'd drawn Hitler's mustache on my face."

"Oops, I remember that digging was my idea."

"Come on, you deserved that one Luddy."

"You could have just politely voiced your complaints-"

"Oh nonsense Ludwig. Why, modeling yourself after a man who chose a toothbrush mustache as his virility symbol, I thought it was quite handsome!" Elizabeta cackled.

"Well..." Ludwig hesitated. "Perhaps looking back now, it was slightly funny. Not very."

At this admittance Feliks and Elizabeta burst out laughing.

"I remember when Gilbert used Mein Kampf as toilet paper!" Feliks squealed.

"On chapter two of all things." Ludwig muttered, the ghost of a smile curling about the corners of his lips. That was the one where Hitler was lost in Vienna. Ever the poet, Gil was.

A shrill trilling cut above the background waterlike trickle of birdsong. A small blur darted into their little sunlit space in the trees like the shadow of a leaf in autumn winds, landing on Gilbert's cross. A little bird with an ugly voice. It had chalky black feathers and yellow scales cladding its legs, like a miniature version of a symbol on a flag no one flew.

Ludwig threw a crumb of bread at it, willing it to fly away. This was not the place for it.

If he did not know better, he would have thought the doltish thing had rolled its eyes. But that was impossible, because birds' eyes were fixed in their sockets and only capable of looking in one direction at once without turning their heads. The featherball looked at the crumb from its perch, and then lifted its beak at Ludwig contemptuously, as if the animal deemed itself too noble to accept handouts.

Ludwig paced forward to shoo the scavenger away from the grave. Which it did. It darted away to cling to the pine bough above Elizabeta, and then flitted in a few noisy wingbeats down to the rock the woman sat upon.

It was playing a game it would lose. It had no idea the man it was antagonizing. Ludwig stalked towards the boulder, refusing to be beaten by a bird. As he approached the thing scooted closer to Elizabeta, covering the stony surface in a few short hops.

"Watch out: Ludwig Beilschmidt, scourge of songbirds." Feliks narrated.

"Shut up."

By the time Ludwig had looked back from Feliks's distraction the smug thing had its yellow talons curled around the heel of Elizabeta's thumb, perched on her raised hand. She was laughing, feeding it a shred of her sandwich with the other, which it gladly accepted.

"He likes meat." the woman observed.

"Why is he not afraid of you?"

"Because I'm not ugly and scary like you, dummy."

"It matters not to him that I'm 400 times its weight and you're 300 times its weight. We are both scary. He should be flying away." Ludwig said logically, sitting next to her, staring at the unbelievably stupid thing that had clamored up to her wrist.

"Here, give him some."

Ludwig held a sliver of meat towards the bird. It did not accept.

"Ohohoho! Got a bit of an attitude, do you?" Elizabeta crooned merrily, stroking her fingers behind its sleek head. The avian leaned into her touch and closed its eyes. Ludwig was accosted by a pang of something that might have been jealousy.

"Stupid, stupid bird. You're going to get caught by a predator with that tame attitude." Ludwig warned it.

Feliks could be heard in the background. "You're the genius talking to a bird."

Ludwig attempted again to offer the bird a meal. At this peaceful gesture the irrational thing sprung off the woman's wrist and glided away, claws held beneath it, this time glossing back to perch on Gilbert's cross.

"He's afraid of you. That's why."

"He is not afraid. He knows full well I won't hurt him. He's toying with me."

Ludwig followed it, kneeling slowly before the grave, careful not to disrupt the flowers. It waited patiently for him until he was only an arms length away to continue its game. The bird had bunched its legs to spring but it did not launch into the air. It shot forward, but like a dog on a leash halted and fell short. In its arrogance its claw had tangled in the iron cross necklace. It struggled for a few seconds in the grip of gravity before falling, suspended by the chain between the ground and the arm of the cross. It tried to right itself but to no avail. Exhausted, its thrashing ceased. It hung on the string, dangling uncomfortably upside down by one leg.

"That's what you get."

The bird did not answer.

Ludwig carefully lowered his hands underneath the cross. He gingerly freed the avian's ensnared foot from the noose of the tangled necklace, which he placed back on his brother's grave. He cupped the bird and stared down at it. It felt strangely hot and vulnerable enveloped in his huge hands, which were unused to cradling something so delicate as a life. It had a quick heartbeat like the pulsing of a flame. It was curled on its side, leathery legs folded in front of one thick palm, its ruffled wings pressed against the other. The feathers were soft like the cape of a moth against his calloused skin. Then it started to wriggle, peeking its narrow head through a gap in his fingers. Ludwig loosened them, and it climbed to sit on his wrist. The man stood slowly, as not to startle it, and raised his wrist to appraise the creature at eye level.

He knew it was stupid. But a part of him could not help but be hopeful.

Concealing it in his fist until it was directly in front of its head, Ludwig presented it with the food. After a moment of deliberation, the bird decided its rescuer worthy and admitted defeat to its little game. In a swift movement it snatched the meat from Ludwig's palm which it jerked above its throat and quickly scarfed down. Ludwig reached out to stroke its teardrop shaped head, which it allowed. His fingers ghosted with childlike reverence above the soft feathers between its wings, not daring to harm it. Then they made eye contact, it staring at him straightly as it perched on the blue veined upturned white of his wristbone. His eyes stared into the bird's unblinking perfect round obsidian spheres, reflecting the barest hint of burgundy in their black depths. For a long while he searched its gaze for instruction. But the surface was glass, and all it permitted him to see was himself.

The bird lowered its head in what almost appeared to be a bow, its long regal tail fanning out behind it, and displaying its glossy wings. But the sideways look it gave him whispered of jest despite the humility of its posture. He felt its weight shift. Understanding, Ludwig thrust his arm into the air. In a flutter of wings its talons unfurled. The black tips of its wings met on the downstroke, and raised powerfully upward. It circled once above them at the level of the treetops, its sharp head peering down between broad wings. Ludwig's nose lifted to the air to watch its black silhouette float into the away into the heavens beyond, free to determine its own destiny. And though he was without wings, he knew man was capable of the same.

FIN

A final author's note.

Flight of the Valkyrie was published on December 28, 2012. It was completed a year and a half later, on May 31, 2014. In print, it is 600 pages long.

January 27, 1945. Auschwitz is liberated by Soviet troops.

April 30, 1945. Adolf Hitler, faced with the treason of his closest consorts, commits suicide in his Berlin bunker after being surrounded by the Red Army.

May 7, 1945. The Nazi Party surrenders unconditionally to the Allies.

September 2, 1945. After the use of the Atomic Bombs, the Empire of Japan surrenders, ending combat in the Second World War.

.

This is the last chance I'll ever get to talk. So I shall say all that need be said.

Firstly, congratulations reader. You made it to the end of this. Thank you.

I'll start off with some commonly asked questions

Why did you choose for Gilbert to die?

As for I choosing Gilbert to die, but nobody else... Hetalia is an allegory. After WWII, the name of a certain German province is no longer on the map. Seeing the heart of German militarism as a start of two world wars, the allies sought to eradicate it. But it was the actions of the Nazis that produced the final shove to Prussia's demise. There are those who would interpret Prussia's end as East Germany being reunified, but I do not see it this way. There are plenty of German states that consisted of East Germany, but none of them East Prussia, located many kilometers away. There are references to his death in chapters 16, 33, and 38. I knew from the start Gilbert would not be making it out of my story alive.

Are you a Neo-Nazi?

No. There is nothing more disgusting. I am interested in the ideologies from a historical standpoint, but anyone who embraces them is a fool.

I want to clear up any sort of confusion on the matter of Nazism and SS. Perhaps if you are young, your history teacher will mention SS in class, and you will think of this and feel a pang of sympathy. At the risk of clumsy writing I constantly tried to point out that Gilbert did not consider himself one anymore and was basically just wearing their clothes. At many points Ludwig is even too accepting. The SS were the worst they came. I made sure it was them that killed Gilbert.

Characterization

Although suffering its share of victimization, the German state of East Prussia was as much indoctrinated into Nazi ideals as the rest of Germany. East Prussia was not good while Germany was evil. The point of difference in the two brothers' beliefs is not to depict the differences between the two lands, but to show that not everyone liked Nazism. There were those people who supported it, and those who didn't. It is to depict that no one is purely evil, their actions are a desire to fulfill what each party thinks is the best way to achieve what is right. It is these perceptions of what is good, and how to achieve it, that differs throughout humanity. No child grows up wanting to be the bad guy.

In Hetalia writing for a historic time, a writer must choose in every situation whether to craft a character's reaction based on their cannon personality written by Himaruya, or on the actions of their country at the time. I had a particularly difficult time doing this with Feliks and there are still things I would change with him, since anti-semitism and Nazi sympathies were strong in Poland as well as resistance. Secondly, considering the personalities of Gilbert and Ludwig, it would have been much easier to make Gilbert the sadistic Nazi and Ludwig the sane one. I've seen this done before in fanfiction, but I never really liked it because in a historic sense the East Prussian federal state had much less to do with the rise of Nazism than greater Germany did. I thought it unfair to sire so much blame to the small region when more of what the Nazis did fell under the actions of the whole of centralized Germany.

Interpretation

Usually I wouldn't point this out, but I know some of us fanfiction goers are not looking deep into the meanings of fan writings as that annoying English teacher might have asked you to do. (Class, what was the significance of the blue color of the curtains in this scene? To portray the sad mood of the protagonist, of course! Well, not really. The curtains were just blue.) Rather than leave you unsatisfied, I'll say this.

The story's title is primarily in reference to the dream in chapter 16 Gilbert has. Elizabeta was the one who came up with the idea of traveling to Switzerland and Gilbert's primary realization for starting life over, leading to him making the ultimate sacrifice to achieve what he wanted. Throughout this there is the theme of grayness between the safe black and whites. Gilbert considers himself fairly religious. Where as to Ludwig, God is merely a syllable to shout when he is angry. The third aspect of mythology is the wild card, ignoring either extreme black or white of the spectrum. Also, although not especially reinforced or intended, connections could be drawn to the 1944 Valkyrie assassination plot on Hitler; and Richard Wagner. The rest I'll leave unmarred with my commentary.

Inaccuracies

As with every historical piece there are inconsistencies. I am aware of several of mine, which exist either because I learned of them while the story was ongoing, or omitted them for plot purposes. Personally I think they are relatively minor and take away from the fun of the plot, but I did compile a short list. If you're interested, send me a PM anytime asking and I'll happily copy and paste you it. If you just mention wanting to see the list in a review I probably won't send it unless I find another reason to reply.

What I'd do different

I originally planned for this fic to be much shorter than it originally was, only reaching about 18 chapters. So it made sense for the romance between Gilbert and Elizabeta to flower as quickly as it did. If I did this over I'd have it continue to develop into the action based hemisphere of the plot. But ultimately, romance is not the focus of the story, so I don't find it terrible. There are parts of FotV I'm proud of and parts of it I'm not, I feel in the beginning in places I succumbed to teenaged fanfiction writer pitfalls, as well as bent common sense to prevent characters from killing each other. There's some parts I aim to rewrite and many in the last months I already have.

There are a few people I would like to extend my thanks to

For translating the Italian of the Vargas brothers in chapters 35 and 36, I thank ElizabethScaffie. The creative spins you put on Lovino's language had me in stitches. For the French used by Matthew and Ludwig in chapter 38, I thank Blogman66. I also thank the reviewers here and there that pointed incorrect things out in other places. Most of you were guests so I couldn't address you personally, so I throw you my blanket thanks now.

KthePrussian, you were a guest and I could never write you back. But since the beginning you always wrote me these fantastic giant reviews every chapter and I couldn't even thank you properly. They were great and I do that now. Fandomfan46, your reviews were frequent, glowing, and always brightened my day (and weeks c;) FlamingHelmet, the proximity of this fanfiction in its early chapters to the tale of your great-grandparents is incredible. Their journey is an epic that makes me proud to be a member of the human race. I can't help but laugh at the stroke of fate that caused you to stumble upon this story late one night. LoveToTheCucumber, I doubt you'll ever get to reading this note before we're both 40 years old and ruling the world. But I dedicate Mathias's appearance in this to you. Your ultra-detailed line-by-line critiques had me asking myself what you would say every time I proofread something. It was wonderfully generous of you to spend your time that way, and I learned very much about my writing I would not have on my own.

As for some trivial author-centric information

If anyone wants to draw any fanart or the like, that is absolutely encouraged. I'd be thrilled to see what you do, and will post a link to what you make under the story on my profile so others can see it too.

As for the future, I have a few hetalia plot ideas, but I don't know exactly what I'll do concerning fanfiction. As saccharin as it sounds, I've learned from writing this. I think I've accomplished what I wanted to, whatever it was.

For any friendly internet archaeologists stumbling upon this years from now, I'd love to hear your thoughts. This account is hooked up to my main email, and if you write me a few paragraphs I'll write back. And if not, I can be satisfied in knowing that perhaps I educated someone in this world we share a bit. Even if I'm embarrassed of this story by now. An older wiser me will read whatever you have to say.

It's been a fun journey. I'm not sure why I feel sad while I reread this parting note but I do. I wish you well and here I say my goodbye. Alas, until I see you again.

CelticFeather.