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frequentpondcrosser · 2 years

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#poetry #w.h. auden #September 1 1939 #The Just

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therealtruthalways · 13 days

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United States Patent and Trademark Office

0462795 – July 16, 1891 – Method Of Producing Rain-Fall

803180 – October 31, 1905 – Means for Producing High Potential Electrical Discharges

1103490 – August 6, 1913 – Rain-Maker

1225521 – September 4, 1915 – Protecting From Poisonous Gas In Warfare

1279823 – September 24, 1918 – Process and Apparatus for Causing Precipitation by Coalescence of Aqueous Particles Contained in the Atmosphere

1284982 – November 19, 1918 – Process and Apparatus for Procuring and Stimulating Rainfall

1338343 – April 27, 1920 – Process And Apparatus For The Production of Intense Artificial Clouds, Fogs, or Mists

1358084 – November 9, 1920 – Method of Producing Fog-Screens

1619183 – March 1, 1927 – Process of Producing Smoke Clouds From Moving Aircraft

1665267 – April 10, 1928 – Process of Producing Artificial Fogs

1892132 – December 27, 1932 – Atomizing Attachment For Airplane Engine Exhausts

1895765 – January 31, 1933 – Artificial Production of Fog

1928963 – October 3, 1933 – Electrical System And Method

1957075 – May 1, 1934 – Airplane Spray Equipment

1993316 – March 5, 1935 – Apparatus for and Method of Producing Oil Fog

2052626 – September 1, 1936 – Method of Dispelling Fog

2097581 – November 2, 1937 – Electric Stream Generator – Referenced in 3990987

2173756 – September 19, 1939 – Process of Producing Fog or Mist by Partial and Flameless Combustion

2352677 – July 4, 1944 – Artificial Fog Production

2476171 – July 18, 1945 – Smoke Screen Generator

2409201 – October 15, 1946 – Smoke Producing Mixture

2480967 – September 6, 1949 – Aerial Discharge Device

2527230 – October 24, 1950 – Method of Crystal Formation and Precipitation

2527231 – October 24, 1950 – Method of Generating Silver Iodide Smoke

2550324 – April 24, 1951 – Process For Controlling Weather

2582678 – June 15, 1952 – Material Disseminating Apparatus For Airplanes

2611992 – September 30, 1952 – Engine Exhaust Operated Fluent Material Distributor

2614083 – October 14, 1952 – Metal Chloride Screening Smoke Mixture

2633455 – March 31, 1953 – Smoke Generator

2688069 – August 31, 1954 – Steam Generator – Referenced in 3990987

2721495 – October 25, 1955 – Method And Apparatus For Detecting Minute Crystal Forming Particles Suspended in a Gaseous Atmosphere

2730402 – January 10, 1956 – Controllable Dispersal Device

2903188 – April 2, 1956 – Control of Tropical Cyclone Formation

2756097 – July 24, 1956 – Process for Weather Control

2801322 – July 30, 1957 – Decomposition Chamber for Monopropellant Fuel – Referenced in 3990987

2835530 – May 20, 1958 – Process for the Condensation of Atmospheric Humidity and Dissolution of Fog

2871344 – January 27, 1959 – Long Distance Communication System

2881335 – April 7, 1959 – Generation of Electrical Fields

2908442 – October 13, 1959 – Method For Dispersing Natural Atmospheric Fogs And Clouds

2962450 – November 29, 1960 – Fog Dispelling Composition

2963975 – December 13, 1960 – Cloud Seeding Carbon Dioxide Bullet

3019989 – February 6, 1962 – Atmospheric Space Charge Modification

2986360 – May 30, 1962 – Aerial Insecticide Dusting Device

3046168 – July 24, 1962 – Chemically Produced Colored Smokes

3056556 – October 2, 1962 – Method of Artificially Influencing the Weather

3126155 – March 24, 1964 – Silver Iodide Cloud Seeding Generator

3127107 – March 31, 1964 – Generation of Ice-Nucleating Crystals

3131131 – April 28, 1964 – Electrostatic Mixing in Microbial Conversions

3140207 – July 7, 1964 – Pyrotechnic Composition

3174150 – March 16, 1965 – Self-Focusing Antenna System

3234357 – February 8, 1966 – Electrically Heated Smoke Producing Device

3274035 – September 20, 1966 – Metallic Composition For Production of Hydroscopic Smoke

3284005 – November 8,1966 – Weather Control by Artificial Means

3300721 – January 24, 1967 – Means For Communication Through a Layer of Ionized Gases

3313487 – April 11, 1967 – Cloud Seeding Apparatus

3338476 – August 29, 1967 – Heating Device For Use With Aerosol Containers

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girlactionfigure · 3 months

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THURSDAY HERO: Herbert Zipper

Herbert Zipper was a conductor and composer who founded a secret orchestra at Dachau, and wrote a song that became an anthem for death camp inmates.

Born in 1904 to an affluent Jewish family in Vienna, Herbert was a musical prodigy who studied at the prestigious Vienna Music Academy with the great composer Richard Strauss. He found employment as a conductor and composer for cabaret shows.

Germany annexed Austria in 1938 and immediately started persecuting Jewish citizens. Herbert was arrested that year and sent by the SS to Dachau, where he became a “horse,” pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with heavy rocks for 12 hours a day. One of the most talented composers in Europe was doing the work of an animal.

Herbert was not the only music man in Dachau. All the Jewish members of the Munich Philharmonic – comprising most of the orchestra – were also incarcerated there. Herbert enlisted the other musicians in an audacious, even insane, plan. They would make instruments and create an orchestra, right there at Dachau.

How could anybody create musical instruments in a concentration camp? They combed the camp for discarded pieces of wood and metal and fashioned eleven primitive yet functional instruments. At least one guard helped the musicians; Herbert requested a piece of wire for a string instrument, and later found it under his pillow.

Herbert’s Dachau orchestra performed concerts for the other inmates every Sunday, in an outhouse. It’s hard to imagine the experience of listening to sublime music in a filthy environment, while knowing they could be all killed for their participation. Herbert said that the concerts were not for entertainment, but rather to bring purpose and even a bit of normalcy back to their lives.

Noted playwright Jura Soyfer, an old friend of Herbert’s from his cabaret days, was also at Dachau. Together they wrote “Dachaulied” (Dachau song), with Herbert composing the haunting music in his head and Jura penning the sad, sardonic lyrics inspired by the concentration camp motto “Work will make you free.” They thought that writing the song would help them maintain some dignity in an atmosphere of constant humiliation and demonization. Herbert deliberately made the song difficult to learn, so that his fellow inmates would have to use all of their concentration and thereby mentally escape from their horrific surroundings. Amazingly, the Nazis never discovered the secret orchestra.

At the end of 1938, Herbert and Jura were transferred to Buchenwald where they taught other inmates the Dachau song. Soon after, Jura died of typhus at age 26, and Herbert lovingly prepared his body for burial. At this time Hitler hadn’t yet began to implement his “Final Solution” to kill all the Jews, which started in 1941. Herbert’s father Emil was in London, desperately trying to get a visa for Herbert and his two brothers to escape Austria. Miraculously, Emil was able to secure his sons’ release from Buchenwald, and they joined him in Paris on March 16, 1939.

During all this time, Herbert’s fiancee, dancer Trudl Dubsky, was working in Manila, in the Philippines. She recommended him for the job of conductor of the Manila Symphony Orchestra, and he was hired, traveling there in September, 1939. Herbert and Trudl were married on October 1. Although it wasn’t a world-class orchestra at the time, Herbert enjoyed working with the Manila Orchestra and under his leadership it improved dramatically. Life was good for Herbert and Trudl until January 1942, when the Japanese army invaded the Philippines and occupied Manila. It was a brutal occupation and once again Herbert was arrested, this time for refusing to conduct the orchestra for Japanese military officers. He was incarcerated and harshly interrogated for four months before being released. For the next three years Herbert and Trudl survived hand-to-mouth, owning no belongings and traveling frequently in search of safe haven in a country at war.

The most difficult period was the Battle of Manila in early 1945. More than once the building where they took shelter was bombed by the Japanese artillery and they escaped with only seconds to spare. In the end of February they were living with hundreds of other displaced people in a seven-story building in Manila that had neither electricity or water. Herbert volunteered to get water every day, a dangerous and difficult undertaking. On the early morning of February 26, 1945, Herbert was on his water run when he saw an opportunity to reach the American front line, and he rushed across a battle field to do it. While there he received a crucial piece of information: the apartment building where he was staying was due to be bombed by the Allies within fifteen minutes! Herbert desperately explained that 800-1000 civilians were inside the building! Due to his pleas, the bombardment was delayed for 45 minutes, giving him just enough time to get back to the building and rescue everyone inside including Trudl.

Until Japan was defeated on September 2, 1945, Herbert worked secretly for the American army under the command of General Douglas MacArthur, transmitting valuable information about Japanese shipping schedules by shortwave radio. When Japan finally surrendered, Herbert organized and conducted a concert of Beethoven’s “Eroica” symphony, a goal he’d set during the darkest hours at Dachau. The concert was performed in a bombed-out church.

Herbert and Trudl immigrated to America in 1946, joining the rest of his family. He co-founded and conducted the Brooklyn Symphony Orchestra, and organized another orchestra especially to give free concerts for public school children. Students called Herbert, who had no children of his own, “Papa Z.” For the rest of his life he volunteered and supported arts education for young people.

Herbert was close friends with poet Langston Hughes and they collaborated on an opera together, “Barrier.” Trudl worked as a ballet tacher. They moved to Chicago in 1953, where Herbert founded the Music Center of the North Shore, and then to Los Angeles, where Herbert directed the School of Performing Arts at USC.

Interviewed by a Los Angeles Times reporter at the end of his life, Herbert said “We have to see the world as it is, but we have to think about what the world could be. That’s what the arts are about.”

Herbert is the subject of a biography, “Dachau Song: The Twentieth Century Odyssey of Herbert Zipper,” and a documentary that was nominated for an Academy Award. His beloved wife Trudl died of lung cancer in 1976. He continued his music for two more decades, conducting his last concert in 1996. Herbert Zipper died in Santa Monica in 1997.

For inspiring concentration camp inmates and inner-city schoolchildren with his music, and for saving hundreds of lives during the Japanese occupation of the Philippines, we honor Herbert Zipper as this week’s Thursday Hero.

Lyrics of Dachau Song:

Barbed wire fraught with death surrounds our world

On which a merciless heaven visits frost and sunburn.

Far from us are all joys, far our home, far the women

When mute we march to work, thousands in the gray dawn.

But we learned the Dachau motto and it made us hard as steel.

Be a man, comrade, remain human comrade

Do good work, pitch in, comrade

Because work, work will make you free!

#Thursday Hero #🎖

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mapsontheweb · 2 months

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Europe - September 1, 1939.

by aresten_dmp

#maps #aresten_dmp #igsourced #europe #1939

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majorhortonisonleaveinlondon · 29 days

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An updated (April 3, 2024 7:48am pst) list of WW2 movies and TV shows in chronological order

thought out WW2 -(Imitation Game 2014) -(The Book Thief 2013) -(The Zookeeper’s Wife 2017) -(The Pianist 2002)

1937

October 26, 1937 Defence of Sihang Warehouse (The Eight Hundred 2020)

December 13, 1937 Nanjing Massacre - (John Rabe 2009) - (The Flowers of War 2011)

1938

Fall of 1938 (Munich – The Edge of War 2022)

1939

Summer 1939 (Six Minutes to Midnight 2020)

September 3, 1939 King George VI first wartime speech (King’s Speech 2010)

September 17, 1939, Soviet Union Invitation of Poland (The Way Back 2010)

November 30, 1939 Soviet Union invades Finland (The Winter War 1989)

1940

April 9, 1940 Operation Weserübung -(April 9th [movie] 2015) -(King’s Choice 2016) -(Narvik 2022) -(War Sailors 2023)

April 27, 1940 (Into the White 2011)

June 4, 1940 -Churchill gives “We Shall Fight on the Beaches” speech (Darkest Hour 2017) -Dunkirk Evaluation (Dunkirk 2017)

July 10-October 31, 1940 Battle of Britain (Battle of Britain 1969)

1941

May 1941 (Call to Spy 2019)

June 22, 1941 Operation Barbarossa -(Fortress of War [The Brest Fortres 2010) -(Defiance 2008)

September 8, 1941, Siege of Leningrad begins. -(Battle of Leningrad [Saving Leningrad] 2019) -(Leningrad 2009)

October 1941 Battle of Moscow (The Last Frontier [The Final Stand] 2020)

October 1941 Battle of Sevastopol (Battle for Sevastopol 2015)

December 7, 1941, the Empire of Japan attacks Pearl Harbor (Tora! Tora! Tora! 1970)

December 8, 1941 Japan invades Shanghai International Settlement (Empire of the Sun 1987)

1942

January 20, 1942, Wannsee Conference (Conspiracy 2001)

February 1942 Battle of the Atlantic (Greyhound 2020)

February 1942 (The Railway Man 2013)

February 19, 1942, Bombing of Darwin (Australia 2008)

Spring 1942 (U-571 2000)

April 18, 1942 The Doolittle Raid (In Harm’s Way 2018)

June 4, 1942 Battle of Midway (Midway 2019)

1942 Summer Occupation of Jersey Island (Another Mother’s Son 2017 Prime)

July, 10 1942 Easy Company Trains in Camp Tocca (Band of Brothers 01x10 Currahee 2001)

July 21, 1942, Kokoda Track Campaign (Kokoda: 39th Battalion 2006)

August 7, 1942, 1st Marine Division land on Guadalcanal (The Pacific Ep. 1 Guadalcanal/Leckie 2010)

August 19, 1942, Dieppe Raid (Dieppe 1993)

August 23, 1942 Battle of Stalingrad begins (Stalingrad 1993)

September 1942 Formation of Troop 30 (Age of Heroes 2011)

September 18, 1942, 7th Marines Land on Guadalcanal (The Pacific Ep. 2 Basilone 2010)

Autumn of 1942 Battle of the Atlantic (Das Boot 1981)

October 18, 1942, Operation Grouse (Heavy Water War Ep. 2 2015)

November 8, 1942, Operation Torch (The Big Red One 1980)

November 10-17 1942 Vasily Zaytsev kills 225 German Soldiers during the Battle of Stalingrad (Enemy at the Gates 2001)

December 1942 The 1st Marine Division on Guadalcanal is relieved (The Pacific Ep. 3 Melbourne 2010)

December 15, 1942, Battle of Mount Austen (Thin Red Line 1998)

1943

March 13-14 1943, liquidation of the Kraków Ghetto -(Schindler’s List 1993)

April 17, 1943 Operation Mincemeat (Operation Mincemeat 2021)

April 19, 1943, beginning of the Warsaw Uprising (Uprising 2001)

May 4, 1943, Final Mission of The Memphis Bell (Memphis Bell 1990)

May 15, 1943, Salamo Arouch and his family arrive in Auschwitz Concentration Camp (Triumph of the Spirit 1989)

May 27, 1943 Louis Zamperini plane crashes on a search and rescue mission (Unbroken 2014)

May 30, 1943 first All-American Girls Professional Baseball League game played (A League of Their Own 1992)

June 25, 1943, 100th Bomb Group flew its first 8th Air Force combat mission (Master of the Air: Part One 2024)

July 1943 -(The Tuskegee Airmen 1995) -(The Liberator Ep. 1 2020) -(Heavy Water War Ep. 5 2015)

July 16, 1943, The 100th Bomb Group bombed U-Boats in Tronbhdim (Masters of the Air: Part Two 2024)

August 17, 1943 the 4th Bomb Wing of the 100th Bomb Group bombed Regenberg (Masters of the Air: Part Three 2024)

September 16, 1943, William Quinn and Charles Bailey leave Belgium (Masters of the Air: Part Four 2024)

September 18, 1943 John ‘Bucky’ Egan returns from leave to join the mission to bomb Munster (Master of the Air: Part Five 2024

October 14, 1943, John ‘Bucky’ Egan interrogated at Dulag Lut, Frankfurt Germany (Masters of the Air: Part Six 2024)

December 26, 1943, 1st Marine Division lands on Cape Gloucester (The Pacific Ep. 4 Gloucester/Pavuvu/Banika 2010)

1944

January 22, 1944, Battle of Anzio -(The Liberator Ep. 2 2020) -(Red Tails 2012) -(Anzio 1968)

February 20, 1944, Hydro Ferry bombing (Heavy Water War Ep. 6 2015)

March 7, 1944, Stalag Luft III Sagan, Germany, Germans find the concealed radio Bucky was using to learn news of the War (Master of the Air: Part Seven 2024)

March 24/25, 1944 Allied Mass Escape of Stalag Luft III (The Great Escape 1963)

June 1944 (Cross of Iron 1977)

June 6, 1944, 00:48 & 01:40 First airborne troops begin to land on Normandy (Band of Brothers 02x10 Day of Days 2001)

June 6, 1944, 06:30 D-Day landings -(Storming Juno 2010)

-(Saving Private Ryan 1998)

June 10, 1944, Easy Company Takes Carentan (Band of Brothers 03x10 Carentan 2001)

June 15-July 9, 1944 Battle of Saipan

-(Windtalkers 2002)

-(Oba: The Last Samurai 2011)

July, 1944 The Monuments Men land in Normandy (The Monuments Men 2014)

July 20, 1944 Operation Valkyrie (Valkyrie 2008)

August 12, 1944, The 332nd Fighter Group attack Radar stations in Southern France (Masters of the Air: Part Eight 2024)

September 15, 1944, U.S. Marines landed on Peleliu at 08:32 (the Pacific Ep. 5 2010)

September 16, 1944, U.S Marines take Peleliu Airfield (the Pacific Ep. 5 2010)

September 17, 1944, Operation Market Garden

-(Band of Brothers 04x10 Replacements 2001)

-(A Bridge Too Far 1977)

October 2, 1944 Battle of Scheldt (Forgotten Battle 2021)

October 12, 1944, Battle of Peleliu, Assault on Bloody Nose Ridge (the Pacific Ep. 7 Peleliu Hills 2010)

October 13, 1944, Rovaniemi public buildings were destroyed (Sisu 2022)

October 14, 1944, Erwin Rommel is arrested (Rommel 2012 Prime)

October 22/23, 1944, 2100 – 0200 Operation Pegasus (Band of Brothers 05x10 Crossroads 2001)

November 1944 middle of the Battle of Hürtgen Forest (When Trumpets Fade 1998)

December 16, 1944, Battle of the Bulge (Band of Brothers 06x10 Bastogne 2001)

December 1944 (Hart’s War 2002)

1945

January 2, 1945 (The Liberator Ep 3 2020)

January 10, 1945 (Attack Force Z)

January 13, 1945, Battle of Foy (Band of Brothers 07x10 The Breaking Point 2001)

January 30, 1945 The Raid at Cabanatuan (The Great Raid 2002)

February 14, 1945, David Webb rejoins the 506th in Haguenau (Band of Brothers 08x10 The Last Patrol 2001)

February 19, 1945, Battle of Iwo Jima starts. - (Letters from Iwo Jima 2006) - (The Pacific Ep. 8 Iwo Jima 2010) - (Flags of our Fathers 2006)

March 21, 1945, Operation Carthage (The Bombardment 2021)

April, 1945 (Fury 2014)

April 5, 1945, 506th Finds abandoned Concentration Camp (Band of Brothers 09x10 Why We Fight 2001)

April 26, 1945, near the end of the war in Europe (A Woman in Berlin 2008)

April 29, 1945, 45th Infantry Division liberated Dachau Concentration camp (The Liberator Ep. 4 2020)

May 2, 1945, Fall of Berlin -(Downfall 2004) -(Jojo Rabbit 2019)

May 1945 Battle of Okinawa -(Hacksaw Ridge 2016) -(The Pacific Ep. 9 Okinawa 2010)

May 7, 1945, Germany Surrenders V-E Day - (Master of the Air: Part Nine 2024) - (Band of Brothers 10x10 Points 2001)

July 30, 1945, USS Indianapolis sank. (USS Indianapolis 2016)

August 15, 1945, The Empire of Japan surrenders end of the War. -(Oppenheimer 2023) -(The Pacific Part Ten: Home 2010)

September 11, 1945 US Military search and Arrest Japanese Leaders for war crimes (Emperor 2012)

1946 April 29, 1946 Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal (Tokyo Trial 2016)

#band of brothers #masters of the air #the pacific #hbo war fandom #WW2 movies

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honoviadakai · 2 months

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I just realized something about some of the Hazbin characters…

Ok so real quick let’s make a list of when some of the cast died and roughly how old they were at their time of death

Alastor: 1933, 30s-40s

Husk: 1970s 60s-70s

Angel Dust: 1947, 30s

Niffty: 1950s, 22

Ok cool, let’s just fill in some blanks to get a rough idea of when everyone lived and died and what age they were at their times of death. (These are my headcanons, not official, use your own numbers if you want, it doesn’t change anything super drastically and you’ll see why)

Alastor:

Born: 1900

Died: 1933

Age: 33

Husk:

Born: 1900

Died: 1975

Age: 75

Angel Dust:

Born: 1909

Died: 1947

Age: 38

Niffty:

Born: 1933

Died: 1955

Age: 22

Ok we now have our dates. Cool.

Let’s do a quick history lesson and see what events were going on around these time periods.

WW1: July 28, 1914 – November 11, 1918

Prohibition: January 17, 1920 – December 5, 1933

The Great Depression: 1929–1941

WW2: September 1, 1939 – September 2, 1945

Cold War: March 12, 1947 – December 25, 1991

Civil Rights Movement: 1954-1968

Vietnam war: November 1, 1955 – April 30, 1975

…..do you see what I’m seeing???

They lived through some heavy shit

Husk in particular lived through damn near all these events, the only one he didn’t see all the way through was the Cold War. Genuinely amazed he’s not constantly shit faced from trying to forget some of these historical events cuz a lot of them weren’t a great time to be alive in.

No wonder they’re all so fucked up!

#Hazbin Hotel #hazbin hotel headcanon #Alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel alastor #Husk #Husker #hazbin hotel husk #Angel Dust #hazbin hotel angel dust #Niffty #hazbin hotel niffty

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pisupsala · 2 months

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Of All The Stars in The Sky | 19 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 8.8k

Library

Chapter 19 - It Had to Be You

“Do you feel… strange?” Emil phrases the question awkwardly. “Since the war, I mean.”

You pause and look up from the mushroom you had been inspecting before popping it out of the ground with your knife and placing it in the wicker basket on your arm. You nod.

Strange is a good word for it. You just don’t know if the world has become estranged or you.

It’s late autumn and still pleasantly warm. The sun is low, but your heavy white cable-knitted sweater is still a bit too warm. You haven’t spoken to Emil since you marched out of the hospital last June, so you were surprised when you received a letter from an estate in the northern mountains with an invitation to visit. It had your old address on it, but your downstairs neighbor forwarded it to you.

“I can’t be in the city anymore,” He admits with difficulty, eyes trained firmly on the forest path before you. His stance is casual, hands in pockets of his dark green pants, in stark contrast to his near-wavering tone. Emil left the army abruptly, and this is the closest he’s come to admit as to why. The tranquility of the forest and the smell of pine and moss are soothing. “It’s too… busy. Too many people, you know?”

“I understand,” You reply softly. Too many people, no oversight, and blocked escape paths. “I don’t feel like I really have a place anymore.”

“Yeah…”

Silence falls as you walk, looking around for more mushrooms. It’s only the two of you and the sounds of the forest.

“Are you still waiting?” He doesn’t elaborate. There is no need to. Your hand automatically moves to the pocket of your gray slacks. The metal of the bracelet is cool and familiar.

“I’m not sure if I’m waiting or just stuck,” You admit, smiling sadly. You should have given up by now.

For years, you thought everything was on hold temporarily, and you’d return to your life, classes, and books after the war. But you came to the realization you are not that person anymore. It’s a version of you that stayed behind on that dreary September day in 1939; you just didn’t realize until everything and everyone else returned. And now you’ve lost that; you no longer know where your place is. You’re not even really sure of who you are anymore.

The only time you were reminded of the person you once were, which made you believe that you still existed, was with Bradley. He so skillfully unwrapped you to the barest essentials. But when you go looking now, there’s nothing left – like it was only a fleeting illusion that existed between the two of you, a flash of a chemical reaction before it all went up in smoke.

It’s like you’re in stasis. Again.

“Do you still hope?” There is no bitterness or accusation in the question.

“Hope?” You croak out. Of course, you still hope. It’s just becoming harder to believe by the day. The world has changed, and Bradley has probably changed with it. You don’t think you could blame him—not really. Not after what you’ve become. You blink rapidly a few times. “It mostly hurts.”

It’s a more honest admission than you would typically make. But who else could yet tell?

“I’m sorry,” Emil mumbles, aimlessly kicking a pine cone down the small path.

“Times have changed. For the better, I might add,” You shake your head with a chuckle as you move your wicker basket to your right hand, balling your left hand in a fist, trying to stop it from shaking. “And people changed with it. That’s okay.”

You slow down your pace, looking at Emil. “It has to be, you know?” You say urgently like you’re trying to convince yourself as much as him.

“I suppose we both got left behind in more ways than one,” He sighs before meeting your gaze. “I always believed you, of all people, were destined for more, Anya.”

“Maybe some version of me was,” You chuckle dryly, playfully bumping him with your elbow, holding out the basket to him. Emil takes it without argument. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough adventure for a lifetime?”

He laughs, a small, genuine laugh. Finally, you’re unsure if you can forgive Emil for planting those seeds of doubt in your head about Bradley. Maybe one day you’ll be grateful. Perhaps you never fully believed what Bradley told you, and you’re mad at Emil for voicing what you had been too afraid to confront. But whatever he said, whatever you sniped in return — he’s still your friend. Brother in arms.

“You’d be content with just being a housekeeper?” He asks, almost incredulously. Just a few years ago, you would have been offended by the question—because of course not. You were going to travel the world and become a diplomat, a writer, an explorer. Now, you only count the steps from your home to the tram stop.

“Are you content with just being a gamekeeper?” You counter without malice. Emil doesn’t react. “Maybe we both deserve some peace, in whichever form.”

“I hope you find your peace, Anya.” Emil looks at you sadly. “You more than anyone.”

Peace.

The city is cleaned up quickly, but the splatter of blood, the agonizing screams, and the explosions have become indelible in your mind's eye. It’s like a ghostly shadow wrapping around the bustling city. Maybe Emil could see it, too. Perhaps that’s why he couldn’t stay.

Was the city like this before the war? Were you part of that crowd? Why can’t you go back?

You’re moving through life without purpose, just getting by. It’s enough.

Right?

You live a quiet, frugal life. You dutifully add to your monthly savings, but it’s a slow undertaking. Your salary is okay, all things considered, but traveling to the United States is expensive — and you’d need to get to a port city first. And that’s just travel. You need money for hotels, food, and a visa — it makes your head spin when you think about it. It’s that sliver of a dream that keeps you going. So you just keep your head down.

You don’t question Mrs. Parker’s particular requests; even though you figured out pretty quickly, she puts a lot of stock in seeing hard work and effort over results. You don’t question why Mrs. Parker appears craftier than her husband, the ambassador. You especially don’t question why the ambassador and his wife sleep in separate rooms. You clean them all the same.

And then there is Loretta. Beautiful, young Miss Lo. She came with silken blonde curls, bright green eyes, and trunks of dresses from exquisite fabrics on a gap year. You don’t question that she seems more interested in parties, men, and dancing than anything else. But you recognize the insatiable hunger recognition: being great at your work. And Miss Lo is excellent at being fun, young, and beautiful. And not a single man in the long parade of officers and dignitaries visiting would disagree.

Deep inside, you know you don’t question it because if you did, you’d have to see the lingering envy in you for what it is. So you just keep your head down.

Almost a year passes. You’ve hemmed and re-hemmed more dressed than you count, scrubbed more stains from delicate fabrics than you care to identify, sweeping piles upon piles of ashes from the marble floors.

If anything, you are an excellent seamstress now, especially considering how awful you were at most handwork, like knitting. Miss Lo caused you plenty of practice, and your roommates were gratefully making use of your offer to mend and tailor what they needed. But you’ve had enough of your dresses that needed tailoring — raising necklines, adding collars, and sometimes even adding new sleeves. Anything that would keep prying away from the scarred skin that your ever-longer hair could not hide.

You’re in stasis.

It’s May again. It’s a year since the war has ended, and it’s a beautiful day — warm, with a gentle breeze swaying the blooming trees. In a few days, you turn 27, although you’ve not celebrated your birthday… well, since Eva last baked you a small cake. That’s four years ago now.

It still hurts. It’s like every memory is now overgrown with thorns, the edges irreparably singed by the fire. Eva. Your parents. Bradley. It still hurts, and it will probably never stop hurting. Like your shoulder aches and hand shakes after a long day after a long day of work. Like your head is always buzzing, the ceaseless noise in your ear painfully keeps you awake. You long for the morning you wake up and finally accept that this is it. None of them are coming back. You will never be whole again. When waves finally wash you away, and you’ll see them again. Like in that dream, on that beach, when for a moment nothing hurt.

Standing at the back of the tram, a bucket full of beautifully arranged bouquets wedged between your foot and the wall, you are entirely focused on the leather-bound booklet in your hand, tapping the back of the small pencil against your lips. You try to scratch the itch in your brain by doing crossword puzzles. Your dad bought you all those newspapers, after all.

Maybe you’ll even get good at doing crosswords, finally.

You don’t need to pay attention to where you are going; you’ve taken this route hundreds of times. You know where you are just by a glance from the corner of your eye. You recognize the shape of the buildings, the way that the sun hits the street, the gait of the tall figure walking out of the train station -

You swing your head around so hard your forehead rams into the window with a dull crack. You see stars for a moment, colors melting into each other in strange shapes. When your vision returns, the tram has already turned a corner. Ignoring the stares around you, your hand flies into your pocket, dropping your pencil. It rolls away between the legs of the other passengers, but you pay it no mind. You are trying to catch your breath. The metal loops around your fingers, but it scarcely brings you comfort.

Your bored brain must be hallucinating; the cruel sun must be playing tricks on you; your poor heart must be dreaming.

Because of the tiniest second, you could have sworn you saw Bradley walk out of the station.

***

Dear Captain Bradshaw,

I am writing to you in response to your repeated inquiries to the International Red Cross about Anna Sokolova, born December 25, 1919, in Prague. No person matching that name and birthdate has been found in our records of wounded, dead, or missing in Czechoslovakia. The IRC has also been unable to confirm Ms. Sokolova’s current whereabouts with any local authorities due to a lack of records.

I hope to have sufficiently informed you. Please understand that at the time of writing, our resources are stretched, and we regret to inform you that we cannot further assist you on this case.

Bradley must have read the letter a hundred times before crumpling it up in frustration and jamming it into the side pocket of his duffle bag. It’s all coming down to this last-ditch attempt. Getting to Europe was actually surprisingly easy — Cyclone seemed more than pleased that Bradley had decided to follow his advice and take a desk post in Nuremberg. By the end of January 1946, Bradley was making his way back across the Atlantic.

However, getting a liberty pass was more difficult, especially a week pass for international travel. Bradley had called in about every single favor he could, signing on to stay an additional month in Germany, ultimately getting Mav to pull some strings for him. It’s May by the time he finally boards a train east, restless in his seat, looking out the window, waiting for when he will eventually see something he recognizes. Something, anything, will make all the puzzle places fall in place again and show him a path to you.

Bradley desperately hoped that everything would fall into place when he got off the train. That he would remember.

But in the back of the large black car that was waiting for him, zipping through the city, everything is just a blur.

It makes him uneasy. Nervous.

It’s like that moment of take-off; the second the wheels leave the carrier runway, there’s nothing but dark water beneath him. In that fraction of a second, his stomach drops — what am I even doing here?

Meeting his hosts does little to calm the mounting anxiety he feels. The ambassador’s residence is a grand villa surrounded by a beautiful garden overlooking the city. In the distance, the river glitters happily in the sunlight; the fruit trees are in fragrant bloom, colorful bunches of lilac in pink, blue, and purple color the city. The ambassador himself is almost unremarkable in stature as well as demeanor. Mrs. Parker appraises him with a sharp look and a too-kind smile. The daughter bats her eyelashes a little too hard for it to be genuinely demure; her perfectly sweet smile is a little too well-practiced, not a wrinkle on her pretty dress, not a hair out of place.

Behind them stand two maids in matching dark dresses and white aprons, with blank, borderline bored looks. After exchanging pleasantries, one of the maids leads him wordlessly up the grand staircase. Red carpet on marble. Gold latches on the windows.

It all seems very… formal, considering Bradley is not here on business. But when he received his travel visa, it came with an invitation to stay. It seemed rude to decline. Now Bradley is starting to regret not doing so anyway. Something about the house and these people is making him uneasy. It’s making his head hurt like he’s even more out of place here than anywhere else in the world.

Walking into the large sunny guestroom, a fresh flower arrangement in the vase on the dresser, Bradley closes his eyes for a moment. You once said May was your favorite time in the city because you liked how everything bloomed. Breathing in deeply, trying to gather his thoughts, floral notes hit his nose. There’s something familiar in the air.

He can smell your soap.

Bradley drops his duffle bag; it crashes on the carpeted floor. The smell, the tiniest hint that lingers, is making his stomach lurch like at take-off. God, it’s like your ghost is in the air, dancing around him, evading him every step. Bradley screws his eyes shut, balling his hands into fists. He wants to remember.

Every route you showed him.

Every street corner he kissed you on.

Even that goddamn small room tucked away behind the hidden servant's entrance.

Your steps echo around him, running up the stairs, coming closer and closer. Suddenly, his heart was beating so fast, and his breath was coming out, heaving, somewhere between panic and elation. Before he can pinpoint where the footsteps are coming from, they disappear. A door closes. Silence.

You are haunting him.

***

Eyes closed, blouse sleeves rolled up, cigarette dangling loosely between your lips, you’re lounging on the old, creaky wooden chair outside the kitchen entrance. The empty bucket sits at your feet. Your new red and blue plaid coat hangs from the chair. It’s quiet. The sun feels pleasant. Behind your closed lids, you see the shadows of the trees move in the breeze. Inside, you hear the cook pottering around the kitchen, whistling.

It’s such an odd day. Despite the gorgeous weather, you have that foreboding feeling, like when a storm is brewing — not a cloud in the sky, but you feel how the air pressure suddenly drops. Your forehead still stings.

It’s ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous. Eva would have already set you straight. If not for her, your mom would have. You thought you saw Bradley in a flash, in a flicker of shadow, and your heart soared with such force that you nearly knocked yourself out, falling over to catch another glimpse of his ghost. How incredibly pathetic.

The pit in your stomach is there again. The consuming darkness expands through your flesh and bones again. You managed to keep it at bay all this time, simply not admitting it was eating away at you. But the split second of your dream leaking into reality broke the dam.

Men like Bradley don’t wait for a girl for three years. They don’t need to. Men like Bradley sure as shit don’t settle for jumped-up little schoolgirls that dropped out of college. Why would they? And men like Bradley, you swallow heavily, have no use for a broken and burned body like yours. You have nothing to offer him.

You knew this. But it was your mistake to make, you tell yourself again. You thought you accepted that. Logically and rationally, it shouldn’t hurt like this. Your hand sneaks into your coat pocket again, the tip of your finger just brushing against the nameplate. It brings you no comfort — instead, you feel so much more aware of the pit in your stomach.

What would Bradley say if he knew you still had it in your pocket? He would probably make fun of you and tease you for falling for him so hard, still pining despite your constant protests as if he would remember. He never gave it to you to keep. He flung it at you. You just never gave it back, and Bradley never asked for it.

You screw your eyes shut tighter for a second, exhaling deeply. It’s Sunday, your day off, and you should be enjoying yourself. Not pondering the maybes of life long passed. Moreover, you shouldn’t be at the residence today — you’re only here to drop off the flowers for the guestroom because the florist forgot to deliver them. Which you did, and then you bolted through the servant’s entrance to the back of the house.

So why do you hear someone calling your name?

You wonder how much longer you can pretend not to hear and just bask in the sun a bit longer. The rapid footsteps approaching spell the end of your moment of quiet. Sitting up, rolling down your sleeves, and brushing the carefully styled curls back into place, framing the left side of your face.

“Annie!”

You wince. You hate that name.

Smiling broadly, Julie comes bursting out of the house. Her red hair is like a flame. Unceremoniously, she sits herself down in the doorway, legs stretched in front of her, toeing her neat black lacquered shoes off.

Automatically, you hand her your cigarette holder and a box of matches, which she gratefully accepts.

“Don’t sit on the floor, Julie,” You say in way of greeting. “You’ll get your dress dirty.”

She ignores you, stretching languidly.

“Did you take a peek at the new house guest?” She asks instead, a devilish look on her face.

“Do I ever?” You reply, ashing your cigarette absentmindedly. You ensure everything runs smoothly behind the scenes: the rooms look beautiful, not a crinkled sheet or speck of dust, magically laundered clothes each morning, fresh flowers. But it’s not your job to serve drinks or dinner.

It was hiding away in the shadows that once protected you. The shadows that wrapped their branches around you, through you, rooting you into place.

“He had Miss Lo on the ceiling with one look,” she continues, giddy. “This is promising to be such an entertaining week!”

“Oh please,” you close your eyes again, leaning back. “Nothing will happen. Miss Lo will simper, fawn, and complain, Mrs. Parker will loom over every step we make, and then the ambassador and his guest will probably burn a hole in the smoking room curtains again.”

Julie snorts.

“I get her, though,” she adds thoughtfully. “Miss Lo, I mean.”

You shoot her a skeptical look.

“What, you never have a little daydream about one of those handsome officers sweeping you off your feet?”

“Me?” You gesture vaguely at your face. “Hardly,” you lie.

“Especially you,” Julie continues, undeterred. Your mouth sets in a hard line. “You pine.”

“I don’t,” Annoyance is seeping through your voice.

“Yeah, you do. When you think no one is looking, when you’re working, it’s like your eyes glaze over. You’re pining for someone,” She’s pointing her index finger at you playfully. You roll your eyes.

“You know you could just tell me, right?” She presses, a little too eager. “You’re inviting all the gossip because you never tell us anything,”

“It’s annoying when Miss Lo does it, but it’s rude coming from you, Julie,” You cut her off sharply. Your head still hurts, and your ear feels heavy like it’s full of water.

You could talk about Bradley. There is no reason to keep it a secret anymore — the danger has passed. Once, you were waiting for the time when your great wartime romance would only be a story lovingly recounted over too many wines.

You could talk about what happened in those final days of the war. You were hardly the only one that came home broken in more ways than one. You thought that one day you’d look back at everything that happened, everything that you did, and feel some pride.

But it just hurts. And that hurt is all you have left. It’s yours to suffer because you convince yourself it’s the only way you are sure everything that happened was real: the good and the bad.

“You’re doing it again, Anya,” Julie takes a long drag from her cigarette, mercifully dropping the horrid new nickname bestowed on you by Mrs. Parker. You shoot her a long-suffering look.

“You know what they say, right?” Julie says calmly, legs stretched before her, languishing in the sun. “The best way to get over a man is to get under another one.”

You start laughing, despite yourself. You don’t know what has suddenly gotten into you. Maybe the shadows had become too cold and lonely for you to handle.

Maybe you finally allowed yourself to break free from your stasis.

Maybe you really stopped believing Bradley would ever come back to you.

Maybe you are ready to admit you never truly believed it in the first place.

The music is too loud. Your head is spinning — not from the collision, but from the white wine spritz going down too quickly. Why are you in a club on Sunday night? Why is it so busy? Someone is talking to you. You can see his mouth move, shaping the words, but you cannot hear his voice. It simply disappears in the wave of dissonant sounds. Julie is dancing. You see flashes of her red hair twirl in and out of sight.

It’s the creeping realization that you shouldn’t be here.

The room moves in strange waves. Fingers wrap around your chin. You want to stumble back, but your back is against a wall. Were you here the whole time? Nervously, you brush your fingers through your hair, ensuring the curls framing your face's left side are still in place. Another hand brushes them away again. You wish you could melt through the wall. The puffs of breath against your skin tell you he’s whispering something in your ear.

“Leave me alone,” You try.

You can’t hear your own words. You can’t hear the fucking words. Panic is bubbling up now. The grip on your chin is painful — you jerk your head away, throwing up your arms to create a shield between yourself and the hulking mass hovering over you. It doesn’t have the intended effect. The moment you think you’ve made an escape for yourself, he closes in on you more.

The hand threading through your hair yanks your head back painfully. You are sure that you screamed out. But it’s like the sound disappeared into the void. Maybe you only screamed in your head. His lips crash roughly into yours. Every action elicits a reaction — whenever you pull away, he pulls you back in closer.

It’s like a switch flips in your head. For a few seconds, the surge of adrenaline sharpens your vision again—the wave of noise stills. You stop struggling.

You know where you are.

Your wine glass is on the table, on your right-hand side. Your fingers sneak towards it, gripping the stem tightly. You have one shot at this. He is taller than you, heavier. You don’t stand a chance in a fair fight.

That’s okay. You won’t fight fair.

Shattering the bell of the glass on the side of the table shocks him enough to break off the kiss. The shock changes to wide-eyed horror when the sharp edge of the wine glass is pressed against his jugular. You use the moment to switch positions. It’s almost comical how meekly the man allows himself to get pushed against the wall.

You want to say something clever. But it’s like your tongue is paralyzed.

This is your chance. You need to get out before people start noticing you are poised to stab someone in the neck.

Stay in your shadow.

You are halfway down the street in the pitch dark night when you realize you are still holding the broken wine glass. The fine shards have made your fingers bleed. You stumble to a halt. The world is spinning uncomfortably again.

Why are you holding that glass? Where is your coat? Your purse?

Fuck. Fuck.

You don’t care about the coat. You don’t care about the purse or anything in it. Everything is replaceable.

A broken sob escapes you.

You care about that fucking bracelet in your pocket. It’s the one thing you can’t make yourself leave behind. You let out a scream from frustration. A window slams shut somewhere.

Why can’t you move on? Why are you allowing Bradley — fucking Rooster — who is not even fucking here, that you haven’t seen or heard from in the three years, who spent the better part of two months sweet-talking you into bed with him when he could have fucking died, who fucked with you, your head and heart so thoroughly in just six short days, and you let him, why are you still allowing him all this power over you? Why can’t you just let him go already?

You will yourself forward, but your feet won’t move.

You’re in stasis.

Tears streaming down your face, broken wine glass in your bloodied hand, you are sure you look as unhinged as you feel. Turning around, you march back to the club.

You will get back what’s yours.

You will get what was promised to you.

And you’ll do it your fucking self.

***

Looking at the picture he tore from Life, Bradley tries to determine if the church spires in the background are the same ones he’s looking at now. Has he been here before? Did you ever take him through this part of the city? It’s frustrating how little he seems to remember and how hard it is to recall the things he was so sure were branded onto his brain.

That place, the villa, was messing with his head. Something there was putting him on edge like he had to be on the lookout the whole time. It was almost like he was expecting to turn a corner, open a door, walk into any room, and find you there. He barely made it through the one night there before the anxiety became too overwhelming, and he packed his bag and checked into a hotel.

It settled some of his anxiety, but it didn’t help Bradley remember anything. Instead, he snaps a picture of the church. He got a new camera so he can play the part of tourist fully, but he mostly hopes someday, somehow, something will click in his brain again, and he’ll find his way to you. As of today, he has five days to find you in this maze of a city before he needs to get back to Germany and finish his assignment there. After that, there is no telling how long it will be before Bradley gets another chance to come to Europe.

He has to find you.

“Rooster!”

Alarmed, Bradley turns around, stuffing the picture back into his wallet. He’s not sure if he should be relieved or annoyed at the person calling his name.

“Bradley Bradshaw, as I live and breathe,” Jake Seresin saunters to Bradley, grinning widely. Bradley closes his eyes for a moment, cursing. Of all the people in this city, he had to run into Bagman. A Bagman that looks and smells like he just rolled out of a bar, no less, his RAF uniform jacket unbuttoned, tie loose, cover askew.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Jake asks, attempting to fix his hair by running his hand through it several times, just making it stick out worse. “Did you miss me so much you came to see me on my home turf?” He adds arrogantly, still smiling like the devil.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Seresin,” Bradley retorts flatly. “I didn’t come to see you, and right now, I’m not sure I want to be seen with you,”

“You’re such a stick in the mud, lieutenant,” Jake drawls sarcastically.

“It’s captain,” It shouldn’t feel so good to Bradley to lord his rank over Hangman, who is still a lieutenant. But of course, Hangman only responds with a deliberately poorly executed salute to Bradley.

“I know a good watering hole near here,” Jake says offhandedly as he searches his pockets, only to pull out an empty carton of cigarettes, crush it, and stuff it back in his pocket — if it’s supposed to be an invitation, it sure as hell doesn’t sound like one. “You can buy me a drink and tell me what you’re doing here.”

“It’s 11 in the morning, Hangman,”

“When in Rome and all that,” He waves Bradley’s protests away.

Bradley hates the idea. Absolutely hates it. But what if. What if Bagman, of all people, could actually help him?

“Fine,” Bradley tries to sound indifferent. “I’ll buy you a drink, but you have to help me with something,”

The broad smile on Jake’s face at the mention of Bradley needing his help has Bradley convinced that this is all one big mistake.

Bradley still thinks Jake is arrogant and annoying at best, but he begrudgingly appreciates him tagging along. Jake seems to be at least somewhat genuinely interested in helping him, and he cleans up quite well. Bradley needs a guide and someone who speaks the language, even when that guide is more interested in catching the eye of as many girls as possible in his flashy uniform, adorned with medals for bravery and the highest orders of service. It’s not that Jake didn’t fairly deserve those—Bradley still thinks he’s an absolute madman, both in the air and on the ground. A madman with his heart in the right place, however.

And he can hardly blame Jake for using his uniform to charm the local ladies—Bradley has done the exact same many times. But he’s only looking for one lady to charm again.

“I’m sure even you thought of this before, but are you sure you have her real name?” Jake asks conversationally as they walk across the bridge over the Vltava.

He has four days to find you. Yesterday Jake was of relatively little actual help, and somewhere, it pains Bradley that the first and only person that he has spoken to about you, is Jake fucking Seresin. Bradley couldn’t tell Jake all the details, but he put together the details. He thinks that by now he has seen every part of the city in the last two days, but he still hasn’t found you.

“I know her first name is Anna—everyone consistently referred to her as Anya, though,” Bradley replies, looking around. A little tug in his heart. Carefully, he thinks he sees something familiar when you connect the first two pieces of a puzzle. Bradley remembers the bridge, with the golden ornamented columns at either end. He remembers your teasing smile as you helped him practice the pronunciation. He walked past it with you so many times, the national theater behind them.

“Yeah, people do that here.” Jake shrugs. “It’s a common nickname to a very common first name, though.”

“As for her last name—I know for a fact, her initials are A.S.” Bradley continues. “She gave me her handkerchief with her initials embroidered on it and a little bird. Sokol, for falcon.”

“Sure, her last would be Sokolova.” Jake interjects, bored. “But,” he continues, lighting a cigarette. “Have you considered that, even if her initials are A.S., she could have a different first name? Alzhbyeta, Alitse, Anastasia, Alena—I mean, if I had to pick a cover name, I would probably pick the most bog-standard first name in the whole country, too.”

Bradley knows Jake is inferring it will be next to impossible to find you. They walk along the colorful buildings along the water—Bradley feels like he’s walked this route a million times in his dreams, and the moment he waited for is finally here. He knows exactly where to go without being able to explain which turn to take.

“I grew up near here.” Jake suddenly pipes up as he walks next to Bradley, looking around the stately buildings. “My mother still lives around here,”

“Anya said she grew up here too.” Bradley’s heart is beating loudly. Maybe asking Hangman for help was a good idea after all. “Do you think there’s a chance you might have known her?”

Jake shrugs, eyeing the girls walking down the opposite side of the street. Bradley describes what you look like; you were in your sophomore year in university in 1939.

“She could be my age,” Jake admits flatly. “But there were at least five girls named Anna that could roughly fit your description in my cohort in high school—if she even went to the same school as I did. And I don’t remember what they went to college for.”

Jake is not the most encouraging companion, but Bradley’s heart still skips a beat as he sees the familiar street. It’s all slotting into place now. The row of yellow, white, pink, and green. The statues look down at the entrance. He speeds up his pace, Jake jogging behind him.

Bradley quickly scans the names next to the doorbells before moving on to the next one, Jake hot on his tail.

“Bradshaw, listen.” Jake puts a hand on his shoulder, face concerned. It’s strange to see him so serious suddenly. “I grew up in the next building over,” He gestures at the yellow building at the end of the block. “I don’t remember a family called Sokol living in one of these buildings.”

“Fuck.” Bradley mumbles as he pulls out your handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket. He traces the stitching of your initials. Was it really all a ruse? Did you never truly believe he’d come back for you? Were you just playing out a role in the end?

Jake glances down before clearing his throat awkwardly. “Can I see that?”

Bradley hands it to him wordlessly, tucking his hands in his pockets. Did he not tell you enough times? Did you forget or simply stop believing? Did you never believe him in the first place, and were you only happy to dream with him? The fact that he had spun so many girls so many tales over the years this might finally be his comeuppance.

All the dark thoughts he had tried to keep at bay have broken through. He would be crazy not to consider that you might not have gotten married in the meantime or still living in the same place. You were never going to wait for him. Why would you? He knew he was right when he saw your real smile, and you could see everyone wrapped around your little finger, and you did the same thing so effortlessly with him. And he’s more and more sure you could have a devoted husband now, maybe a baby. And you’re happy. Without him.

You never told him your last name. You really didn’t mean for him to find you after the war.

“Bradshaw, I cannot believe I have to tell you this.” Jake sounds like he’s holding in laughter, breaking Bradley out of his reverie and thrusting the neatly folded fabric back into his line of vision. “This,” He jabs at the embroidered corner. “Is not a fucking S with a little bird,” He bursts out laughing.

“Wai- what?” Bradley forcefully grabs the handkerchief, looking at it intently, like it now contains some new information.

“Did she tell you it was an S with a little bird?” Jake asks, barely able to contain himself.

“No, no…” Bradley is sunk in thought. “I just… I just thought Anya was awful at embroidering.” He mumbles.

Jake absolutely loses it at that, doubling over in laughter. An old lady looks out of her opened window, staring both men down judgmentally. When Jake finally stops laughing, he tries to catch his breath to explain how this could be funny.

“So, it’s not an S,” Bradley asks impatiently. “Then what — Hangman, get a grip! — What is it?”

“It’s a Sh,” He replies simply, rubbing his face and giggling. “It’s a completely different letter.”

Bradley stands rooted to the ground, speechless, as Jake keeps laughing.

“You know what would be even more hilarious?” Jake is leaning his forearm against the building, hand covering his eyes with his hand as his shoulder shakes from laughing. “If this whole time, you had been actually talking about Anna Shafrankova, my neighbor who tutored me in high school.”

“They say it’s a small world,” He takes a deep breath, wiping the tears from his eyes. “But man, that would actually be really weird.”

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Bradley throws himself against the wall, closing his eyes. He feels the sun shine warmly on his face. The gears in his head turn, overheating. He tries to desperately remember every bit of information you shared with him, sometimes offhandedly. As a child, you were scared of ghosts and explored the passageways between buildings with other neighborhood kids. Jake must have been one of them. The arrogant classmate who went to flight school and then disappeared. Was that also Jake?

“Was she scared of ghosts?” Bradley ventures carefully. Suddenly, Jake’s laughter evaporates, and he’s looking at Bradley with astonishment. “When exploring the buildings, as kids, she told me she was scared of the ghosts haunting the servant stairwell,”

“What the…” The look on Jake’s face is confirmation enough. Bradley is sure of it. They are talking about the same person: you. This means, embarrassingly, that Bradley now actually knows less about you than he thought. Those identity papers had been fake.

“Was her birthday on Christmas?”

Jake actually looks confused for a moment. “No,” He ventures carefully. “I’m pretty sure it was sometime in summer — we used to go swimming in the reservoir lake and build camp fires for her birthday, so definitely not in winter.”

Those papers had been very fake, indeed. It’s both a relief and a setback.

“Come on, let’s see if old Shafrankova is home,” Jake announces, clapping Bradley on his back. “After that, you can buy me a drink or ten, and I want an invitation to the wedding.”

Bradley follows Jake in a daze to the green house – you always took him out of another exit, so Bradley never knew which building you lived in. Or which apartment for that matter?

“There’s a different name on 2B now.” Jake comments. “But maybe she left a forwarding address.”

Jake is playing up his natural charm to the lady of the house, who is blushing furiously, answering his questions. Bradley looks around. You never talked much about your home or family. The apartment is light and spacious, with high ceilings and hardwood floors. It’s ornately furnished. What was it like to grow up here? You always seemed humble, never complaining about the conditions you found yourself in, from sleeping on the floor to eating old dry bread. But to live here, surely your family must have been well off, solidly middle-class.

You were well-educated; that should probably have been a hint of your background. But Bradley thought you were just determined. Because you had proven time and time again in the short time he knew you that you had determination and discipline in spades.

“Come on, let’s go.” Jake motions him out, and the lady of the house waves at them with a dreamy look in her eye.

“What did you learn?” Bradley can’t contain his curiosity.

“She didn’t leave a forwarding address,” Jake grumbles. “The lady said Shafrankova sold everything and disappeared.”

Jake hesitates suddenly, eyeing Bradley wearily.

“She said that she only saw Shafrankova once.” He says, choosing his words carefully. “She said she looked… scarred.”

Bradley stops mid-descended on the stairs.

“Scarred, how?” He asks sharply. The vision from his dream, blood gushing from your head, the smell of burning flesh, your face contorted in a voiceless scream, flashes through his head.

Jake shrugs. “She didn’t elaborate. She only said it was a waste of such a lovely face.”

Bradley feels the blood drain from his face. Someone hurt you. Someone came after you. His mind keeps flashing back to when he looked out the train window. What if he wasn’t misremembering? What if it was really someone dragging you off the platform by force? What if you had been arrested? Locked up?

What if that dream really had been more than just a dream?

He tries to find solace in the idea that you aren’t dead. That picture in Life, with his bracelet, must have been you, and if the new tenant saw you, you must have survived the uprising. But you got hurt. And he’s getting the sinking feeling it’s because of him.

“I need to find her.” He utters, panicked.

“That’s the idea,” Jake replies in a bored tone again. “But let’s figure out a plan first. I know a good bar near.”

Dragging his feet, Bradley follows Jake down the street. All the progress they made today was for naught in the end. He is no closer to actually finding you; he only knows where you are not. Time is ticking, and tomorrow, he needs to spend the whole evening as a dinner guest of the ambassador.

“Hey, cheer up,” Hangman turns to look at Bradley with that exact shit-eating grin that never spells anything good out of his mouth. “If you don’t find her by Saturday, I’ll happily introduce you to another Anna,”

***

Mrs. Parker likes to see effort over results. Even though the windows in the smoking room are squeaky clean — the room hadn’t been used since it was cleaned just a week prior — she won’t be satisfied until she has seen you scrub everything and sweat on your brow. She is always particular, but now she is doing it to punish you.

A searing headache and repeated nightmares that kept you bedbound until yesterday. You couldn’t sleep, you couldn’t stay awake. You just lay there, tears streaming down your face.

And from what you had heard, the houseguest suddenly left without a real explanation. It’s not your fault, but Mrs. Parker needs to get rid of her frustration somewhere.

You hate washing windows. You hate it even more when someone hovers over you. But dinner is in an hour and a half, and Mrs. Parker is getting nervous. You don’t bother to ask if important guests are coming; they are all important. Decorated, distinguished, loud, and drunk.

The big windows of the smoking room on the second floor open outward into the beautiful garden of the villa on the hill, the city sprawling below it. The sun is low, and the blue sky slowly colors pink and orange. You wish you could take a moment to enjoy it rather than scrubbing nonexistent dirt from the window sill and listening to Mrs. Parker going through what appears to be a nervous breakdown as she zooms through the room.

“Annie, make sure that there is fresh ice here before dinner ends,”

“Yes, ma’am,” You reply lightly.

“Annie, this tablecloth has a gray sheen; please replace it and rewash it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” You reply dutifully as you strain to reach the top of the window with your cleaning cloth.

“Annie, Annie, these flowers look like they are wilting. Are you sure they are fresh?”

You look over your shoulder at the vase Mrs. Parker is holding. Wilting is a strong word.

“I’ll replace them with fresh cuts before them men arrive after dinner, ma’am,” You assure her, although you doubt they will notice the difference or care.

“Oh, Annie, I need to go check on dinner,” Mrs. Parker dramatizes. She grasps you by the shoulder as you stand by the open window, the long sleeves of your dark work dress awkwardly rolled up, sweat prickling on your forehead, and sopping cloth in your hand, slowly dripping onto the hardwood floor. “You’re the only one I can trust,” She implores you. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

She’s asking you like she’s not paying you to do this.

“Of course,” You smile politely. “Don’t worry about it, ma’am.”

You sigh deeply when you hear the door click close, returning to the open window. You plop the rag back into the metal bucket on the window sill, wiping your hands on your apron as you look out over the garden. The blooming colors, the sweet smells — it’s really at its most beautiful right now. The apple tree is so full of blossoms it’s almost completely white. The rose bushes have come in beautifully again in pink, red, and yellow. The lavender is abundant.

When you hear the high-pitched giggle, you step back from the window, averting your gaze. Miss Lo is strolling through the garden with tonight’s guest, showing him the lush surroundings and stunning view. You busy yourself with changing the allegedly grayish tablecloth and taking the perfectly fine flowers out of the vase.

You can hear Miss Lo’s melodic voice, although you cannot make out any words. Envy is searing through you like a red-hot iron. Today, you just can’t take it. Resolutely, you march back to the window, expressly not looking at the two figures slowly walking down the garden path in the sunset. As you reach the window latch, you plant your left hand on the window sill to keep yourself stead.

The windows are so unnecessarily large you have to strain to reach far enough — your fingertips barely touch the handle. As you put more weight on your left arm, leaning forward, you feel the pain building in your shoulder.

Just a little further.

Finally, you get a grip on the handle, but it’s like a bomb bursts in your left shoulder. Your elbow buckles from the sudden wave of pain, colliding with the metal bucket that you stupidly left on the window sill. Time almost slows to a crawl as you grab your left arm, pressing it against your chest to stop it from violently shaking, and you watch in partial fascination, partial horror as the metal bucket is no longer standing on the window sill but rather tortuously slowly is sailing down to the patio.

You scrunch up your face and hold your breath in preparation for the screech and clang of the metal against the stone, still standing in the window, looking down at the inevitable chaos below you.

The impact echoes, drawing out your mortification. You close your eyes in frustration.

The high-pitched girlish scream is several orders of magnitude louder than the bucket hitting the stone patio.

Shit. Fucking shit. Miss Lo.

Hesitantly, you open your eyes, still frozen in the open window. You don’t see the bucket and the soapy water sloshed over the stones. You don’t see Miss Lo in her evening dress and glittering jewelry, her face etched in horror, clinging to her companion. Everything has disappeared, melting away in the background.

Because on the garden path leading up to the house, in a resplendent white Navy uniform, looking right at you, is Bradley.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. Bradley pulls his arm away from Miss Lo, shaking her off almost rudely. He’s still staring at you like he’s just seen a ghost. As he takes one step forward, you take a step back. With one last look, you start running.

In the war, you left small parts of yourself scattered. A version, a part of you, stayed on that square in front of the university between the bodies of your classmates. Another part of you broke off in that mountain cabin when you first aimed a gun at another person. Bradley chipped off and pocketed so many bits of you, and oh, how gladly you let him. Finding Eva’s murdered body in the stairwell of your apartment cracked deep into your soul. When you shot Jan, you didn’t feel anything; you were already so broken, but more bits of the person that you once were died there that day. The explosions, the bodies, the blood, the shots—they cling to the wreckage of your former self.

As you stand at the top of the stairs, tugging your sleeve down out of habit, you’ve never been more acutely aware of how incomplete you truly are. There is nothing but debris left of the girl Bradley met that day in that barn. You are surprised he even recognizes you.

He is looking up at you in wonder from the bottom of the stairs. Hurriedly, clumsily, he grabs his cover off his head, holding it in his hands almost nervously, unsure what to do next. The black pit in your stomach is still there — you are so afraid that the look of wonder will disappear forever when he sees you up close. Despite your heart beating as much in fear as in excitement, your feet start moving down the stairs of their own accord, going faster and faster. Every broken piece of you rattles like broken china with every step, the sound becoming deafening the closer you get.

Bradley is running up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. His brain is going a mile a minute: you look exactly like he remembers, but also different. Still beautiful, so much more beautiful than in his memories. Your hair is different than he remembers— longer for sure, but he could swear you used to wear it parted to the right rather than the left. The long-sleeved, high-collared, dark charcoal dress looks severe on you in the light summer weather.

You almost crash into him as you race down the stairs. You grab onto his uniform jacket to steady yourself, your face automatically moving to his, only just stopping yourself short. His scars have faded, although you can still see the raised ridges on his skin. There is no way he cannot see yours now. His arm is wrapped around your waist, holding you flush against him. His warm hazel eyes roam over your face, unreadable. You hesitate, averting your gaze.

Maybe you’ve changed too much. Maybe there’s really nothing left of the person Bradley once knew. He can probably see that now. Maybe this Bradley is not the one you remember anymore. His fingers graze the damaged skin along your hairline. Swallowing dryly, you look up at him.

He’s smirking at you, eyes twinkling.

How you hate that cocky smile. How you’ve missed it. Seeing it again, feeling him again, is so overwhelming you feel your poor heart might give out. You tighten your grip on him, pulling yourself closer, as if you’re scared he’s going to turn to smoke in your arms, or, worse, push you away.

But Bradley moves his face closer to you, his mouth only a fraction away from yours. You can feel his warm breath on your face. You can feel his heartbeat under your fingers.

“Do it, you coward,” He whispers.

He sees the flash of anger in your eyes. How dare he use your own words against you? But it has the intended effect. It’s all you need to hear. You kiss him, arms wrapping around his neck, barely giving him a moment to recover from your ferocity, slanting your mouth against his, begging him to let you deepen the kiss. Bradley allows you without hesitation, easily catching your weight as you fall into him. Your body still fits so perfectly against his.

This is what it should have felt like, Bradley realizes. Coming home, finally closing the long chapter of war. He had been chasing this feeling: the benevolent calm, the warm intimacy.

Home is where the heart is, and that was always in your arms.

note | good things come to those who wait. Also, this chapter has some of the earliest scenes that I actually wrote over a year ago, and those were the exact things that kept me awake the whole night when I came up with this story. Which is more than a year ago, actually. God, I hope the payoff is really going to be worth it hahahaha. Thanks for sticking by me, still. There was actually a full chapter of material before this, titled Blue Skies. But I cut a lot of stuff out to start moving the story a bit faster, mostly because I really want to write this finally!

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x female reader #rooster bradshaw #top gun maverick #rooster fanfic #rooster top gun #rooster x oc #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster x you #rooster x female reader #top gun fanfiction #bradley bradshaw imagine #rooster bradshaw x female reader #rooster bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x oc #rooster bradshaw x oc

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er1chartmann · 4 months

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Joachim Peiper

This is Joachim Peiper timeline:

1915: He was born on 30 January into a middle class family from the Silesian region of Germany.

1926: Peiper followed his other brother Horst and joined the Scout movement.

1933: He volunteered to join the Hitler Youth.

1933: Adolf Hitler was appointed Chancellor of Germany.

1933: He enlisted in the 7th SS Reiterstandarte.

1934: He was promoted to SS-Mann with SS number 132,496.

1934: During the annual Nuremberg Rally, Peiper was promoted to SS-Sturmmann and later gained the attention of Heinrich Himmler.

1935: He was sent to a camp for Hitler Youth, SA and SS members near Jüterbog, adjoining Germany's largest regular army camp and artillery school.

1935: He was promoted to SS-Unterscharführer.

1935: He attended the newly created SS-Junkerschule Bad Tölz.

1936: He completed his education at the Junkerschule.

1936: He attended more training at the Dachau concentration camp.

1936: He took the SS Oath.

1938: He was appointed to an administrative post as an adjutant to Heinrich Himmler, under the command of Karl Wolff.

1939: The Second World War began.

1939: He was with Himmler on 20 September in Blomberg when they witnessed the execution of twenty Poles.

1939: He worked with Himmler to develop policies and plans for controlling the Polish population.

1939: He and Himmler witnessed the gassing of a resident of a psychiatric facility in Poznan.

1940: He obtained permission to join a combat unit and became a platoon leader in the 11th Company of 1st SS Division Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler (LSSAH).

1940: He accompanied Himmler to Madrid where Himmler met with Franco.

1940: He was appointed first adjutant to Himmler.

1940: He was awarded the Iron Cross and promoted to Hauptsturmführer.

1941: He accompanied Himmler when he inspected Ravensbrück and Dachau concentration camps.

1941: Together with Karl Wolff and Fritz Bracht, he and Himmler visited Auschwitz.

1942: He learned of the death of his brother Hans-Hasso.

1942: The LSSAH was transferred to France for rest and refit. En route to France, Peiper left his unit and met with Himmler at his headquarters on 1 June.

1943: He was promoted to SS-Obersturmbannführer.

1943: He was awarded the Deutsches Kreuz in Gold for his achievements.

1943: He was awarded Germany's highest decoration, the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross.

1943: The LSSAH was withdrawn from the Eastern Front and transferred to the area of Cuneo in Northern Italy.

1943: On 19 September, partisans in the village of Boves captured two of Peiper's men. The two men were freed, but the Germans then set fire to the houses in the village and killed 22 men when they tried to flee.

1943: Peiper’s unit arrived on the Eastern Front, where it took part in combat in the area of Zhytomyr.

1943: Georg Schönberger was killed in action, and Peiper took his place as commander of the 1st SS Panzer Regiment; a position he held until the end of the war.

1943:He was awarded the Oak Leaves of the Knight's Cross.

1944: He was withdrawn from the front and left his unit. He went directly to the headquarters of Hitler, who presented him with the Oak Leaves to be added to his Knight's Cross.

1944: He was promoted to Obersturmbannführer.

1945: In January the Swords were added to his Knight's Cross.

1945: His unit took part in Operation Frühlingserwachen that failed even though Peiper’s unit recorded huge casualties due to his aggressive style of command. Peiper lost numerous old companions.

1945: The Second World War ended.

1945: Accompanied by Paul Gühl, Peiper tried to escape captivity.

1945: He was captured near Schliersee. This was less than 30 kilometres from his home. He was interned in the Dachau concentration camp.

1946: His trial took place at Dachau from 16 May to 16 July 1946 before a military tribunal of senior American officers, operating under rules established by the Nuremberg International Military Tribunal.

1946: He was sentenced to death by hanging.

1948: The sentence was commuted to life imprisonment.

1956: He was released from prison on parole.

1957: He began work at Porsche in Stuttgart in its technical division.

1964: Two Italians filed an accusation against him at the Central Office of the State Justice Administration for the Investigation of National Socialist Crimes in Ludwigsburg related to the Boves massacre.

1967: The case was dismissed for lack of evidence.

1969: He was a freelance collaborator for the magazine Auto, Motor und Sport.

1972: He moved to Traves.

1976: He was murdered

Sources:

Military Wiki: Joachim Peiper

Wikipedia: Joachim Peiper.

❗❗I DON'T SUPPORT NAZISM,FASCISM OR ZIONISM IN ANY WAY, THIS IS AN EDUCATIONAL POST❗❗

#reichblr #ww2 germany #ww2 history #heinrich himmler #studyblr #the ss #joachim peiper #ww2

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beautiesofbygoneeras · 7 months

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Pat Barrington (born Patricia Annette Bray, October 16, 1939 – September 1, 2014) was an American Classic Men's Magazine Model, Actress And Dancer active from 1965 to 1969.

#pat barrington #1960s #outdoors #pool #water #full exposure #full nude #beautiful #favorite #magnificent #outstanding #raised legs #towel #women and towels #closed eyes #redbust

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therealtruthalways · 17 days

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