Braasing the Bladunkers [Jonas]

[Niamh Dunlevy]

OOC: Title translation from Shelta (to the best of my ability) is "Feeding the Prisoners".

Country: Southwestern England, Great Britain
Current Time: 17:17
Weather Conditions: Overcast and rain-snowing, your typical English weather. Precipitation is heavy, and freezing rain is expected overnight. The mercury hovers between 3 degrees above and four degrees below zero, changing almost constantly. Everything feels damp.


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She had cooked food for prisoners before. Usually, it was leftovers reheated, or a bunch of things mixed into one odd, supposedly nutritious meal. It was as routine as cooking for the big boys, the men who went to the front lines and fought off the hated German foe; however, never had she been asked to deliver the meals. The job was horrid, with prisoners sometimes screaming threats and throwing food back at the ladies, some girls running up from the cells as they screamed their lungs out. So many times had she heard the stories, she had grown disgusted by and almost fearful of the job.

Thus, when Niamh Mairi Dunlevy was suddenly assigned to prisoner-feeding duty, she could've ripped Section Leader Fell's head off right then and there.

As she made her way down the stairs to the cells of the 3ID's on-base prison, Niamh murmured the Lord's Prayer in Shelta and crossed herself. The place was miserable, dirty and cold, but it served its purpose well. Several prisoners sat down there, muttering amongst themselves and throwing looks Niamh's way, including a few unruly Allied soldiers. From what Niamh had heard, there had been an incident in the mess earlier that day, one that involved several officers brawling over the last piece of chocolate cake. When the Pavee asked why such high-ranking men would act so childish, Fell said that everyone was tired of the war. Tempers were running high as of late, especially with numerous Allied operations going on in the rest of Europe, and the recent shipment of prisoners that had come in had many trigger fingers itching.

Hastily entering the cell block where the prisoners of war were kept, Niamh was surprised to see only a few amongst the numerous cells. Had only a few Germans survived the attack on Belgium's Rocherath? The Pavee woman had heard several versions of the story, ranging from one prisoner to one hundred, but most of this was kitchen gossip. No wonder she had only a few bowls to serve - Niamh was worried for a minute that she would have to split them amongst the cells.

Gathering up as much courage as she could, Niamh called out to the POWs, "Dinnerthime, men!" Several faces perked up, numerous pairs of eyes filled with rage and hate darting towards the young woman. Keeping her face even, Niamh moved slowly forward, heading towards a nearby cell where an officer was being kept.

[Jonas Merhoff]

Jonas rolled over on his uncomfortable cot and stared out through the cell. He looked vacant as he lay there just studying the bars. In his head though, he wasn't thinking about any bars. Prison had given him a lot of time to think...maybe too much. He had messed up in Rocherath... and now he ended up here. He just prayed the German war effort was going well and that he would be welcomed back with open arms. Of course, Jonas doubted the latter.

During his time here, he had been studying the enemy. They had a lot of heart, that much was true. It would probably be impossible to break them, but with force the German Empire could prevail. Did Jonas really want that though? No. He felt like he was forcing his leader's crazed ideas and regular load of crap onto the rest of the word and knew that that wasn't right deep down. Then again, what should Jonas know about being right or wrong.

Time passed by and Jonas's endless gaze was unfazed until he heard the voice of a woman. "Dinnerthime, men!" Her voice had a distinct accent to it, Irish perhaps? She approached his cell with the usual, some reheated leftovers on a tray. It was more than enough for Jonas. He was just thankful he got anything. He heard the other prisoner screaming and threatening the woman with crude words and insults. It would be a pleasant surprise to find a man like Jonas behind these bars then. He got off of his cot, slightly covered with filth. His prison clothes weren't in that great of shape, he had been coated with a thin layer of dirt and grim, and his hair was just a slight bit messy. But he wasn't a wreck like most of the men in the prison.

He accepted the meal thankfully and took it from her with a gentle grace, before nodding and her and muttering "Danke." He smiled at her and then began to turn away. "Ignore the other men. They just revert back into animals when they are caged. Can't really blame them though. Have a good day, miss." Returning to his cot, he plopped down onto it and began to eat his meal. He actually looked formal eating his meal in his dirty clothes in his prison cell. He didn't check to see if the woman was still outside watching him.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

The Germans growled and snapped at her like animals, throwing English and German insults at her in their rough, heavily-accented voices. Their eyes were hungry and savage, and they crawled or shuffled up to the front of their cells like animals, their yellowish teeth glinting in the light that came from the doorway. Niamh swerved away from their as the prisoners' filthy hands reached out to grab, and came to the front of the officer's cell.

"Excuse me, sir," said Niamh as the man rolled over, "buth I'm 'ere wit' dinner. Ith's lefthovers, like lasth thime."

With a soldier's smart step, the officer came up to the cell, dirtied and shabby-looking. Niamh could not help but frown; did the Third Geneva Convention not say that prisoners were entitled to living in a hygienic environment? He looked terrible, to say the least, and Niamh would make a request to the 3ID's commanders for an inspection of the cells. If the American division was caught breaking the Geneva Conventions, then their commander - Captain Patterson, if she was correct - would be severely punished.

"Danke," said the German officer, taking his meal through the small opening in the cell's middle, one that could be opened with the cell door's keys. It was specially made so that food could be passed through. "Ignore the other men. They just revert back into animals when they are caged. Can't really blame them though. Have a good day, miss."

Niamh was about to say, "I can'th really blame them, eit'er," but held her tongue. Miss Fell gave her strict orders not to become friendly with the enemy; the Pavee could be charged with fraternization if she did. Besides, from what Niamh heard, the Nazis were a racist lot, and imprisoned everyone they saw as "unfit". Rumour had it that their definition of "unfit" included anyone called a "Gypsy", and the young woman mentally shuddered at the thought. If she was ever captured by the Germans, and they heard her being called a "Gypsy" somewhere....

"VOMAN!" yelled a prisoner. "VE'RE HUNGRY! Bring us food, you vittle Englisch - "

"C-coming!" replied Niamh before he could finish, hating how her voice broke. She hurried over to the nearby cells, hesitating for a moment because of the men's stares, but quickly moved over to the cells and opened the "feeding door". The German inside immediately yanked the tray out of the fingers that passed it to him, and Niamh pulled her hand back abruptly. Within seconds, she had locked the "feeding door" again, and was on to the next cell.

[Jonas Merhoff]

Jonas picked at his food, but ate the unrecognizable heap of food. Was it chicken or pork? He couldn't tell and didn't care. As he listened to the sounds of the prison, his eyes drifted upward pitifully to the woman before him. Some lowlife German soldier was threatening her to bring him food. Despicable, Jonas thought to himself as he shook his head. The sad part was listening to the innocent woman's voice crack. He grimaced before focusing his attention back onto his food. He liked her, she treated him with the respect he would give her. That couldn't be said to your typical American soldier who would come in for laughs to pick on one of the German soldiers.

Out of the corner of the cell, he watched the events unfold. The ungrateful soldier tore the tray out of he hands almost as if he was going to pull her in next. Jonas scowled across into the cell as the woman moved on to the next cell. Jonas wondered how long he would have to stay in here... how long he would have to helplessly watch life unfold before him. How much longer could he take of this? It just wasn't him at all to sit back and do nothing.

That was exactly what he did though. He sat there and did nothing. Finished his lousy meal and then went over and placed it at the front of the door in case anyone came back to collect them. He could always help them getting the tray if they needed it, so he relaxed and rolled over onto his back again. His eyes scanned the ceiling as if there were some hidden message to it, but there wasn't. How long had he already gazed at this ceiling, disconnected from the rest of the world. It was impossible to count... and he didn't want to.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Giving each tray to each prisoner was slightly painful, in a way best described as like swallowing a burr: hurting even when it was done and over with. They were Nazis - racist, hateful, overly-proud Nazis - and she still treated them well, even if they mistreated her. Those fierce eyes of theirs glared at her as she walked back to the officer's cell, the man having finished it in roughly twenty minutes. Despite the sameness and general tastelessness of his meal, he ate it with gusto, and that always surprised Niamh.

"Well, you're done fasth, sir," Niamh said with a small smile, just for politeness's sake. She slowly bent down and pulled the tray out from the gap beneath the bars. "I'm sorry ith thastes so dull, buth t'e sthandard army feed 'round here has a thendency tho be like t'at. I'm sorry fer any inconveniences, an' please, don'th hesithate tho ask fer a shower...no offense meanth. T'e Geneva Conventhion's makers would probably be horrified tho see ya all scraggly and sthuff, so if you need anyt'ing t'at falls wit'in t'at cathegory, leth me or someone else know an' we'll thalk to t'e CO."

"Ho abot letting uss ot, you Englisch serwing vench?" a German soldier nearby snarled. "Can your Geneva Conwention do dat?"

Niamh bristled slightly at the comment. Turning abruptly on her heel, she snapped back, "No, I cannoth do t'at, under my loyalthies tho t'e Commonwealt' an' His Majesthy t'e King. Please refrain from asking such questhions in t'e future, sir."

The woman then turned back around, and gave a polite nod to the officer in the cell. She went over to the nearest cell, the one with the German that had made the remark, but then quickly turned back around to face the officer.

"Excuse me again, sir," began Niamh, "buth if I may ask, could I please have your name and ra - "

Chink!

"AAAAAH!"

The tray the officer had been using fell to the ground with a clatter. Niamh stumbled backwards and clutched at the ground, where a filthy shiv - a makeshift, knife-like weapon - was jabbed into the ground. All around her, the German soldiers laughed loudly, savagely, as Niamh looked nervously as the small blade. From within his cell, the German who had attacked her was looking at her hungrily, a feral look raging in his eyes - she had strayed too close, not looking when she should have, and he had ambushed her when her back was turned.

"Why you liththle..." began Niamh, her voice an angry growl. The German let out a harsh bark of amusement.

"Vhat, voman?" he began. "You vouldn't let me ot."

[Jonas Merhoff]

The woman had finished handing out all the food for the prisoners and returned to the Hauptmann's cell. She spoke to him about the food and apologizing for it, but it was hard for the German to understand completely, even if he did have a significant understanding of the English language. He thanked her for her kindness, considering her words as she left. Maybe she would be kinder then most of the guards around here.

Jonas got up and sat on his unpleasant cot and rubbed his eyes thoroughly. Her voice caught his attention again as he glanced upwards at her. His eyes widened, as he could see the man across from him reaching out a shiv for her. He tried to open his mouth to warn her, but everything had happened so quickly. She stumbled backwards and landed on the harsh floor. Had she been stabbed?

He shot up from his cot and strolled over to the bars of the cell and barked out, "Soldier, leave her alone. Where is your honor? Your dignity. Look how far you have fallen." The laughter died down as the men took those words in. At least the ones who could understand the English. The ones that couldn't took the cue from their comrades and retreated back into their cell. The German across from him shot him a glance, but Jonas held it without budging until he too grunted and returned to the back of his cell.

Was it his reputation or simply his words? Jonas cared little, for the only person who had showed any kindness in the last few days lay before him attacked by an ignorant cellmate. Kneeling down, he muttered to the woman, "Are you alright, miss?" His English wasn't flawed like the other men, but it was still easy to tell it was a German speaking it. Years upon years of service had allowed him to somewhat master the English language.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

His words seemed to split the air like a whip-cracking, the Germans backing away into their cells like wary dogs. Niamh's hand immediately went for the shiv, snatching it off the ground before the German in the cell did. Shoving herself backwards, the woman quickly rose to her feet, still breathing a little heavily from the sudden scare. Thank God she hadn't been standing any closer to the cell.

"Are you all right, miss?" said the German officer, sounding genuinely concerned. Slightly surprised, Niamh turned to face him, taking a few wide strides away from the stab-happy soldier. One of hrt hands brushed a few strands of loose hair out of the Pavee's face, while the other tucked the shiv into the first-aid kit/handbag at Niamh's side.

"Y-yes, sir...justh a lil' shaken up from t'e incident. I'm afther goin' tho 'ave tho thell m'superiors abouth t'is, t'ough, sir; I'm 'sposed tho leth 'em know abouth anyt'ing bad t'at happens down 'ere. Ith mighth noth bode well fer t'e lad, buth I 'ave orders, an' if I didn'th say anyt'ing, t'ey mighth call me a thraithor."

There was a harsh snort from the stab-happy German's cell. Niamh turned her head and glared at him, narrowing her eyes. "Well, ith's your faulth, lad! Ye should know bethther t'en to push ya luck when ye are a prisoner!" she snapped, huffing afterwards. She continued towards the exit, deciding to leave the trays where they were -

The Pavee halted, glancing over her shoulder. Something was...off...about the officer's hands. Curious, the young Volunteer walked over to the cell, and got down on one knee. When she saw the state of the man's hands, she grimaced; one hand was missing a finger, and both palms had symbols carved into them. There was a swastika, and then what looked like a zed with a dash through its middle - it was not unlike the one Niamh had seen on a paratrooper's face some time ago.

"T'at looks sore," said Niamh. "How'd ya geth ith, if I may ask? Don'th thell me m'boys did t'at. I mean, t'ey can be cruel, buth t'at is insane...."

[Jonas Merhoff]

She recovered very well for someone who had almost been stabbed and retained her composure. She yanked the shiv away, lucky to be alive. It would be a poor sight to watch such a young woman's live end in the hands of a brute. Jonas watched intently as he spoke to him completely understanding. Prisoners aren't meant to kill the guards and he nodded his head as she snapped at the man. That dog bit her... and it was only a matter of time before he bit her again. "It would be good to see such a man disciplined or he will lose all memory of the discipline of his army."

It wasn't her duty to strike up conversation with the prisoners and so she concluded the matter and walked away. But something caught her site... his hands. She was walking back to him now and curious...very curious. "T'at looks sore. How'd ya geth ith, if I may ask? Don'th thell me m'boys did t'at. I mean, t'ey can be cruel, buth t'at is insane...." That much was true... it was insane. Looking down at his hands he saw where his left pinky met it's end and the swastika and 2nd SS symbol decorated his hand. Decorated? No, they were carved in forever. Those scars would never heal. Never.

"No, ma'am. It wasn't the prisoners. I had a bit of a run in with a...certain Doctor back home caused by some run away. It's a bit long and hard to explain, but this is just one of the results," Jonas murmured extending his his hands out of the cell palm down. He flipped them over to reveal the other side of the marks. The scars ran deep and would be a constant reminder of how he had risked his life for that girl. He grimaced a little and his hands retreated back into the cell. "Forgive me, but I don't like to talk about it that much."

[Cpl. Joe Claude]

The day had felt damp since the morning, rain hung in the air and as Joe walked, it began to rain; he pulled his trench coat around him more as he walked along the road. He was walking towards the prisons, one of his COs had asked him to translate a few things to a certain Jonas Merhoff as Joe spoke fluent German having been brought up there since he was little.

God it was bloody freezing, the paratrooper’s teeth chatted as he walked, his arms crossing over his chest, the rain dripped down his neck and on to his back, horrible…horrible weather.
He finally came to the prison block, it looked awful in there. Must be meal time, Joe looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly half past five, yes…dinner time. Joe had eaten already up in the Mess hall, he had only had three pieces of bread with butter on, and he hadn’t felt like anything else. A fight had broken out; a few men had wanted a piece of the chocolate cake that only had one slice left. Joe had watched from afar, it was quiet fun, watching higher ranking men get taken off to the cells.

He entered the main block, grinning slightly at the Allied soldiers who sat, looking rather sorry for themselves. ”Having fun guys?” Joe said tautly, they started swearing back at him and he shook his head, walking quickly on. He heard shouts coming from within the POW cell, peering in; he saw that there was a woman who had just been shouted at by a few German scums. Joe saw that a lady was in there, talking to a soldier. He had met her in the pub a few weeks back, she had been doing something with the docks, and she obviously had found a better job as a volunteer by the looks of things.

Joe entered the cell and saw eyes turning to him, ”Vat is vith your face?” came a shout from one of the soldiers, giving Joe an evil smile. ”Geschlossen ihm oder I' ll Eintragfaden Sie” Joe spat back in German to the man who raised an eyebrow and went back to talking to his mates. ”Which of you are Jonas Merhoff?” he asked, smiling slightly at the lady. ”Hello mam.” he tipped his hat to Niamh as he scanned the faces, finally resting on the man who she was talking to. He came towards the pair, his eyes went to the man's hands. The man had marks on them, marks like the ones on Joe's face. "Those marks." Joe muttered, forgetting he was meant to be a scary American soldier, his eyes softened. He looked into the eyes of the German, "A doctor?" he had caught the end of their conversation.

Translations

Shut it or I’ll shoot you

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Niamh paled slightly, knowing she had stepped into forbidden territory. So he, a seemingly-respected officer and one of the Nazis, had suffered under Nazi brutality...but why? Did misbehaving soldiers get the same treatment as, say, an Allied prisoner of war? If so, then that was incredible, in a terrifying and horrifying way. The Pavee couldn't imagine why someone would stoop so low, but as many had said, "War was war." Laws such as the Geneva Conventions could easily be ignored if one wished for such.

The man pulled his hands back into his cell, grimacing. Niamh frowned as he said he didn't want to discuss it, and she nodded. "Sure, sir," the woman said, "I respecth t'at. I'm noth abouth tho go pokin' at yer privathe life, ith justh wouldn'th be righth. Unlike whath yer propaganda mighth say, we all ain'th t'at bad up 'ere in t'e Allied counthries - many o' us 'ave goth a sense o' honour."

Suddenly, the metal door to the POW cells creaked open, signifying the entrance of another. Niamh's head snapped to her right, where a pair of eyes beneath a head of brown hair were peaking back at her. A familiar Corporal's face came into view, and Niamh saluted as he walked in. He was only one notch higher then her on the ranking scale, but he was still higher in rank, and demanded respect from those below him. She winced slightly as he spat in German at a nearby soldier, slightly caught off guard by the familiar scars on the Corporal's face when he looked at her.

"Evening, sir," Niamh said, just after the man politely tipped his hat. Now she remembered where he was from - quite a few months back, the soldier had met her in a pub, shamefully hiding his scars from the public. Joe Claude was his name, and he had proved to be a quiet soul, one who only wanted to be left alone. Now, he seemed more confident; had Corporal Claude gotten over...whatever had happened to him, that certain whatever most likely linked to his scars? That was also most likely, and Niamh was happy to see him looking more certain about himself.

At the sight of the scars, though, the American's face changed. Where it had been business-like, stern and almost frightening before, it was now soft. His eyes had a nostalgic look to them, one that was almost uncomfortable to look at, and betrayed what he must have been feeling inside. When he asked if the officer - apparently, named Jonas Merhoff - had had his hands carved up by a soldier, something clicked in Niamh's brain. She leaned forward slightly, inspecting the marks on Corporal Claude's face, then knelt down and looked at Jonas's.

Neat edges. Professionally cut. Almost geometrically straight lines, but with a hint of a rough edge. Niamh could not help but say, "...I'd t'ink so, sir. You know somet'ing, 'cause yer scars and his look...familiar...."

[Jonas Merhoff]

It was obvious someone had entered the cell area judging by the creaking of the metal door and the taunting voices of German soldiers. The volunteer worker stood before him a bit pale and not wanting to intrude on the Hauptmann's privacy. But out of the corner of his eye... something caught his attention. An American soldier with similar scars had approached stern and businesslike only to be betrayed by his emotions. "A doctor?" was all the man could managed as he stood there studying the German's hands.

"...I'd t'ink so, sir. You know somet'ing, 'cause yer scars and his look...familiar...." The woman spoke after greeting her superior, a mere Corporal. She answered the question all three of them knew, Erhard Strumfelder's precise way of marking his most hated prisoners was all too familiar. Like branding cattle one might say, so he could always hunt his property down. That thought sent a shiver down the Hauptmann's spine. Even if Jonas Merhoff was the Emperor of the World, Erhard Sturmfelder would hunt him down for all eternity. And so, Jonas would do his best to return the favor.

"So, you met the infamous Erhard Strumfelder..." Jonas spoke finally, "and any enemy of of Erhard Strumfelder is a friend of mine." He extended his right hand, the one with the pinky still in place to shake the man's hand. He did it slow and cautiously as not to startle the man with the rifle. That was always a mistake no matter who you might be. It was an awkward sight seeing the two scarred men standing face to face trying to shake hands.

[Cpl. Joe Claude]

The volunteer had knelt down to look at Joe’s face, Joe glanced at her and then at the soldier’s hand. The lines were exactly the same as the ones on Joe’s face apart from on his hand not face like Joe. The Corporal bit his lip. ”They do…” he muttered, still staring at the hand and then putting another hand to his face, tracing the lines on there to the one’s on the hand. They were exactly the same, the lines were professionally done.

The German now spoke, Joe watched him. ”Yes, Strumfelder and I have met.” he nodded, wincing slightly at the thought of their last meeting. An enemy of Strumfelder was a friend to this man? His hand now extended towards Joe, the hand that had all the fingers in tact. The man did it slowly, Joe watched him carefully.
The hand was out, stretched out in a sign of friendship. Joe took it carefully and gave it a firm shake. ”I take it that you have also met Strumfelder, judging by your hand.” he stated the obvious but you never knew what went on inside German’s heads. It was indeed an awkward sight, the two enemies shaking hands like they were good friends, not one in a cell and one outside. His smile faded as he heard laughter and taunting behind him. He turned, seeing three POWs looking back at them in amusement.

Joe let go of Jonas’s hand and narrowed his eyes, hating the men for laughing at the two enemies. ”Lassen Sie mich nicht dieses verwenden!” he shouted in German at them, pointing at his gun, looking over at the woman. ”I’ve seen you before mam…in a pub didn’t I?” he asked, trying to include her in the conversation as he felt that she may be left out as the two men talked. He looked down at his hands, scrunching them into balls as he remembered the pain that he went through.

”The SS lines and the Swastika…Strumfelder’s trade mark…you know, he tried to blow me up in a hospital in France, he nearly killed a little girl as well, poor little thing, she was scared stiff.” he shrugged, realizing that he was meant to be terrifying. ”If someone came in right now…what would they thin hey?” he shook his head and shuffled his feet a bit.

Translations

Do not make me use this!

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Erhard Strumfelder. The name was spoken with much contempt, and apparently, with good reason - he was behind the scars on the bodies of these men. Niamh felt a bubble of anger swell up within her, and glared at the scars with hard eyes. However, her expression changed when the men shook hands, the woman looking surprised when Jonas called Corporal Claude a friend. It was so...oxymoronic.

Corporal Claude winced as he spoke of meeting Strumfelder, and Niamh now understood why his face was scarred. The girls had said that an American Corporal had been tortured, returned to the Allies by a kindly Nazi deserter. Not many had seen him afterwards, and rumour had it that he had hidden himself away because of his scars. Those rumours led to more rumours, some including an unknown girlfriend and a fortune in Nazi gold he had discovered; the kitchen gossip had been entertaining, to say the least. But now, in retrospect, Niamh found those rumours less and less amusing.

"I’ve seen you before mam…in a pub didn’t I?" asked the Corporal. Niamh snapped out of her train of thought, blinking owlishly for a moment. "Eh?" said she, "Ohhh...yeah, t'at's righth. We thalked o'er a boththle o' Coke, I 'member now. I hope ye 'ave been well, Corporal sir?"

Niamh then glanced down at the Jonas, just as Joe went on to talk about a hospital that had been blown up. The incident had been something mentioned once or twice in the kitchen, although Niamh didn't know much about it. However, several patients and nurses had died, and there had been quite a fuss amongst the higher-ups afterwards. The Strumfelder man was supposed to have done it...did the Nazis have no sense of shame? Only a cold-hearted man would destroy a building that sheltered the sick and wounded - at least, in the Pavee's opinion. She snorted, shaking her head, and looked up at Joe when he made a comment about what some would think of the current situation.

"Crazier t'en mosth t'ings, I t'ink," said the young woman. "Ith's a sthrange t'ing t'at's 'appening, and frankly, I dunno really whath t'e 'eck is goin' on, hehe."

[Jonas Merhoff]

Jonas watched the two converse between themselves, both a bit taken a back by the gesture of his hand. It wasn't a usual day two enemies shook hands in a prison, but then again these weren't usual circumstances. None of their chatting mattered to Jonas until he mentioned a little girl in France. There was a one in a million chance that was Adelheid, but any vision of "little girl" immediately comes out to Adelheid in Jonas's mind. After all, she said the Allies took her in but scared her and then she left because they were "bad".

But a hospital in France? Jonas never recalled that part of the story. It seemed to tie together so cleverly though, as if fate had intended it. Strumfelder, the Coporal, Adelheid, and himself. He froze and tensed up tuning the laughter and noise of the world out. Then as quickly as it happened it ended and Jonas murmured, "She...wasn't a German orphan...was she? Named..." he paused. "Adelheid?"

He shook the thought from his head, it was foolish. It was just a little girl in a hospital who had been at the wrong place. Now he felt a bit foolish for saying it, as that was probably a name no one in the room but him even knew.Adelheid said she had been at some Allied camp, not a hospital. Or had she mixed the two up?

[Cpl. Joe Claude]

”I remember now!” Joe nodded as he indeed began to remember when he had seen the woman before, in the pub when he had felt very low just as he had got back from France, where he had been very ashamed of his scars, he still was really. ”I’ve been alright I guess mam, never will be the same but that’s life isn’t it.” Joe shrugged, being honest. He remembered the fire, him and Daniel Brennan and the little girl had escaped, the poor girl had been terrified of the fire, they had all seen two men run straight into the flames, screaming…the screams still sometimes rang in his ears late at night.

”I thought I’d never talk to a German again, I’d only kill them, but obviously not. This is why this war is so terrible, we are all just normal men aren’t we...well, apart from Strumfelder…Strumfelder was just mad.” he smiorked slightly.

The German now spoke again, said the little girl’s name, ”It was something like that yes…her name was Adelheid…she spoke about meeting soldiers…Mac and Stephen…and…yeah, she was small with black hair…why do you know her?” this would be really odd and slightly scary that this German had heard of the little girl and so had Joe, they both had scars on their bodies from Erhard Strumfelder and Strumfelder had effected their lives…”By the way, I suppose I am like you Jonas, my parents are German Jews you see, so I am a German in a way…and a Jew in a way…but yeah, this really is an odd…” he shrugged his shoulders and knelt down, kneeling on the floor. He looked at his watch, taking out a piece of paper from his pocket and showing Jonas.

”She drew this, it’s of her, me and a friend Daniel Brennan, she sent it to me before she disappeared…” he waved the piece of paper in front of Jonas slowly, showing it a bit to Niamh as well.