A!A has been working on a fic that fits this prompt for, like, more than a year. (It even includes reference to GDR!Prussia, though he doesn't show up in the story itself.) Just checking that you'd be okay with some strong language and physical violence and references to historical violence?
OP is absolutely okay with all of this. I'd love to get a look at it ! Do you have it posted elsewhere already ? Is it still unpublished ? Anyway, thank you very much, kind anon !
Still unpublished, never been posted anywhere. It is on the longer side (right now, about 10,000 words, and it's only about 60 percent completed), so if you don't mind a slow but steady updating schedule, A!A will start posting it shortly.
[A!A from above, with a brief note: This story is a concerted effort to write about a historical moment that I find deeply meaningful. I have done my best to be even-handed about history and the telling thereof, drawing from the memoirs, biographies, and history texts I have consulted on the Ostpolitik years and the Cold War in general.
WARNING for eventual strong language, physical violence, and references to historical violence.]
Warsaw, People's Republic of Poland 6 December 1970
As a rule, Germany did not drink at diplomatic receptions. When he was on his own, he might have a few beers with America and England, try some of the wine that Italy poured with his usual happy abandon, even sample a few sips of the sake that Japan served in such small and delicate cups, but when he was with his boss and acting in any sort of official capacity not a drop of alcohol passed his lips. Diplomacy required a clear head and a steady hand at the best of times, and on this occasion there was far too much at stake to run the risk of jeopardizing either faculty.
Twenty years ago, it would have been impossible. Ten years ago, it would have been unthinkable. And yet only a few months ago, he had been in Moscow watching his boss and Russia's boss (or one of Russia's bosses, at any rate) sign a treaty that committed both of them to recognising and accepting the current state of affairs in Europe. Tomorrow morning, his boss and Poland's boss would sign a treaty to formally recognise Poland's western border, along the line established at the end of the war. And honouring that border, in turn, would be the first step towards...something that he found more difficult to contemplate than signing treaties of friendship and cooperation with either of his old enemies.
Thinking the unthinkable, making the impossible possible -- all in the name of Ostpolitik.
Ostpolitik, Ostpolitik...always at the back of his mind, repeating itself until the word threatened to dissolve into nonsense syllables. A simple enough term for the complicated process of picking apart the polite fiction that most of Europe, himself included, had been maintaining since the end of the war. It was difficult to have the cold spotlight of international attention on him yet again, but his boss insisted that it would be a small price to pay to make things better for Germany's people -- all of them, regardless of the borders involved -- and for the people of Europe as a whole. So the new Eastern policy had to go forward.
They had arrived in Warsaw in late afternoon, stepping down from the airplane into a murky December twilight lit only by a few half-hearted searchlights and the occasional flares of photographers' flashbulbs. Germany's gaze had been drawn to the flagpoles at the far end of the airfield, where the bright colours of his and Poland's flags provided a welcome relief from the greyish sea of expectant faces and television cameras waiting to meet them. The national anthems, his and Poland's, provided a further welcoming touch of pomp and circumstance, as did the brisk martial tune that the bandsmen played as row upon row of Polish soldiers paraded smartly before them. But none of it could diminish the constant, skin-crawling feeling of hundreds of pairs of eyes on him and his boss, watching them with curiosity and suspicion and perhaps even a little fear, until --
'Welcome to the shiny happy People's Republic of Poland, where we, like, make all your fraternal socialist fantasies come true.'
Jolted out of his thoughts, Germany turned to see Poland standing next to him, glass of vodka in hand and smiling a small polite smile that failed to reach his eyes. It was the same smile he had worn a few hours before, when they had given each other the most perfunctory of greetings on the damp airport tarmac -- little more than nods of acknowledgement, the bare minimum of diplomatic recognition. Now that they were surrounded by dozens of chattering people in a brightly-lit reception hall, it was easier to engage in something closer to a normal conversation. Or rather, Germany thought, it would be easier if Poland would only drop that unnecessarily polite smile.
'Thank you, Poland,' he said, trying to put a friendly tone in his voice. 'It's good to see you looking well.'
'Should I not be looking well?' Poland's smile stayed firmly in place. 'Anyway, can I, like, get you a drink or something?'
'No, thank you,' Germany demurred. 'I may have something with dinner, but nothing right now.'
Poland glanced down at his own mostly empty glass. 'Dunno how anyone gets through these things without one, but whatever.' He shrugged, then said, 'You said hello to Russia yet?'
With effort, Germany prevented himself from looking around the room. 'He is here?'
The look that Poland gave him was wordlessly eloquent: Duh, he's always here. 'I haven't seen him so far this evening,' he said aloud, casually, 'but I'm sure he'll find you if he wants to chat.'
'No doubt he will.' It was difficult to know whether to interpret the remark as a threat or a warning. Germany chose to place it somewhere between the two. 'I know he considers our treaty to be important to him as well.'
'And that's totally why I'm ready to sign whatever it takes to get this over with and get both of you off my back,' Poland said sweetly, so sweetly that it took Germany a full second to hear the snarl beneath it. Without missing a beat, he continued, 'They've put all of you up over at Wilanów, right?'
'Y...Yes, that's right. At Wilanów Palace.' He was grateful for the chance to talk about a safer subject. 'I have heard that it is quite beautiful, especially now that it has become a museum. I look forward to seeing it.'
'Yeah, well, nothing but the best for our guests, and all that. Oh, hey, before I forget -- ' Vodka sloshed against the sides of Poland's glass as he switched it to his left hand. 'Did you drop this? It was on the floor just now.' He held up a small folded slip of paper that Germany had never seen before.
'No, I -- ' Germany began, but stopped when he saw how Poland was looking at him. He made a show of patting his own pockets, and then frowned as if to cover embarrassment. 'Why...yes, I did. Thank you -- I might never have known it was missing.'
'You really ought to keep a closer eye on your stuff, y'know,' Poland said, chidingly, as he held out the paper. 'I'm still cleaning things up from the last time you stopped by.'
Germany's jaw tightened, and the paper crumpled as he closed his fist around it. 'I will endeavour to do so,' he said stiffly.
Satisfied, Poland nodded, and swirled the remaining liquor in his glass. 'Anyway, I'm off to go top up before dinner. We're starting with flaczki, so I hope you like tripe.' He flashed a wholly insincere grin. 'Catch you later, okay?'
As Poland turned to one side to slip between him and a small knot of Polish officials who already looked rather the worse for drink, Germany heard the barest hiss of breath --
'After dinner. Make some excuse.'
-- and then he was gone, sailing away before Germany could reply.
I think this fic is going to be good! The start promises depth and exploration of issues/character/etc., and if it continues this way it'll deliver. Thanks for posting A!A! Looking forward to the rest of this.
Oh my god ! I can /feel/ how awesome this fill is going to be ! Thank you so much ! You sliped clues about Germany's relationship with Willy Brandt is, and I can't wait to see them interacting. Also, your Poland is perfection. Please keep on writing, it's very good !
[Many thanks for all the kind comments so far! Much of this story is based on memoirs and articles from the actual trip, so there's still a bit more scene-setting in this part before the story really kicks off. The next part will have a lot more fun and games, so to speak...but for now, on with the fill!]
As disconcerted as the conversation had left him, Germany had more sense than to look at the paper in his hand straightaway. Instead, he kept his hand closed and walked over to the far side of the hall, ostensibly to examine one of the works of art displayed on the wall. Once he was in front of a convenient painting with his back to the crowded room, he opened his hand and bent his head just enough to look down at the paper.
He did not want to be so obvious as to take out his glasses, which meant that he had to squint in order to read the message. Thankfully, the writing was small but legible. Poland had even taken the trouble to write in carefully printed German instead of his usual untidy script, though Germany suspected that he had done so less for ease of reading and more to disguise his handwriting.
The Zamek, the note read. You know where it is. Look for the giant gaping hole in the ground.
Germany lifted his head, staring at the painting in front of him without really seeing it, and let his hand crumple the slip of paper into a tiny ball. He would have to shred it or burn it at the first opportunity, but for now he had to think.
The reception appeared to be going smoothly. From what he could tell, Poland's people seemed to be doing their best to make his boss feel welcome. Soon they would all go in to dinner, the usual multiple-course affair, and unless Germany was greatly mistaken it would involve dishes with heavy cream sauces and as much alcohol as anyone cared to drink. Additional lubrication for the wheels of diplomacy, of course, but the thought of so much rich food made him feel a little unwell. Yet perhaps that thought could be turned to his advantage: he could easily plead a bout of indigestion once the final courses were cleared from the table, then slip away without anyone being the wiser. Even if he went on foot and took particular care to avoid being seen leaving or arriving, it would not take him long to reach their rendezvous point in the centre of Warsaw. And since the programme for tomorrow had been settled weeks before -- wreath-laying ceremonies in the morning, followed by the treaty signing, followed by the usual high-level discussions and a much larger formal dinner -- no one would be likely to need him or expect to see him until breakfast.
There was movement on the edges of the room; people seemed to be wandering in the direction of the adjacent reception room where the dinner was to be held.
He would be taking a risk, of course. There was always the chance that he would be delivering himself into some sort of trap. Which was all the more reason for him to go alone and without a word to anyone; there was no point in dragging his boss or the Foreign Minister into it, not when they already had enough on their minds. In the best case, he would be back without incident. In the worst case -- well, there were more than enough outcomes between the best and worst cases, and speculating on any of them would be a pointless exercise.
Whatever happened would happen. For now, Germany would join the rest of his delegation, sit down to dinner, eat and drink and make conversation as needed. And perhaps just this once, he would accept the wine poured for him instead of leaving it mostly untouched.
Diplomacy required a clear head and a steady hand...but a private meeting with Poland would require a small glass of something well in advance.
Poland had been exaggerating when he referred to the Zamek as a giant gaping hole in the ground, but to Germany's eyes the reality was not much better. All that remained of the Zamek -- the Royal Castle, once an imposing edifice that had been the official residence of Poland's monarchs in the days of his Commonwealth with Lithuania -- was a fenced-off expanse of land dotted with the charred remnants of the old structure. Two large fragments of fire-blackened brick indicated the approximate locations of part of the castle's walls, and it was possible to see that the foundation and cellars were mostly intact, but otherwise it was a bleak, barricaded ground, long since picked over for anything remotely salvageable.
Over dinner, he had heard some of the Polish officials mention that there were plans to rebuild it, but he also knew that the amount of money required to restore the castle to anything close to its pre-war glory would be difficult to find. And it wasn't as if Poland or his people had much pocket change to spare these days.
A raw wind from the Vistula gusted across the ruins and the open castle square, whipping at his coat and making him wish that he had thought to wear a hat. For a clandestine late-night meeting, the location was dreadfully exposed, but he knew quite well why Poland had arranged to meet him here. Any experienced soldier understood the importance of claiming the high ground in preparation for a potential conflict, and Poland could not have chosen a site with a greater psychological high ground for his purposes. His centuries-old seat of power in the very heart of his capital, destroyed by Germany's people -- Germany could feel the weight of his own disadvantage just by his proximity to it, like a leaden cloak settling on his shoulders. It did nothing to improve his mood, but there was little he could do except remain calm and try not to dwell on it.
His ears pricked up at the sound of footsteps behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Poland rounding the corner and starting to cross the square.
Unlike Germany, Poland did not seem to be taking many precautions in his arrival. His pace was almost deliberately unhurried, as if it was only natural for him to be out for a leisurely stroll in the dead of night on a freezing Warsaw street. (It was possible that it was, of course; even after so many years Germany had never quite been able to figure out what Poland considered 'natural'.) He was bare-headed as well, but the collar of his overcoat was turned up against the cold and his hands were stuffed deep in his pockets. As he came closer, Germany could hear him whistling something tuneless through his teeth.
Germany turned back to face the castle ruins, clasping his hands behind him in something akin to parade rest. He listened as Poland's footsteps, still unhurried, grew louder, until out of the corner of his eye he saw Poland come to a stop at his side.
For a long moment they both gazed out across the ruins like two tourists feigning interest in something quaint and historical. Germany wondered if he ought to be the one to speak first, but before he could come up with a suitable greeting he heard Poland let out a quiet breath, not loud enough to be a sigh.
'Okay, so, here's the deal,' Poland said, his voice low and flat. 'I figure I've got maybe, like, a whole fifteen minutes before someone comes looking for me, and by someone I mean Russia, so I'll make this quick. What the hell do you think you're doing here?'
[Very happy to have moved over to DW to keep this fill going -- and this part, I hope, will not disappoint. Here's where the warning for language and references to historical violence begins in earnest, all. Thank you for your kind comments, and on with the fill!]
It was the question that Germany had been expecting, and he had a safe, sensible answer prepared. 'It's part of a new policy to establish more normal relations for all of us.'
'Riiiiight.' Poland managed to cram a surprising amount of sarcasm into a single word. 'And you're the one who gets to define "normal", is that it?'
'The treaty that Russia and I agreed upon a few months ago stated that "normal" refers to the development of peaceful relations based on the current situation,' Germany said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. It was best to stick with the facts as they were.
'And you can't imagine how, y'know, super thrilled I was to hear about it.' Poland glanced over at him, a bitter smile on his lips. 'But at least one of your bosses has some new ideas -- usually you'd go through me first to get to Russia, not the other way around. Gotta give him credit for that.'
Germany could feel a pulse start to beat in his temple, though he refused to rise to the bait. 'Please don't make this difficult, Poland.'
'Hey, I'm not the one who thinks he can just waltz in here and make everyone play nice again.' Poland waved one hand airily, as if conducting the waltz in question. 'When I said I had fifteen minutes, dude, I wasn't kidding -- Russia will be pissed beyond belief if he thinks I'm negotiating stuff with you behind his back, and you're not the one who'll have to deal with it.'
'What do you want me to say?' Germany hadn't intended to sound quite as plaintive as he did, but at this point his dignity was among the least of his concerns. 'What do I have to say or do to convince you that I want to make this work? You know that we can't continue as we have been.'
'Convince me?' Poland's mouth twisted around the word. 'Oh, please. You can go ahead and sincere-face at me all you want, but I'm just saying, the last time you and Russia got all cuddly didn't exactly end with me getting a new pony for Christmas.'
'Which is why I am here now,' Germany said, exasperated. He was fast running out of safe arguments, not to mention the patience to continue making them. 'This treaty is with your people, not with Russia's. It deals with your borders, not his. And he and I are hardly "cuddly", as you put it.' His expression hardened, settling into stony indifference. 'It is rather difficult to cuddle with someone who still has one hand on the knife that he has driven into your chest.'
Poland appeared to be on the point of saying something cutting, but at Germany's last words he closed his mouth, biting back the waiting retort.
'All right, look,' he said, more evenly. He waited until Germany met his gaze before he continued. 'As weird as it sounds, I seriously didn't call you out here to pick a fight.'
Germany's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. 'Forgive me if I appear surprised by this confession.'
'Come on, man, chill out.' Poland's mouth twisted again, as if he was attempting to grin but had suddenly forgotten how to do so. 'Lighten up a little. Like I said before, you don't have to worry. I'll sign whatever it takes to get this over with.'
'"And get both of you off my back"?' Germany said, in a passable imitation of Poland's earlier acid-sweet tone. Anger was starting to build under his sternum, the sharp and insistent pain digging into him like an actual knife lodged between his ribs. 'In case you haven't noticed, you are by no means the only one under pressure here.'
The pseudo-grin vanished as Poland's eyes narrowed. 'Don't start with me, all right?' he said. 'It's not like I'm ungrateful or anything, but let's just say I'm not the only one who thinks it's a damn sight easier to get through the day to day when both of you just, y'know, ignore us.'
'Is that what you think I've been doing? Ignoring you?' It was Germany's turn to wave his hands in the air, a frustrated gesticulation that owed more to Italy's influence than he would have liked to admit. 'For God's sake, this is the first time in twenty years that I've been able to so much as look in your general direction without half the world breathing down my neck and the other half reaching for the nearest weapon! Do you honestly think I would come all this way just to make things more difficult for everyone involved?'
Poland couldn't seem to stop himself from darting a glance around the square. 'Could you maybe, like, say that a little louder? 'Cause I don't think the other half of Warsaw heard you just now.'
'They can hear me in Moscow for all I care!' And he meant it. Dealing with Russia had been a thousand times easier than this by far -- and that was a truly frightening thought. 'I say it again: you are not the only one under pressure here. You would not believe what my boss has gone through to even get us this far.'
'You seem to be pinning a lot of hopes on this boss of yours,' Poland sneered, with a flicker of emphasis on the most distasteful word. 'Huh. I thought you'd be so over that by now.'
'He has a lot less blood on his hands than either you or I do,' Germany muttered darkly.
Poland stiffened. '...you did not just say that.'
'And what if I did?' He was venturing onto dangerous ground, but for the first time in a long while Germany felt no shame in coming to his boss's defence. 'I accept that you have every reason to distrust me, even to despise me, but you have no right to make him the scapegoat.'
'Listen, you bastard,' Poland snapped, with a rising edge to his voice that had not been there before. 'Let's get one thing straight: You do not get to tell me what I have the right to do. You lost that privilege, like, a long fucking time ago. And right now I've got about as much reason to trust him as I do to trust you, which isn't saying a hell of a lot for either of you.'
'He will keep his word,' Germany snapped back. 'You will have your treaty. And then we can all continue to pretend that I have any control over that precious western border of yours, and you and your bosses will finally be free to follow the example of your comrades to the west and start selling my own people back to me.'
All the colour drained out of Poland's face. 'Shut your filthy mouth,' he hissed. 'Don't you even dare compare me to your -- '
The words burst out before Germany fully knew what he was saying, an explosion violent enough to startle both of them into silence. It was a shameful tactic, truly the coward's way out, but he could not bear to hear Poland speak the name that would throw twenty years of his own lies back in his face. Breathing heavily, suddenly too warm even in his light overcoat, he marshalled enough willpower to keep his voice level as he continued, pushing past his own outburst.
'I assure you, family reunions turn a very tidy profit for them these days.' Every word was stretched as thin and taut as trip-wire. 'Would you care to see the figures? With so many Germans on your lands still, you would have no shortage of material to trade with me. And political prisoners are an even better investment -- the going rate is forty thousand marks a head, and that is only a starting price for your negotiations.' Poland's eyes flashed fire, but Germany was relentless, a final twist of the knife to match the one twisting deep in his heart. 'Do you think your own bosses haven't considered it? Or done more than consider it?'
It was too much. It was not enough. It didn't matter, because Poland was visibly shaking now, almost beside himself with rage. When he finally managed to speak, it sounded as if he was straining to form the words -- or stop them from turning into one long scream.
'First of all? Fuck you.' Abruptly, he swept his coat to one side and rummaged in his trouser pockets. 'Second of all, I seriously do not need to deal with your shit right now, all right?' He pulled out a crumpled cardboard packet and slapped it against the palm of his hand, producing a single dark-tipped cigarette. 'You wanna know what I want from you? Fine. I'll put it in words that maybe even you can understand.' He held up the cigarette and jabbed it at Germany, each short, violent gesture acting as punctuation. 'What I want is for you to sign what you came here to sign, finish patting yourself on the back, and be on the next goddamn plane out of here so you can go back to leaving me the hell alone.'
Germany frowned. Not at Poland's words or actions, but at the cigarette in his hand. 'Since when do you smoke?'
'Since when the fuck do you care?' Poland spat, with such ferocity that flecks of saliva flew from his mouth and hit Germany full in the face.
Germany made a disgusted noise and took a half-step back, raising a hand to wipe away the spit that had landed in his eyes. As he scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand, he heard a sharp intake of breath -- followed by a soft clattering sound from somewhere near his feet.
Blinking, he looked down, and saw the cardboard cigarette packet lying on the wet pavement, rapidly soaking up the grimy, oil-slick water of the shallow puddle it had fallen into. A single cigarette lay next to it. As his gaze travelled up he saw that Poland's fingers were slack and empty, and then --
Germany froze.
Poland was standing impossibly still. His shoulders were squared and his head was tilted at an odd angle, chin slightly lifted and not quite turned to one side. Everything about his posture shouted loathing and defiance, go ahead I dare you and what the hell are you waiting for and a thousand other taunts, but his half-closed eyes spoke in a miserable whisper: just do it and get it over with already.
Something in the pit of Germany's stomach gave a violent lurch. The hand that he had been using to wipe Poland's spit from his face flew to cover his nose and mouth, attempting to hold back the burning nausea rising in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and instantly regretted it, for the burning feeling was behind his eyelids as well and there was no escaping from it, no way to will it away.
(Warsaw must be pacified, came the order, and that was an end of it. It wasn't until the first explosion rocked the ground beneath his feet that he began to wonder what on earth he was doing, at what point someone had placed a detonator switch in his hand, how long he had been trying to speak or shout or sob with a mouth filled with cinders and ash. But then came the second explosion, and he stopped wondering, and the whole world turned to cinders and ash as Warsaw was pacified beyond all recognition.)
Every breath was a battle, forcing air into and out of his lungs, but breathing was the one thing he could focus on to keep the nausea at bay. Only when he was certain that the worst of it had passed did he let his shaking hand fall to his side, and finally open his eyes.
Poland was staring hard at him, his face tight and wary. It was evident that he had expected Germany to wheel round and backhand him across the face without a second thought, and now that the expected blow had not come he was at a loss for what to think or do. Gradually, the wariness faded into a sullen sort of embarrassment, and he looked away.
'S'rry,' he mumbled, almost inaudible.
Germany blenched. The sight of Poland's downcast face was distressing enough without the thought that he felt that some sort of apology was in order.
'I...I can get you another pack, if you want,' he said, gesturing lamely to the sodden lump of cardboard at Poland's feet. His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears.
Poland's shoulders twitched, a hint of a shrug. 'Eh, 's fine.' With the toe of his shoe, he nudged the cigarette packet further into the puddle. 'Russian tobacco's totally shit, anyway.'
[Thank you all for reading! This next part draws on a bit of history that is still rather contentious today: the role of outside broadcasting in the outcome of the failed 1956 Hungarian revolution. Full notes will be at the end of this fill, but until then, here's a period document with some more information on the broadcasting: http://www.gwu.edu/~nsarchiv/NSAEBB/NSAEBB76/doc10.pdf]
The last remnants of Germany's anger suddenly found a far more deserving target.
'This is what Russia wants,' he said slowly, thinking aloud. 'Nothing would make him happier than for us to sign the treaty and still continue to believe the worst of each other.' And nothing, he knew, would be worse for both of them than to give Russia that satisfaction. If he could not find some common ground with Poland, he would have no hope of finding any common ground with...with their mutual neighbour. He could no longer afford to cling to the old belief that Russia was the only obstacle standing in the way of making his people whole again: too much had changed in twenty years. 'I know that you have no reason to trust my intentions, but if we are to have any hope of making this work then we must start somewhere. So please, Poland...please tell me what you need from me, no matter how large or small. I cannot do anything unless I have some idea of where to begin.'
Poland said nothing at first, and Germany's heart sank. But then he licked his lips, his mouth working as if he were trying to sort out the right words, and he said:
'You remember that kerchief that Hungary used to wear?'
Of all the things Germany had expected to hear, it certainly had not been that. 'Wh...what?'
'Hungary. Kerchief. Jeez, do you need visuals?' Poland raised both hands to his head, miming the process of tying something over his hair. 'Ring a bell?'
'Yes, I know what a kerchief is, but I don't -- '
'Just hear me out,' Poland said, suddenly serious, and Germany let his protest drop. 'Hungary used to wear a kerchief -- a very specific one, always the same one -- whenever she visited any of us. Never left her house without it. Do you remember it?'
'Vaguely.' He dredged the corners of his memory, trying to picture it. He seldom paid attention to that sort of thing, and the last time he had seen or spoken to Hungary for any length of time neither of them had been looking their best, but surely he could remember something as simple as that. 'It was...white?'
'Eggshell, actually, but it's not like you'd know the difference.' Poland's expression softened, and for a fleeting moment he looked more like the easygoing, obnoxiously cheerful neighbour that Germany remembered from the years before the war. 'I must've told her, like, a thousand times, "Hungary, sweetheart, you know I adore the china-doll look on you, but neutrals do nothing for your skin tone", but she always said how it had been a Christmas gift from Austria ages ago and I had to try really, really hard not to say something, like, if Austria were in charge of our fashion choices we'd all still be wearing something totally godawful like lacy neck ruffles, and the only one I knew who could ever pull off the lacy neck ruffle look was Lie....' He trailed off, and the serious look closed over his face again like a blind being drawn across a lighted room.
'You were saying something about Hungary's kerchief?' Germany ventured tentatively.
'Yeah.' Once again, Poland kicked at the sodden cigarette packet. 'She doesn't wear it anymore. Y'know why? Because our dear comrade Russia sent it to America, after...well, you know.' No further explanation was needed; it had been a mere fifteen years ago, after all, and the sight of smoke rising against a steel-grey November sky as the tanks rolled into Budapest had been visible all over Europe. 'After it was all over.'
'He did what?' said Germany, convinced that he'd misheard. 'He sent it...to America?'
'With, like, wrapping paper and a huge fuck-off bow on top and everything.' Poland shook his head again, this time in mute outrage. 'The sadistic bastard didn't even wash off the blood -- he just made Ukraine wrap it up and send it off. With a note.'
Germany tried to imagine opening a wrapped box to find such a gift, and swallowed a wave of revulsion. 'A note?'
'I didn't see it, but I know what it said. He had Lie...Lithuania write it in English, so America wouldn't, y'know, have to find someone to translate it for him.' Poland spoke through clenched teeth. 'It said, Careless talk costs lives.'
'Careless talk,' Germany repeated, confused. And then comprehension dawned, and with it came a horrified understanding. 'Careless talk -- oh, God, not the radio broadcasts -- '
But Poland wasn't looking at Germany anymore. He had his hands in his pockets again, and his gaze travelled across the ruins of the Zamek, his expression unreadable. His silence was as good as confirmation.
'I heard there was, like, a total shitstorm when the package arrived,' he said, after a long moment. 'America 'n' England 'n' France all screaming at each other, all blaming each other for the whole thing. Must've been pretty epic.'
Germany nodded grimly, even though Poland wasn't looking at him. 'I...was not present when it happened, but I heard about it afterward.' If his suspicions were correct, then France had shown up at his place later that same evening -- reeling drunk and swearing loudly enough to send his dogs barking -- and the two of them had spent the rest of the night in Germany's bathroom while France alternately vomited and continued to curse la perfide Angleterre. 'It was definitely a "shitstorm", as you put it. England got the worst of it, I think.'
Poland wrinkled his nose. 'Like that's a surprise.'
'If that note was meant for America....' The more he thought about it, the more the events of that awful evening made sense in a way that they had not at the time. It was even more painful to think of the part he had unwittingly played in the whole affair; many of those radio broadcasts to Hungary's people had been made from stations on German soil. 'That would explain why America kept shouting about England's boss and "that fucking canal", and how if it hadn't been for "that fucking canal" he might've been able to do something more to help Hungary.' He paused, then added cautiously, 'At least, that's what I was told that America said.'
'"That fucking canal", huh?' Poland exhaled, sending a billowing cloud of steam rising into the night. 'Typical America for you -- it's always something totally out of his control that screws everything up for him, isn't it? Never really his fault, is it?' He cast a sidelong glance at Germany. 'Let me tell you how I heard it. The way I heard it, Mr Bigshot Hero got a little too cocky and made a bunch of promises he couldn't keep.'
'I...may have heard something like that as well,' Germany said. Admittedly, he had heard it once France had run out of filthy things to call England, which had taken the better part of two hours.
'Something like that. Yeah.' Poland chuckled, a sour and ugly sound. 'Funny thing, radio broadcasts. You'd be surprised who's able to hear them these days. Especially when they're from someone who says not to give up hope, tells you to keep fighting, promises that they'll back you up, and then -- '
He turned on his heel, looking Germany full in the face, and it was all that Germany could do not to recoil from the hurt and betrayal in his eyes, as raw and open as a festering sore.
'I don't want any more careless talk,' Poland said fiercely. 'Not from America, or you, or anyone else. 'Cause one of these days -- and for all I know it could be, like, tomorrow morning -- I won't be able to smile and nod at Russia anymore.' A grin lit up his face with unholy mirth. 'And when that happens you'd all better put up or shut up, because otherwise I might just decide that since I obviously won't have all that much to lose, it might be fun to see if I can take this whole fucking thing down with me.'
Germany swallowed again as the nausea threatened to return in full force. He made himself wait until he was certain that his voice would be steady before he replied.
'I hope it will never come to that.' He put every ounce of sincerity he could muster behind his words, hoping that quiet assurance would be the best response to a statement that sounded alarmingly close to a prospective suicide note. 'There is only so much that I can do, Poland, and right now I cannot promise anything beyond what is written in the treaty. But my boss and I will do what we can to keep the promises that we make.'
As promises went it, was hardly ambitious. Yet it seemed to suffice, because Poland's half-mad grin flickered and faded into a worn, cynical smirk.
'Yeah, I thought you'd say that,' he said. 'Guess that's about as good as it's going to -- ' His eyes suddenly went wide and white, staring at something over Germany's shoulder. 'Oh, shit.'
'Poland?' Germany started to turn, following his line of sight. 'What is -- '
Poland's hand caught the sleeve of his coat, stopping him in mid-turn. 'Grit your teeth!'
'What?'
'Fuck you!' Poland shouted, loud enough to send echoes ringing across the open square, then added in a frantic whisper, 'Just do it!'
Even with the warning, Germany barely had time to prepare before Poland threw a hard, fast punch that caught him right at the jawline.
[There'll be a brief hiatus before the next update, since I'll be travelling for a bit and unable to update regularly on Sundays like I've been trying to do. So I'll finish out this part for now (halfway through the story!), and pick up on the events of the following day when I update next. Thank you all so much for reading and commenting, and for the historical discussions! (There'll be historical notes at the end, but if anything's overly unclear please do ask away and I'll do my best to answer.)]
At the moment of impact, he knew that Poland had partially pulled the punch. Even with the differences in their heights, if Poland had put his whole weight into it the end result easily could have broken his jaw. All the same, there was enough force behind the blow to send him spinning round on his heel, and the pain that exploded through his head a split-second later made it clear that Poland's punch hadn't been purely for show. And it certainly wasn't a show on his part when he staggered, bent almost double, and tasted blood from a split lip.
Dimly, in between his own ragged breaths, he heard the heavy tread of boots on wet pavement. Step, step, step -- and then silence.
'Poland?' An all-too-familiar voice, gentle and deeply concerned. 'What is going on here?'
'Oh, hi, Russia!' Poland sang out, sounding as surprised and thrilled as if a long-lost friend had shown up on his doorstep with a large box of Switzerland's best chocolates. 'I'm just doing the whole Poland-is-a-super-host thing! Y'know, taking my guest out for some fresh air and a nice walk, getting a couple of minutes away from all the stuffy diplo-whatsits and journo-whatevers, that sort of thing....'
Germany straightened up, one hand pressed to his jaw, and blinked a few times to clear the lingering blurriness from his sight.
Russia, he saw, had come to a halt a few feet away from them. He was well wrapped up against the cold night, the picture of warmth and comfort in a fur hat and heavy greatcoat in addition to his ever-present scarf. Just the sight of him dressed so warmly made Germany more aware of the sharp smell of frost in the Warsaw air, the promise of an unforgiving winter ahead. He would have felt colder still if not for the white-hot spark of rage that kindled deep within him when he saw how Russia's glance slid past him and over to Poland, who was still talking as if Russia's question had demanded more than the most basic of explanations.
'...I mean, we could have stayed out at Wilanów, but since Germany's only here for like a day and a half max I said to myself, "Self, what would you want to see if you were visiting Warsaw for the first time in, like, years?", and of course I had to reply....'
There was nothing in Russia's expression that suggested anything more than polite attention to Poland's seemingly endless recital. Germany wondered if he had worn the same expression while he watched his elder sister wrap up Hungary's blood-stained kerchief, overseeing the whole process to ensure that nothing was left to chance.
'...so we were just talking about stuff, and we ended up here, and now you're here, too,' Poland concluded in a rush. 'Which we totally didn't expect, but hey, now it's a party. Right, Germany?'
Germany didn't have to look over at Poland to know how to respond. For all its cheerfulness, Poland's tone of voice left no doubt about the desperate message beneath it. Say yes, it said to him. Say yes or we're both fucked.
It hurt too much to smile, and his lower lip was already starting to swell, so Germany grimaced in what he hoped was a welcoming manner and nodded agreement.
Russia looked from one to the other, obviously less than convinced by Poland's elaborate description of events. 'He hasn't been bothering you, has he?'
It was impossible to tell which of them he was asking, but Poland took the initiative. 'Bothering me?' he repeated, sounding baffled by the idea. 'Pssht, as if. I mean, we may have had, like, a teeny-tiny silly little insignificant difference of opinion just a minute ago, but now it's all totally cool.'
Germany nodded again, still rubbing his jaw. 'Yes,' he said, his voice raspy from the effort of opening his mouth. 'Totally, erm, cool.'
Russia seemed to consider this for a moment. 'Insignificant differences of opinion don't usually end with physical violence, I think,' he said, turning his gaze back to Poland.
Germany's throat closed up at the sheer hypocrisy of it all, but he nearly choked for real when Poland let out a high, ringing laugh.
'Wait, wait, wait -- you were worried about that?' Poland laughed again, and clapped a hand to Germany's back with such hearty force that Germany almost toppled over. 'Man, talk about the wrong end of the stick! Like, a good old punch in the face has been part of traditional Polish hospitality since -- I don't know, since forever, I guess. We used to do it all the time back in the day, Germany and me. I mean, if we were just hanging out together, and I didn't try to punch him in the face at least once, then, like, Germany might think that I didn't love him anymore!'
'And I would never want to give that impression,' Germany added, taking the cue he had been given. His back still stung from the impact of Poland's hand.
'There, you see?' Poland skipped a few steps closer to Russia -- closer, but still out of reach -- and added in a theatrical aside, 'Sometimes, y'know, I even let him punch me right back. But only sometimes.'
'I see.' Russia was studying Poland with mildly bemused interest, in the way that one would watch the antics of a none-too-bright but very enthusiastic dog. 'And is this one of those "sometimes"?'
Some indefinable undercurrent in Russia's otherwise calm voice set off warning bells in Germany's mind. 'I think that I have had enough traditional Polish hospitality for one evening,' he declared, forestalling whatever reply Poland was planning to make. 'It is rather late, and we have a busy day tomorrow.'
'Today, you mean?' Russia said, gently correcting him. 'It is past midnight, isn't it?'
'Yes, today.' He stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and Russia -- but stopped himself just in time from putting a hand on Poland's shoulder. The line between protective and possessive was far too thin, and Poland would not thank him for it either way. 'Was there anything in particular that you wished to discuss with us before my host escorts me back to my accommodations?'
'Nothing that can't wait until after the treaty is signed, I'm sure,' Russia said. That maddeningly serene smile made the spark of rage in Germany's core burn all the more hotly. 'I was just wondering how the two of you were getting along, and whether our good friend Poland had given you an appropriate welcome.' A slight pause, and his smile widened. 'And I am very happy to see that he has.'
'Absolutely,' Poland agreed breathlessly, mirroring Russia's smile. His eyes had gone glassy, not entirely focused on Russia's face. 'Wouldn't dream of anything less.'
Germany fought the urge to grab Poland by the collar of his coat and bodily drag him away from Russia's increasingly hypnotic pleasantness. 'Then, if you will excuse us?'
'Of course.' Russia gave them both a genial nod. 'A very good night to both of you.'
'Good night,' Germany said crisply, then stepped to one side to give Poland enough space to cross between them. 'After you, Poland.'
Poland blinked, seeming to come back to himself.
'Y-Yeah, sure,' he said, stammering only slightly. 'Night, Russia.' And he took the escape route that Germany had provided, out of the open square. Germany followed as closely as he dared with Russia's eyes still on them, until they had turned the nearest corner and were out of sight.
Once they had put several streets' worth of distance between themselves and the square, their pace lost most of its urgency, slowing from a fast walk to a tired march. Germany's vision swam as the adrenaline left his system; now that they were no longer on the razor's-edge of confrontation, the pain in his jaw was reasserting itself more savagely than ever.
He glanced over at Poland, who was stumping along with his hands in his pockets and his gaze fixed on the ground. He began, uncertainly, 'Are you -- '
'Don't,' Poland said sharply, not looking up. His face was hidden by the fringe of hair that had fallen forward, over his eyes. 'Just...just don't.'
After that, there was no more talking.
A weary silence hung between them as Poland led the way through narrow streets and back alleys, a series of shortcuts that only he knew. Concrete and cinderblock soon gave way to the broader streets of the Warsaw suburbs, and then to the rolling expanse of parkland where Wilanów Palace sat in quiet, mostly forgotten splendour, its guests fast asleep. Avoiding the grand main entryway, Poland took them around to one side of the palace and in by a small door that Germany supposed had been a servants and tradesmen's entrance once upon a time.
'Your room's this way,' he muttered, and left Germany to stumble along behind him as he navigated the darkened palace corridors with surefooted ease. In next to no time he came to a halt outside one of a number of doors that all looked alike to Germany's tired eyes. 'Here. I'll...go find some ice, or something.' And with that he disappeared into the dark, moving noiselessly as a cat.
Germany pushed on the door, which opened to reveal a high-ceilinged bedroom. The draperies were open wide enough to let a sliver of moonlight in, a small mercy that saved him from having to find and turn on a lamp in order to locate the bed and washstand and other vital pieces of furniture. He saw that someone had placed his small travelling valise on the bed -- and then he recalled that in his valise there was a bottle of aspirin, and aspirin might do something for the throbbing pain that was starting to make him feel weak and feverish. His brain and his body were not quite operating in unison, however; by the time he had drawn the conclusion that it might be a good idea to open the bag and look for the bottle, he was already standing next to the bed and shaking three tablets into his palm.
The taste of the medicine was still bitter on the back of his tongue when he heard two soft knocks on the door. When he opened the door, Poland was not there, but on the floor just outside was a small white plate covered with a cloth.
Germany bent down and picked up the plate, and heard the clink-clink of ice shifting against china. The cloth cover was an old kitchen towel, frayed at the edges but clean and serviceable. Gingerly, he closed his hand around the cloth and felt the ice within: a good fist-sized lump and a few slightly smaller chunks. If he was careful with it he would have perhaps an hour or two before the ice was too far melted to be of use.
It was more than he would have thought to ask for. Possibly more than he deserved, in the circumstances. In the morning, he would have to -- but at that moment a wave of exhaustion wiped his mind blank, leaving him aware only of how his fingers were growing numb from the cold china plate in his hand. Decisions would have to wait.
'Thank you, Poland,' he murmured to the deserted corridor.
As he turned and closed the bedroom door, the click of the latch bolt sounded overly loud, and disturbingly final.
[And author!anon has returned! The posts for this second part may be spread out a little more, since the description of the actual event is something that I want to take extra-care in polishing before posting, but I hope to have the next part within a fortnight. Thank you all for reading and commenting, and I'll do my best to ensure that the rest of the story does not disappoint.]
Warsaw, People's Republic of Poland 7 December 1970
Germany spent an anxious few minutes in front of the mirror that morning, evaluating the damage done by Poland's fist. After several hours under a cold compress, the swelling was not nearly as noticeable as it might have been, but an angry-looking welter of a bruise had already formed on his jaw and his split lip was terrifically sore to the touch. If he peered at it closely, he fancied that he could see the marks left by Poland's knuckles, a neat set of livid imprints right at the midpoint of his jawline.
All in all, it had been a very efficient punch.
The bruises and swelling would fade in time, of course, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He had to make himself ready for the day.
He swallowed two more tablets of aspirin, hoping that they would ease the slow, rhythmic throb in his jaw, but the ache had already cast a hazy pall over his higher thought processes. Moving like a sleepwalker, he washed with tepid water, shaved the parts of his face that would tolerate a razor, struggled into clean clothes, and managed to get his shoes on and laced up properly in only two tries. He fumbled, cursing, with the knot of his necktie for what felt like hours before his fingers remembered the proper procedure for tying it. And to add insult to injury, he couldn't even scowl at himself for his own clumsiness: doing so sent needle-like pains shooting across half of his face from chin to earlobe.
(America had once informed him, with his usual unrelenting cheerfulness, that it took more muscles to frown than it did to smile. At the time, Germany had written off the statement as one of his fellow nation's more inane folk sayings, but now he had to wonder whether there might not be a grain of truth in it after all.)
He ran a wet comb through his hair and cast a final glance at the mirror. Not good, but presentable. More so than he would have expected after a sleepless night. Briefly, he considered wrapping a scarf around his neck, pulled up high enough to conceal the worst of it -- and then immediately discarded the idea. No, he would not hide it. He was the Federal Republic of Germany, and he would not hide from the opinions of others, now or ever again. He would wear the marks like a badge of honour and be damned to anyone foolish enough to ask him where and how he had come by them.
Almost all of the members of the German delegation were at breakfast by the time he joined them. He could feel the weight of a dozen curious stares, but he ignored them all, murmuring greetings to the Chancellor and the Foreign Minister as he slipped into a empty chair at the dining table. Moments later, a plate was placed in front of him, and he stared at it blankly until the smell of food recalled him to his senses. He had no appetite to speak of, and a twinge from his jaw warned him that chewing anything more resilient than a boiled potato would likely defeat him, but he worked up the fortitude to pick up his fork and nibble his way around a warm lump of something that tasted like eggs. It simply would not do to become faint from lack of food today.
At some point, he became aware that the other members of the delegation were pushing back their chairs and donning coats and gloves and hats. Abandoning what remained of his breakfast, he fell into step with them as they made their way through the palace to the small fleet of Chaika limousines that awaited them outside. As the others began their usual jostling for places, Germany hung back, intending to take whichever seat was available in one of the cars at the rear, but all of a sudden there was a hand on his elbow, and a voice said in his ear:
'This way.'
It was his boss, and it was his hand that was half-guiding, half-propelling Germany in the direction of the cars reserved for the most senior members of the delegation.
[A brief interlude -- flashback or dream sequence, call it what you will -- to explain something of what is going through Germany and his boss's minds before we reach the real climax of events. I'm so very happy that people seem to be enjoying things so far, and I'll be working hard to finish the next part before next Sunday if I can. Many thanks for reading and commenting!]
Two chairs, in an office in the Palais Schaumberg. A point of calm in the otherwise busy hive of the Federal Chancellery. The door is closed, and the conversation will not be overheard, but the occupants of the two chairs speak quietly all the same.
'I know that you are reluctant about this approach.'
'Believe me, sir, I do understand -- '
'To be perfectly frank, I don't think you understand. If you did understand, then you would be telling me in no uncertain terms just how reluctant you are, because you would also understand that I am not interested in hearing only what you think I want to hear.'
A telephone shrills in another room, and is cut off in the middle of the second ring.
'It is...rather difficult to explain, Chancellor.'
'I don't doubt that it is. But you are the only one who can explain it to me, however imperfectly. I would hate to think that my predecessors in this office have cared so little for your honest opinion that your first response is to shy away from any questions concerning it. So I must be blunt enough to ask you to tell me: what is your most immediate objection to the proposed treaties?'
Footsteps in the corridor, a woman’s heels clicking briskly on worn tiles. They grow louder as they approach the closed office door, and retreat at the same steady pace as they pass by it.
'...is this really what we have worked so hard for, sir? To simply sit back and...and accept things as they are?'
'It is only because of our hard work that we have been able to open these negotiations at all. Moscow will be an uphill battle, of course, but it will smooth the way to Warsaw, and from there to Berlin. If we do not make the attempt while this chance is before us, we may never find a better opportunity.'
'An opportunity to agree with everything we have opposed until now.'
'And has our opposition altered our borders by even a single metre, in these twenty-odd years?' The chair's leather creaks, soft as a sigh, as its occupant leans back against the cushions. 'You yourself were the one to show me that a nation is more than the lines that are drawn on a map. But we human beings need those lines all the same. There may come a time when we will be able to change those lines, but that time is not now. And so we need to show others that we will respect those lines, even if we disagree with how they have been drawn.'
'Even if they are a farce, Chancellor?'
'You don't spend nearly a decade as the mayor of West Berlin without learning something of the nature of farce. Particularly when it involves lines on maps.'
The silence lasts for several seconds longer than it ought to last.
'That was meant to be something of a joke, I'm afraid. Not quite as good as my usual ones, though -- perhaps I need some new material.'
'N-no, sir. It...it isn't that. Please pardon me for misunderstanding you.'
[And now, finally, for the event itself -- the climax of the story, but not the end. Real camera footage of the ceremony can be see from 1:27 here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hguYEbpwVZU. Thank you all for your patience in waiting for this next part...and I hope it does not disappoint.]
The memorial wreaths for the morning’s ceremonies were massive affairs, each one large enough to require two men to carry it. Both wreaths were simple arrangements of white carnations, trimmed with a broad ribbon in black, red, and gold stripes. Crisp white lettering across the ribbon proclaimed the wreaths to be the offering of the Chancellor of the Federal Republic. Germany had kept a close eye on the protocol officers who made the final arrangements for the wreaths, and more than one quiet word in the appropriate ears had ensured that the finished products met even his exacting standards. He only hoped that they would meet Poland’s standards as well.
When the Chancellor's motorcade arrived at the site of the first ceremony of the day, Poland and his bosses were there to meet them. It did not take Germany long to locate his fellow nation in the throng of political and military elites who had been invited to attend the wreath-laying. In keeping with the martial nature of the ceremony, Poland had donned an officer’s greatcoat and shoulderboards. His stiff peaked cap with its distinctive eagle badge was drawn low over his eyes, so that all anyone could see of his expression was the firm set of his mouth. Germany had not intended to offer more than a murmured good morning, but Poland did not appear inclined to reciprocate even that much. As a compromise, they merely nodded to each other -- just as they had done the previous afternoon on the airport tarmac -- and took their places at the back of the procession so the ceremony could begin.
The rows of white stone columns that flanked the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier were yet another fragment of a Polish royal palace razed by German hands -- for Saxon Palace, Germany recalled bleakly, had met the same brutal end as its elder sister not far to the north. Only the archways that sheltered the tomb had been spared destruction. But the tomb itself had survived, as much a testament to Poland’s own endurance as it was a memorial to his nameless fallen, and on this occasion it was only proper that the Federal Republic of Germany should come to pay his respects to both.
The wreath-laying proceeded without incident. Germany kept his eyes fixed forward the entire time, watching the ceremony with his best expression of grave dignity. When the time came to honour the dead, he placed his hand over his heart -- the civilian’s salute -- and beside him Poland snapped to attention and brought two fingers up to touch the peak of his cap in proper military style. The green-and-white wreath would keep its solitary vigil after they departed.
The site of the second wreath-laying ceremony was only a few minutes away, and once more Germany found himself riding in the Chancellor’s vehicle as if he had planned to do so all along. There were no attempts at conversation this time; the Chancellor was silent, and Germany sat stiffly across from him, all but counting every breath until the motorcade drew to a stop at their destination.
The Monument to the Heroes of the Warsaw Ghetto stood alone in an open square. Germany had seen pictures of it before, but as he stepped out of the car he felt that the black-and-white photographs he remembered were a poor representation of the real thing. From a distance, the memorial had looked like a tall grey slab of stone, very different from the white-columned tomb they had just visited. At this closer range, though, the granite wall was only the backdrop to a tall bronze sculpture of a group of figures -- men and women and children, set against the lighter grey stone on the bottom half of the memorial and darker stone at the top.
(Warsaw must be pacified, came the order. But before then, there had been another order, and those who resisted it took to the streets with every weapon they could make or muster. House by house, the Jewish ghetto of Warsaw had fallen in cinders and ash, and where it had stood the open square with its stone and bronze monument held the memory of those who had fought and died, or fought and lived to fight again.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Germany, Poland - Warschauer Kniefall
(Anonymous) 2013-05-21 12:42 am (UTC)(link)Historical fic with anything based on this.
Bonus: GDR!Prussia
Question for OP....
(Anonymous) 2013-05-25 03:46 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Question for OP....
(Anonymous) 2013-05-29 12:50 am (UTC)(link)Re: Question for OP....
(Anonymous) 2013-05-29 01:18 am (UTC)(link)With a Human Face [1a/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-02 04:47 pm (UTC)(link)WARNING for eventual strong language, physical violence, and references to historical violence.]
Warsaw, People's Republic of Poland
6 December 1970
As a rule, Germany did not drink at diplomatic receptions. When he was on his own, he might have a few beers with America and England, try some of the wine that Italy poured with his usual happy abandon, even sample a few sips of the sake that Japan served in such small and delicate cups, but when he was with his boss and acting in any sort of official capacity not a drop of alcohol passed his lips. Diplomacy required a clear head and a steady hand at the best of times, and on this occasion there was far too much at stake to run the risk of jeopardizing either faculty.
Twenty years ago, it would have been impossible. Ten years ago, it would have been unthinkable. And yet only a few months ago, he had been in Moscow watching his boss and Russia's boss (or one of Russia's bosses, at any rate) sign a treaty that committed both of them to recognising and accepting the current state of affairs in Europe. Tomorrow morning, his boss and Poland's boss would sign a treaty to formally recognise Poland's western border, along the line established at the end of the war. And honouring that border, in turn, would be the first step towards...something that he found more difficult to contemplate than signing treaties of friendship and cooperation with either of his old enemies.
Thinking the unthinkable, making the impossible possible -- all in the name of Ostpolitik.
Ostpolitik, Ostpolitik...always at the back of his mind, repeating itself until the word threatened to dissolve into nonsense syllables. A simple enough term for the complicated process of picking apart the polite fiction that most of Europe, himself included, had been maintaining since the end of the war. It was difficult to have the cold spotlight of international attention on him yet again, but his boss insisted that it would be a small price to pay to make things better for Germany's people -- all of them, regardless of the borders involved -- and for the people of Europe as a whole. So the new Eastern policy had to go forward.
They had arrived in Warsaw in late afternoon, stepping down from the airplane into a murky December twilight lit only by a few half-hearted searchlights and the occasional flares of photographers' flashbulbs. Germany's gaze had been drawn to the flagpoles at the far end of the airfield, where the bright colours of his and Poland's flags provided a welcome relief from the greyish sea of expectant faces and television cameras waiting to meet them. The national anthems, his and Poland's, provided a further welcoming touch of pomp and circumstance, as did the brisk martial tune that the bandsmen played as row upon row of Polish soldiers paraded smartly before them. But none of it could diminish the constant, skin-crawling feeling of hundreds of pairs of eyes on him and his boss, watching them with curiosity and suspicion and perhaps even a little fear, until --
'Welcome to the shiny happy People's Republic of Poland, where we, like, make all your fraternal socialist fantasies come true.'
With a Human Face [1b/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-02 04:51 pm (UTC)(link)'Thank you, Poland,' he said, trying to put a friendly tone in his voice. 'It's good to see you looking well.'
'Should I not be looking well?' Poland's smile stayed firmly in place. 'Anyway, can I, like, get you a drink or something?'
'No, thank you,' Germany demurred. 'I may have something with dinner, but nothing right now.'
Poland glanced down at his own mostly empty glass. 'Dunno how anyone gets through these things without one, but whatever.' He shrugged, then said, 'You said hello to Russia yet?'
With effort, Germany prevented himself from looking around the room. 'He is here?'
The look that Poland gave him was wordlessly eloquent: Duh, he's always here. 'I haven't seen him so far this evening,' he said aloud, casually, 'but I'm sure he'll find you if he wants to chat.'
'No doubt he will.' It was difficult to know whether to interpret the remark as a threat or a warning. Germany chose to place it somewhere between the two. 'I know he considers our treaty to be important to him as well.'
'And that's totally why I'm ready to sign whatever it takes to get this over with and get both of you off my back,' Poland said sweetly, so sweetly that it took Germany a full second to hear the snarl beneath it. Without missing a beat, he continued, 'They've put all of you up over at Wilanów, right?'
'Y...Yes, that's right. At Wilanów Palace.' He was grateful for the chance to talk about a safer subject. 'I have heard that it is quite beautiful, especially now that it has become a museum. I look forward to seeing it.'
'Yeah, well, nothing but the best for our guests, and all that. Oh, hey, before I forget -- ' Vodka sloshed against the sides of Poland's glass as he switched it to his left hand. 'Did you drop this? It was on the floor just now.' He held up a small folded slip of paper that Germany had never seen before.
With a Human Face [1c/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-02 04:52 pm (UTC)(link)'You really ought to keep a closer eye on your stuff, y'know,' Poland said, chidingly, as he held out the paper. 'I'm still cleaning things up from the last time you stopped by.'
Germany's jaw tightened, and the paper crumpled as he closed his fist around it. 'I will endeavour to do so,' he said stiffly.
Satisfied, Poland nodded, and swirled the remaining liquor in his glass. 'Anyway, I'm off to go top up before dinner. We're starting with flaczki, so I hope you like tripe.' He flashed a wholly insincere grin. 'Catch you later, okay?'
As Poland turned to one side to slip between him and a small knot of Polish officials who already looked rather the worse for drink, Germany heard the barest hiss of breath --
'After dinner. Make some excuse.'
-- and then he was gone, sailing away before Germany could reply.
Re: With a Human Face [1c/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-02 05:38 pm (UTC)(link)Re: With a Human Face [1c/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-03 08:47 am (UTC)(link)OP
(Anonymous) 2013-06-05 03:28 pm (UTC)(link)With a Human Face [2a/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 04:20 am (UTC)(link)As disconcerted as the conversation had left him, Germany had more sense than to look at the paper in his hand straightaway. Instead, he kept his hand closed and walked over to the far side of the hall, ostensibly to examine one of the works of art displayed on the wall. Once he was in front of a convenient painting with his back to the crowded room, he opened his hand and bent his head just enough to look down at the paper.
He did not want to be so obvious as to take out his glasses, which meant that he had to squint in order to read the message. Thankfully, the writing was small but legible. Poland had even taken the trouble to write in carefully printed German instead of his usual untidy script, though Germany suspected that he had done so less for ease of reading and more to disguise his handwriting.
The Zamek, the note read. You know where it is. Look for the giant gaping hole in the ground.
Germany lifted his head, staring at the painting in front of him without really seeing it, and let his hand crumple the slip of paper into a tiny ball. He would have to shred it or burn it at the first opportunity, but for now he had to think.
The reception appeared to be going smoothly. From what he could tell, Poland's people seemed to be doing their best to make his boss feel welcome. Soon they would all go in to dinner, the usual multiple-course affair, and unless Germany was greatly mistaken it would involve dishes with heavy cream sauces and as much alcohol as anyone cared to drink. Additional lubrication for the wheels of diplomacy, of course, but the thought of so much rich food made him feel a little unwell. Yet perhaps that thought could be turned to his advantage: he could easily plead a bout of indigestion once the final courses were cleared from the table, then slip away without anyone being the wiser. Even if he went on foot and took particular care to avoid being seen leaving or arriving, it would not take him long to reach their rendezvous point in the centre of Warsaw. And since the programme for tomorrow had been settled weeks before -- wreath-laying ceremonies in the morning, followed by the treaty signing, followed by the usual high-level discussions and a much larger formal dinner -- no one would be likely to need him or expect to see him until breakfast.
There was movement on the edges of the room; people seemed to be wandering in the direction of the adjacent reception room where the dinner was to be held.
He would be taking a risk, of course. There was always the chance that he would be delivering himself into some sort of trap. Which was all the more reason for him to go alone and without a word to anyone; there was no point in dragging his boss or the Foreign Minister into it, not when they already had enough on their minds. In the best case, he would be back without incident. In the worst case -- well, there were more than enough outcomes between the best and worst cases, and speculating on any of them would be a pointless exercise.
Whatever happened would happen. For now, Germany would join the rest of his delegation, sit down to dinner, eat and drink and make conversation as needed. And perhaps just this once, he would accept the wine poured for him instead of leaving it mostly untouched.
Diplomacy required a clear head and a steady hand...but a private meeting with Poland would require a small glass of something well in advance.
****
With a Human Face [2b/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 04:24 am (UTC)(link)Over dinner, he had heard some of the Polish officials mention that there were plans to rebuild it, but he also knew that the amount of money required to restore the castle to anything close to its pre-war glory would be difficult to find. And it wasn't as if Poland or his people had much pocket change to spare these days.
A raw wind from the Vistula gusted across the ruins and the open castle square, whipping at his coat and making him wish that he had thought to wear a hat. For a clandestine late-night meeting, the location was dreadfully exposed, but he knew quite well why Poland had arranged to meet him here. Any experienced soldier understood the importance of claiming the high ground in preparation for a potential conflict, and Poland could not have chosen a site with a greater psychological high ground for his purposes. His centuries-old seat of power in the very heart of his capital, destroyed by Germany's people -- Germany could feel the weight of his own disadvantage just by his proximity to it, like a leaden cloak settling on his shoulders. It did nothing to improve his mood, but there was little he could do except remain calm and try not to dwell on it.
His ears pricked up at the sound of footsteps behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Poland rounding the corner and starting to cross the square.
Unlike Germany, Poland did not seem to be taking many precautions in his arrival. His pace was almost deliberately unhurried, as if it was only natural for him to be out for a leisurely stroll in the dead of night on a freezing Warsaw street. (It was possible that it was, of course; even after so many years Germany had never quite been able to figure out what Poland considered 'natural'.) He was bare-headed as well, but the collar of his overcoat was turned up against the cold and his hands were stuffed deep in his pockets. As he came closer, Germany could hear him whistling something tuneless through his teeth.
Germany turned back to face the castle ruins, clasping his hands behind him in something akin to parade rest. He listened as Poland's footsteps, still unhurried, grew louder, until out of the corner of his eye he saw Poland come to a stop at his side.
For a long moment they both gazed out across the ruins like two tourists feigning interest in something quaint and historical. Germany wondered if he ought to be the one to speak first, but before he could come up with a suitable greeting he heard Poland let out a quiet breath, not loud enough to be a sigh.
'Okay, so, here's the deal,' Poland said, his voice low and flat. 'I figure I've got maybe, like, a whole fifteen minutes before someone comes looking for me, and by someone I mean Russia, so I'll make this quick. What the hell do you think you're doing here?'
Re: With a Human Face [2b/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-06-10 13:14 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [2b/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-06-10 15:08 (UTC) - ExpandOP
(Anonymous) - 2013-06-13 15:38 (UTC) - ExpandWith a Human Face [3a/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-16 02:36 pm (UTC)(link)It was the question that Germany had been expecting, and he had a safe, sensible answer prepared. 'It's part of a new policy to establish more normal relations for all of us.'
'Riiiiight.' Poland managed to cram a surprising amount of sarcasm into a single word. 'And you're the one who gets to define "normal", is that it?'
'The treaty that Russia and I agreed upon a few months ago stated that "normal" refers to the development of peaceful relations based on the current situation,' Germany said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. It was best to stick with the facts as they were.
'And you can't imagine how, y'know, super thrilled I was to hear about it.' Poland glanced over at him, a bitter smile on his lips. 'But at least one of your bosses has some new ideas -- usually you'd go through me first to get to Russia, not the other way around. Gotta give him credit for that.'
Germany could feel a pulse start to beat in his temple, though he refused to rise to the bait. 'Please don't make this difficult, Poland.'
'Hey, I'm not the one who thinks he can just waltz in here and make everyone play nice again.' Poland waved one hand airily, as if conducting the waltz in question. 'When I said I had fifteen minutes, dude, I wasn't kidding -- Russia will be pissed beyond belief if he thinks I'm negotiating stuff with you behind his back, and you're not the one who'll have to deal with it.'
'What do you want me to say?' Germany hadn't intended to sound quite as plaintive as he did, but at this point his dignity was among the least of his concerns. 'What do I have to say or do to convince you that I want to make this work? You know that we can't continue as we have been.'
'Convince me?' Poland's mouth twisted around the word. 'Oh, please. You can go ahead and sincere-face at me all you want, but I'm just saying, the last time you and Russia got all cuddly didn't exactly end with me getting a new pony for Christmas.'
'Which is why I am here now,' Germany said, exasperated. He was fast running out of safe arguments, not to mention the patience to continue making them. 'This treaty is with your people, not with Russia's. It deals with your borders, not his. And he and I are hardly "cuddly", as you put it.' His expression hardened, settling into stony indifference. 'It is rather difficult to cuddle with someone who still has one hand on the knife that he has driven into your chest.'
Poland appeared to be on the point of saying something cutting, but at Germany's last words he closed his mouth, biting back the waiting retort.
'All right, look,' he said, more evenly. He waited until Germany met his gaze before he continued. 'As weird as it sounds, I seriously didn't call you out here to pick a fight.'
Germany's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. 'Forgive me if I appear surprised by this confession.'
'Come on, man, chill out.' Poland's mouth twisted again, as if he was attempting to grin but had suddenly forgotten how to do so. 'Lighten up a little. Like I said before, you don't have to worry. I'll sign whatever it takes to get this over with.'
'"And get both of you off my back"?' Germany said, in a passable imitation of Poland's earlier acid-sweet tone. Anger was starting to build under his sternum, the sharp and insistent pain digging into him like an actual knife lodged between his ribs. 'In case you haven't noticed, you are by no means the only one under pressure here.'
With a Human Face [3b/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-16 02:41 pm (UTC)(link)'Is that what you think I've been doing? Ignoring you?' It was Germany's turn to wave his hands in the air, a frustrated gesticulation that owed more to Italy's influence than he would have liked to admit. 'For God's sake, this is the first time in twenty years that I've been able to so much as look in your general direction without half the world breathing down my neck and the other half reaching for the nearest weapon! Do you honestly think I would come all this way just to make things more difficult for everyone involved?'
Poland couldn't seem to stop himself from darting a glance around the square. 'Could you maybe, like, say that a little louder? 'Cause I don't think the other half of Warsaw heard you just now.'
'They can hear me in Moscow for all I care!' And he meant it. Dealing with Russia had been a thousand times easier than this by far -- and that was a truly frightening thought. 'I say it again: you are not the only one under pressure here. You would not believe what my boss has gone through to even get us this far.'
'You seem to be pinning a lot of hopes on this boss of yours,' Poland sneered, with a flicker of emphasis on the most distasteful word. 'Huh. I thought you'd be so over that by now.'
'He has a lot less blood on his hands than either you or I do,' Germany muttered darkly.
Poland stiffened. '...you did not just say that.'
'And what if I did?' He was venturing onto dangerous ground, but for the first time in a long while Germany felt no shame in coming to his boss's defence. 'I accept that you have every reason to distrust me, even to despise me, but you have no right to make him the scapegoat.'
'Listen, you bastard,' Poland snapped, with a rising edge to his voice that had not been there before. 'Let's get one thing straight: You do not get to tell me what I have the right to do. You lost that privilege, like, a long fucking time ago. And right now I've got about as much reason to trust him as I do to trust you, which isn't saying a hell of a lot for either of you.'
'He will keep his word,' Germany snapped back. 'You will have your treaty. And then we can all continue to pretend that I have any control over that precious western border of yours, and you and your bosses will finally be free to follow the example of your comrades to the west and start selling my own people back to me.'
All the colour drained out of Poland's face. 'Shut your filthy mouth,' he hissed. 'Don't you even dare compare me to your -- '
'I sign the paperwork for it, damn you!'
With a Human Face [3c/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-16 02:46 pm (UTC)(link)'I assure you, family reunions turn a very tidy profit for them these days.' Every word was stretched as thin and taut as trip-wire. 'Would you care to see the figures? With so many Germans on your lands still, you would have no shortage of material to trade with me. And political prisoners are an even better investment -- the going rate is forty thousand marks a head, and that is only a starting price for your negotiations.' Poland's eyes flashed fire, but Germany was relentless, a final twist of the knife to match the one twisting deep in his heart. 'Do you think your own bosses haven't considered it? Or done more than consider it?'
It was too much. It was not enough. It didn't matter, because Poland was visibly shaking now, almost beside himself with rage. When he finally managed to speak, it sounded as if he was straining to form the words -- or stop them from turning into one long scream.
'First of all? Fuck you.' Abruptly, he swept his coat to one side and rummaged in his trouser pockets. 'Second of all, I seriously do not need to deal with your shit right now, all right?' He pulled out a crumpled cardboard packet and slapped it against the palm of his hand, producing a single dark-tipped cigarette. 'You wanna know what I want from you? Fine. I'll put it in words that maybe even you can understand.' He held up the cigarette and jabbed it at Germany, each short, violent gesture acting as punctuation. 'What I want is for you to sign what you came here to sign, finish patting yourself on the back, and be on the next goddamn plane out of here so you can go back to leaving me the hell alone.'
Germany frowned. Not at Poland's words or actions, but at the cigarette in his hand. 'Since when do you smoke?'
'Since when the fuck do you care?' Poland spat, with such ferocity that flecks of saliva flew from his mouth and hit Germany full in the face.
Germany made a disgusted noise and took a half-step back, raising a hand to wipe away the spit that had landed in his eyes. As he scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand, he heard a sharp intake of breath -- followed by a soft clattering sound from somewhere near his feet.
Blinking, he looked down, and saw the cardboard cigarette packet lying on the wet pavement, rapidly soaking up the grimy, oil-slick water of the shallow puddle it had fallen into. A single cigarette lay next to it. As his gaze travelled up he saw that Poland's fingers were slack and empty, and then --
Germany froze.
Poland was standing impossibly still. His shoulders were squared and his head was tilted at an odd angle, chin slightly lifted and not quite turned to one side. Everything about his posture shouted loathing and defiance, go ahead I dare you and what the hell are you waiting for and a thousand other taunts, but his half-closed eyes spoke in a miserable whisper: just do it and get it over with already.
Something in the pit of Germany's stomach gave a violent lurch. The hand that he had been using to wipe Poland's spit from his face flew to cover his nose and mouth, attempting to hold back the burning nausea rising in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and instantly regretted it, for the burning feeling was behind his eyelids as well and there was no escaping from it, no way to will it away.
(Warsaw must be pacified, came the order, and that was an end of it. It wasn't until the first explosion rocked the ground beneath his feet that he began to wonder what on earth he was doing, at what point someone had placed a detonator switch in his hand, how long he had been trying to speak or shout or sob with a mouth filled with cinders and ash. But then came the second explosion, and he stopped wondering, and the whole world turned to cinders and ash as Warsaw was pacified beyond all recognition.)
With a Human Face [3d/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-16 02:47 pm (UTC)(link)Poland was staring hard at him, his face tight and wary. It was evident that he had expected Germany to wheel round and backhand him across the face without a second thought, and now that the expected blow had not come he was at a loss for what to think or do. Gradually, the wariness faded into a sullen sort of embarrassment, and he looked away.
'S'rry,' he mumbled, almost inaudible.
Germany blenched. The sight of Poland's downcast face was distressing enough without the thought that he felt that some sort of apology was in order.
'I...I can get you another pack, if you want,' he said, gesturing lamely to the sodden lump of cardboard at Poland's feet. His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears.
Poland's shoulders twitched, a hint of a shrug. 'Eh, 's fine.' With the toe of his shoe, he nudged the cigarette packet further into the puddle. 'Russian tobacco's totally shit, anyway.'
Re: With a Human Face [3d/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-06-16 16:26 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [3d/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-06-17 04:05 (UTC) - ExpandOP
(Anonymous) - 2013-06-22 02:57 (UTC) - ExpandWith a Human Face [4a/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-23 02:00 pm (UTC)(link)The last remnants of Germany's anger suddenly found a far more deserving target.
'This is what Russia wants,' he said slowly, thinking aloud. 'Nothing would make him happier than for us to sign the treaty and still continue to believe the worst of each other.' And nothing, he knew, would be worse for both of them than to give Russia that satisfaction. If he could not find some common ground with Poland, he would have no hope of finding any common ground with...with their mutual neighbour. He could no longer afford to cling to the old belief that Russia was the only obstacle standing in the way of making his people whole again: too much had changed in twenty years. 'I know that you have no reason to trust my intentions, but if we are to have any hope of making this work then we must start somewhere. So please, Poland...please tell me what you need from me, no matter how large or small. I cannot do anything unless I have some idea of where to begin.'
Poland said nothing at first, and Germany's heart sank. But then he licked his lips, his mouth working as if he were trying to sort out the right words, and he said:
'You remember that kerchief that Hungary used to wear?'
Of all the things Germany had expected to hear, it certainly had not been that. 'Wh...what?'
'Hungary. Kerchief. Jeez, do you need visuals?' Poland raised both hands to his head, miming the process of tying something over his hair. 'Ring a bell?'
'Yes, I know what a kerchief is, but I don't -- '
'Just hear me out,' Poland said, suddenly serious, and Germany let his protest drop. 'Hungary used to wear a kerchief -- a very specific one, always the same one -- whenever she visited any of us. Never left her house without it. Do you remember it?'
'Vaguely.' He dredged the corners of his memory, trying to picture it. He seldom paid attention to that sort of thing, and the last time he had seen or spoken to Hungary for any length of time neither of them had been looking their best, but surely he could remember something as simple as that. 'It was...white?'
'Eggshell, actually, but it's not like you'd know the difference.' Poland's expression softened, and for a fleeting moment he looked more like the easygoing, obnoxiously cheerful neighbour that Germany remembered from the years before the war. 'I must've told her, like, a thousand times, "Hungary, sweetheart, you know I adore the china-doll look on you, but neutrals do nothing for your skin tone", but she always said how it had been a Christmas gift from Austria ages ago and I had to try really, really hard not to say something, like, if Austria were in charge of our fashion choices we'd all still be wearing something totally godawful like lacy neck ruffles, and the only one I knew who could ever pull off the lacy neck ruffle look was Lie....' He trailed off, and the serious look closed over his face again like a blind being drawn across a lighted room.
'You were saying something about Hungary's kerchief?' Germany ventured tentatively.
'Yeah.' Once again, Poland kicked at the sodden cigarette packet. 'She doesn't wear it anymore. Y'know why? Because our dear comrade Russia sent it to America, after...well, you know.' No further explanation was needed; it had been a mere fifteen years ago, after all, and the sight of smoke rising against a steel-grey November sky as the tanks rolled into Budapest had been visible all over Europe. 'After it was all over.'
With a Human Face [4b/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-23 02:06 pm (UTC)(link)'With, like, wrapping paper and a huge fuck-off bow on top and everything.' Poland shook his head again, this time in mute outrage. 'The sadistic bastard didn't even wash off the blood -- he just made Ukraine wrap it up and send it off. With a note.'
Germany tried to imagine opening a wrapped box to find such a gift, and swallowed a wave of revulsion. 'A note?'
'I didn't see it, but I know what it said. He had Lie...Lithuania write it in English, so America wouldn't, y'know, have to find someone to translate it for him.' Poland spoke through clenched teeth. 'It said, Careless talk costs lives.'
'Careless talk,' Germany repeated, confused. And then comprehension dawned, and with it came a horrified understanding. 'Careless talk -- oh, God, not the radio broadcasts -- '
But Poland wasn't looking at Germany anymore. He had his hands in his pockets again, and his gaze travelled across the ruins of the Zamek, his expression unreadable. His silence was as good as confirmation.
'I heard there was, like, a total shitstorm when the package arrived,' he said, after a long moment. 'America 'n' England 'n' France all screaming at each other, all blaming each other for the whole thing. Must've been pretty epic.'
Germany nodded grimly, even though Poland wasn't looking at him. 'I...was not present when it happened, but I heard about it afterward.' If his suspicions were correct, then France had shown up at his place later that same evening -- reeling drunk and swearing loudly enough to send his dogs barking -- and the two of them had spent the rest of the night in Germany's bathroom while France alternately vomited and continued to curse la perfide Angleterre. 'It was definitely a "shitstorm", as you put it. England got the worst of it, I think.'
Poland wrinkled his nose. 'Like that's a surprise.'
'If that note was meant for America....' The more he thought about it, the more the events of that awful evening made sense in a way that they had not at the time. It was even more painful to think of the part he had unwittingly played in the whole affair; many of those radio broadcasts to Hungary's people had been made from stations on German soil. 'That would explain why America kept shouting about England's boss and "that fucking canal", and how if it hadn't been for "that fucking canal" he might've been able to do something more to help Hungary.' He paused, then added cautiously, 'At least, that's what I was told that America said.'
'"That fucking canal", huh?' Poland exhaled, sending a billowing cloud of steam rising into the night. 'Typical America for you -- it's always something totally out of his control that screws everything up for him, isn't it? Never really his fault, is it?' He cast a sidelong glance at Germany. 'Let me tell you how I heard it. The way I heard it, Mr Bigshot Hero got a little too cocky and made a bunch of promises he couldn't keep.'
'I...may have heard something like that as well,' Germany said. Admittedly, he had heard it once France had run out of filthy things to call England, which had taken the better part of two hours.
With a Human Face [4c/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-23 02:07 pm (UTC)(link)He turned on his heel, looking Germany full in the face, and it was all that Germany could do not to recoil from the hurt and betrayal in his eyes, as raw and open as a festering sore.
'I don't want any more careless talk,' Poland said fiercely. 'Not from America, or you, or anyone else. 'Cause one of these days -- and for all I know it could be, like, tomorrow morning -- I won't be able to smile and nod at Russia anymore.' A grin lit up his face with unholy mirth. 'And when that happens you'd all better put up or shut up, because otherwise I might just decide that since I obviously won't have all that much to lose, it might be fun to see if I can take this whole fucking thing down with me.'
Germany swallowed again as the nausea threatened to return in full force. He made himself wait until he was certain that his voice would be steady before he replied.
'I hope it will never come to that.' He put every ounce of sincerity he could muster behind his words, hoping that quiet assurance would be the best response to a statement that sounded alarmingly close to a prospective suicide note. 'There is only so much that I can do, Poland, and right now I cannot promise anything beyond what is written in the treaty. But my boss and I will do what we can to keep the promises that we make.'
As promises went it, was hardly ambitious. Yet it seemed to suffice, because Poland's half-mad grin flickered and faded into a worn, cynical smirk.
'Yeah, I thought you'd say that,' he said. 'Guess that's about as good as it's going to -- ' His eyes suddenly went wide and white, staring at something over Germany's shoulder. 'Oh, shit.'
'Poland?' Germany started to turn, following his line of sight. 'What is -- '
Poland's hand caught the sleeve of his coat, stopping him in mid-turn. 'Grit your teeth!'
'What?'
'Fuck you!' Poland shouted, loud enough to send echoes ringing across the open square, then added in a frantic whisper, 'Just do it!'
Even with the warning, Germany barely had time to prepare before Poland threw a hard, fast punch that caught him right at the jawline.
Re: With a Human Face [4c/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-06-23 15:03 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [4c/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-06-23 15:29 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [4c/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-06-23 20:24 (UTC) - ExpandA bit of author!anon commentary....
(Anonymous) - 2013-06-23 23:31 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [4c/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-06-23 23:37 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [4c/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-06-27 06:24 (UTC) - ExpandWith a Human Face [5a/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-30 02:47 pm (UTC)(link)At the moment of impact, he knew that Poland had partially pulled the punch. Even with the differences in their heights, if Poland had put his whole weight into it the end result easily could have broken his jaw. All the same, there was enough force behind the blow to send him spinning round on his heel, and the pain that exploded through his head a split-second later made it clear that Poland's punch hadn't been purely for show. And it certainly wasn't a show on his part when he staggered, bent almost double, and tasted blood from a split lip.
Dimly, in between his own ragged breaths, he heard the heavy tread of boots on wet pavement. Step, step, step -- and then silence.
'Poland?' An all-too-familiar voice, gentle and deeply concerned. 'What is going on here?'
'Oh, hi, Russia!' Poland sang out, sounding as surprised and thrilled as if a long-lost friend had shown up on his doorstep with a large box of Switzerland's best chocolates. 'I'm just doing the whole Poland-is-a-super-host thing! Y'know, taking my guest out for some fresh air and a nice walk, getting a couple of minutes away from all the stuffy diplo-whatsits and journo-whatevers, that sort of thing....'
Germany straightened up, one hand pressed to his jaw, and blinked a few times to clear the lingering blurriness from his sight.
Russia, he saw, had come to a halt a few feet away from them. He was well wrapped up against the cold night, the picture of warmth and comfort in a fur hat and heavy greatcoat in addition to his ever-present scarf. Just the sight of him dressed so warmly made Germany more aware of the sharp smell of frost in the Warsaw air, the promise of an unforgiving winter ahead. He would have felt colder still if not for the white-hot spark of rage that kindled deep within him when he saw how Russia's glance slid past him and over to Poland, who was still talking as if Russia's question had demanded more than the most basic of explanations.
'...I mean, we could have stayed out at Wilanów, but since Germany's only here for like a day and a half max I said to myself, "Self, what would you want to see if you were visiting Warsaw for the first time in, like, years?", and of course I had to reply....'
There was nothing in Russia's expression that suggested anything more than polite attention to Poland's seemingly endless recital. Germany wondered if he had worn the same expression while he watched his elder sister wrap up Hungary's blood-stained kerchief, overseeing the whole process to ensure that nothing was left to chance.
'...so we were just talking about stuff, and we ended up here, and now you're here, too,' Poland concluded in a rush. 'Which we totally didn't expect, but hey, now it's a party. Right, Germany?'
Germany didn't have to look over at Poland to know how to respond. For all its cheerfulness, Poland's tone of voice left no doubt about the desperate message beneath it. Say yes, it said to him. Say yes or we're both fucked.
It hurt too much to smile, and his lower lip was already starting to swell, so Germany grimaced in what he hoped was a welcoming manner and nodded agreement.
Russia looked from one to the other, obviously less than convinced by Poland's elaborate description of events. 'He hasn't been bothering you, has he?'
It was impossible to tell which of them he was asking, but Poland took the initiative. 'Bothering me?' he repeated, sounding baffled by the idea. 'Pssht, as if. I mean, we may have had, like, a teeny-tiny silly little insignificant difference of opinion just a minute ago, but now it's all totally cool.'
Germany nodded again, still rubbing his jaw. 'Yes,' he said, his voice raspy from the effort of opening his mouth. 'Totally, erm, cool.'
Russia seemed to consider this for a moment. 'Insignificant differences of opinion don't usually end with physical violence, I think,' he said, turning his gaze back to Poland.
Germany's throat closed up at the sheer hypocrisy of it all, but he nearly choked for real when Poland let out a high, ringing laugh.
With a Human Face [5b/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-30 02:49 pm (UTC)(link)'And I would never want to give that impression,' Germany added, taking the cue he had been given. His back still stung from the impact of Poland's hand.
'There, you see?' Poland skipped a few steps closer to Russia -- closer, but still out of reach -- and added in a theatrical aside, 'Sometimes, y'know, I even let him punch me right back. But only sometimes.'
'I see.' Russia was studying Poland with mildly bemused interest, in the way that one would watch the antics of a none-too-bright but very enthusiastic dog. 'And is this one of those "sometimes"?'
Some indefinable undercurrent in Russia's otherwise calm voice set off warning bells in Germany's mind. 'I think that I have had enough traditional Polish hospitality for one evening,' he declared, forestalling whatever reply Poland was planning to make. 'It is rather late, and we have a busy day tomorrow.'
'Today, you mean?' Russia said, gently correcting him. 'It is past midnight, isn't it?'
'Yes, today.' He stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and Russia -- but stopped himself just in time from putting a hand on Poland's shoulder. The line between protective and possessive was far too thin, and Poland would not thank him for it either way. 'Was there anything in particular that you wished to discuss with us before my host escorts me back to my accommodations?'
'Nothing that can't wait until after the treaty is signed, I'm sure,' Russia said. That maddeningly serene smile made the spark of rage in Germany's core burn all the more hotly. 'I was just wondering how the two of you were getting along, and whether our good friend Poland had given you an appropriate welcome.' A slight pause, and his smile widened. 'And I am very happy to see that he has.'
'Absolutely,' Poland agreed breathlessly, mirroring Russia's smile. His eyes had gone glassy, not entirely focused on Russia's face. 'Wouldn't dream of anything less.'
Germany fought the urge to grab Poland by the collar of his coat and bodily drag him away from Russia's increasingly hypnotic pleasantness. 'Then, if you will excuse us?'
'Of course.' Russia gave them both a genial nod. 'A very good night to both of you.'
'Good night,' Germany said crisply, then stepped to one side to give Poland enough space to cross between them. 'After you, Poland.'
Poland blinked, seeming to come back to himself.
'Y-Yeah, sure,' he said, stammering only slightly. 'Night, Russia.' And he took the escape route that Germany had provided, out of the open square. Germany followed as closely as he dared with Russia's eyes still on them, until they had turned the nearest corner and were out of sight.
With a Human Face [5c/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-30 02:54 pm (UTC)(link)He glanced over at Poland, who was stumping along with his hands in his pockets and his gaze fixed on the ground. He began, uncertainly, 'Are you -- '
'Don't,' Poland said sharply, not looking up. His face was hidden by the fringe of hair that had fallen forward, over his eyes. 'Just...just don't.'
After that, there was no more talking.
A weary silence hung between them as Poland led the way through narrow streets and back alleys, a series of shortcuts that only he knew. Concrete and cinderblock soon gave way to the broader streets of the Warsaw suburbs, and then to the rolling expanse of parkland where Wilanów Palace sat in quiet, mostly forgotten splendour, its guests fast asleep. Avoiding the grand main entryway, Poland took them around to one side of the palace and in by a small door that Germany supposed had been a servants and tradesmen's entrance once upon a time.
'Your room's this way,' he muttered, and left Germany to stumble along behind him as he navigated the darkened palace corridors with surefooted ease. In next to no time he came to a halt outside one of a number of doors that all looked alike to Germany's tired eyes. 'Here. I'll...go find some ice, or something.' And with that he disappeared into the dark, moving noiselessly as a cat.
Germany pushed on the door, which opened to reveal a high-ceilinged bedroom. The draperies were open wide enough to let a sliver of moonlight in, a small mercy that saved him from having to find and turn on a lamp in order to locate the bed and washstand and other vital pieces of furniture. He saw that someone had placed his small travelling valise on the bed -- and then he recalled that in his valise there was a bottle of aspirin, and aspirin might do something for the throbbing pain that was starting to make him feel weak and feverish. His brain and his body were not quite operating in unison, however; by the time he had drawn the conclusion that it might be a good idea to open the bag and look for the bottle, he was already standing next to the bed and shaking three tablets into his palm.
The taste of the medicine was still bitter on the back of his tongue when he heard two soft knocks on the door. When he opened the door, Poland was not there, but on the floor just outside was a small white plate covered with a cloth.
Germany bent down and picked up the plate, and heard the clink-clink of ice shifting against china. The cloth cover was an old kitchen towel, frayed at the edges but clean and serviceable. Gingerly, he closed his hand around the cloth and felt the ice within: a good fist-sized lump and a few slightly smaller chunks. If he was careful with it he would have perhaps an hour or two before the ice was too far melted to be of use.
It was more than he would have thought to ask for. Possibly more than he deserved, in the circumstances. In the morning, he would have to -- but at that moment a wave of exhaustion wiped his mind blank, leaving him aware only of how his fingers were growing numb from the cold china plate in his hand. Decisions would have to wait.
'Thank you, Poland,' he murmured to the deserted corridor.
As he turned and closed the bedroom door, the click of the latch bolt sounded overly loud, and disturbingly final.
- End of Part I -
Re: With a Human Face [5c/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-07-02 09:13 (UTC) - ExpandWith a Human Face [6a/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-07-14 05:45 am (UTC)(link)Warsaw, People's Republic of Poland
7 December 1970
Germany spent an anxious few minutes in front of the mirror that morning, evaluating the damage done by Poland's fist. After several hours under a cold compress, the swelling was not nearly as noticeable as it might have been, but an angry-looking welter of a bruise had already formed on his jaw and his split lip was terrifically sore to the touch. If he peered at it closely, he fancied that he could see the marks left by Poland's knuckles, a neat set of livid imprints right at the midpoint of his jawline.
All in all, it had been a very efficient punch.
The bruises and swelling would fade in time, of course, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He had to make himself ready for the day.
He swallowed two more tablets of aspirin, hoping that they would ease the slow, rhythmic throb in his jaw, but the ache had already cast a hazy pall over his higher thought processes. Moving like a sleepwalker, he washed with tepid water, shaved the parts of his face that would tolerate a razor, struggled into clean clothes, and managed to get his shoes on and laced up properly in only two tries. He fumbled, cursing, with the knot of his necktie for what felt like hours before his fingers remembered the proper procedure for tying it. And to add insult to injury, he couldn't even scowl at himself for his own clumsiness: doing so sent needle-like pains shooting across half of his face from chin to earlobe.
(America had once informed him, with his usual unrelenting cheerfulness, that it took more muscles to frown than it did to smile. At the time, Germany had written off the statement as one of his fellow nation's more inane folk sayings, but now he had to wonder whether there might not be a grain of truth in it after all.)
He ran a wet comb through his hair and cast a final glance at the mirror. Not good, but presentable. More so than he would have expected after a sleepless night. Briefly, he considered wrapping a scarf around his neck, pulled up high enough to conceal the worst of it -- and then immediately discarded the idea. No, he would not hide it. He was the Federal Republic of Germany, and he would not hide from the opinions of others, now or ever again. He would wear the marks like a badge of honour and be damned to anyone foolish enough to ask him where and how he had come by them.
Almost all of the members of the German delegation were at breakfast by the time he joined them. He could feel the weight of a dozen curious stares, but he ignored them all, murmuring greetings to the Chancellor and the Foreign Minister as he slipped into a empty chair at the dining table. Moments later, a plate was placed in front of him, and he stared at it blankly until the smell of food recalled him to his senses. He had no appetite to speak of, and a twinge from his jaw warned him that chewing anything more resilient than a boiled potato would likely defeat him, but he worked up the fortitude to pick up his fork and nibble his way around a warm lump of something that tasted like eggs. It simply would not do to become faint from lack of food today.
At some point, he became aware that the other members of the delegation were pushing back their chairs and donning coats and gloves and hats. Abandoning what remained of his breakfast, he fell into step with them as they made their way through the palace to the small fleet of Chaika limousines that awaited them outside. As the others began their usual jostling for places, Germany hung back, intending to take whichever seat was available in one of the cars at the rear, but all of a sudden there was a hand on his elbow, and a voice said in his ear:
'This way.'
It was his boss, and it was his hand that was half-guiding, half-propelling Germany in the direction of the cars reserved for the most senior members of the delegation.
With a Human Face [6b/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-07-14 05:48 (UTC) - ExpandWith a Human Face [6c/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-07-14 05:49 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [6c/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-07-14 15:38 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [6c/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-07-15 19:14 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [6c/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-07-18 05:35 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [6c/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-07-19 18:31 (UTC) - ExpandWith a Human Face [7a/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-07-28 06:31 pm (UTC)(link)Two chairs, in an office in the Palais Schaumberg. A point of calm in the otherwise busy hive of the Federal Chancellery. The door is closed, and the conversation will not be overheard, but the occupants of the two chairs speak quietly all the same.
'I know that you are reluctant about this approach.'
'Believe me, sir, I do understand -- '
'To be perfectly frank, I don't think you understand. If you did understand, then you would be telling me in no uncertain terms just how reluctant you are, because you would also understand that I am not interested in hearing only what you think I want to hear.'
A telephone shrills in another room, and is cut off in the middle of the second ring.
'It is...rather difficult to explain, Chancellor.'
'I don't doubt that it is. But you are the only one who can explain it to me, however imperfectly. I would hate to think that my predecessors in this office have cared so little for your honest opinion that your first response is to shy away from any questions concerning it. So I must be blunt enough to ask you to tell me: what is your most immediate objection to the proposed treaties?'
Footsteps in the corridor, a woman’s heels clicking briskly on worn tiles. They grow louder as they approach the closed office door, and retreat at the same steady pace as they pass by it.
'...is this really what we have worked so hard for, sir? To simply sit back and...and accept things as they are?'
'It is only because of our hard work that we have been able to open these negotiations at all. Moscow will be an uphill battle, of course, but it will smooth the way to Warsaw, and from there to Berlin. If we do not make the attempt while this chance is before us, we may never find a better opportunity.'
'An opportunity to agree with everything we have opposed until now.'
'And has our opposition altered our borders by even a single metre, in these twenty-odd years?' The chair's leather creaks, soft as a sigh, as its occupant leans back against the cushions. 'You yourself were the one to show me that a nation is more than the lines that are drawn on a map. But we human beings need those lines all the same. There may come a time when we will be able to change those lines, but that time is not now. And so we need to show others that we will respect those lines, even if we disagree with how they have been drawn.'
'Even if they are a farce, Chancellor?'
'You don't spend nearly a decade as the mayor of West Berlin without learning something of the nature of farce. Particularly when it involves lines on maps.'
The silence lasts for several seconds longer than it ought to last.
'That was meant to be something of a joke, I'm afraid. Not quite as good as my usual ones, though -- perhaps I need some new material.'
'N-no, sir. It...it isn't that. Please pardon me for misunderstanding you.'
With a Human Face [7b/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-07-28 18:33 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [7b/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-07-28 19:18 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [7b/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-07-31 14:30 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [7b/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-08-11 16:08 (UTC) - ExpandWith a Human Face [8a/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-08-25 02:16 pm (UTC)(link)The memorial wreaths for the morning’s ceremonies were massive affairs, each one large enough to require two men to carry it. Both wreaths were simple arrangements of white carnations, trimmed with a broad ribbon in black, red, and gold stripes. Crisp white lettering across the ribbon proclaimed the wreaths to be the offering of the Chancellor of the Federal Republic. Germany had kept a close eye on the protocol officers who made the final arrangements for the wreaths, and more than one quiet word in the appropriate ears had ensured that the finished products met even his exacting standards. He only hoped that they would meet Poland’s standards as well.
When the Chancellor's motorcade arrived at the site of the first ceremony of the day, Poland and his bosses were there to meet them. It did not take Germany long to locate his fellow nation in the throng of political and military elites who had been invited to attend the wreath-laying. In keeping with the martial nature of the ceremony, Poland had donned an officer’s greatcoat and shoulderboards. His stiff peaked cap with its distinctive eagle badge was drawn low over his eyes, so that all anyone could see of his expression was the firm set of his mouth. Germany had not intended to offer more than a murmured good morning, but Poland did not appear inclined to reciprocate even that much. As a compromise, they merely nodded to each other -- just as they had done the previous afternoon on the airport tarmac -- and took their places at the back of the procession so the ceremony could begin.
The rows of white stone columns that flanked the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier were yet another fragment of a Polish royal palace razed by German hands -- for Saxon Palace, Germany recalled bleakly, had met the same brutal end as its elder sister not far to the north. Only the archways that sheltered the tomb had been spared destruction. But the tomb itself had survived, as much a testament to Poland’s own endurance as it was a memorial to his nameless fallen, and on this occasion it was only proper that the Federal Republic of Germany should come to pay his respects to both.
The wreath-laying proceeded without incident. Germany kept his eyes fixed forward the entire time, watching the ceremony with his best expression of grave dignity. When the time came to honour the dead, he placed his hand over his heart -- the civilian’s salute -- and beside him Poland snapped to attention and brought two fingers up to touch the peak of his cap in proper military style. The green-and-white wreath would keep its solitary vigil after they departed.
The site of the second wreath-laying ceremony was only a few minutes away, and once more Germany found himself riding in the Chancellor’s vehicle as if he had planned to do so all along. There were no attempts at conversation this time; the Chancellor was silent, and Germany sat stiffly across from him, all but counting every breath until the motorcade drew to a stop at their destination.
The Monument to the Heroes of the Warsaw Ghetto stood alone in an open square. Germany had seen pictures of it before, but as he stepped out of the car he felt that the black-and-white photographs he remembered were a poor representation of the real thing. From a distance, the memorial had looked like a tall grey slab of stone, very different from the white-columned tomb they had just visited. At this closer range, though, the granite wall was only the backdrop to a tall bronze sculpture of a group of figures -- men and women and children, set against the lighter grey stone on the bottom half of the memorial and darker stone at the top.
(Warsaw must be pacified, came the order. But before then, there had been another order, and those who resisted it took to the streets with every weapon they could make or muster. House by house, the Jewish ghetto of Warsaw had fallen in cinders and ash, and where it had stood the open square with its stone and bronze monument held the memory of those who had fought and died, or fought and lived to fight again.)
With a Human Face [8b/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-08-25 14:17 (UTC) - ExpandWith a Human Face [8c/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-08-25 14:19 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [8c/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-08-25 16:11 (UTC) - ExpandRe: With a Human Face [8c/?]
(Anonymous) - 2013-08-25 19:27 (UTC) - Expand