(Closed for TinyDuchess)
Paris, April 1941
I just want to be blond, Private Frederic Wasserman thought to himself as he looked in the mirror of the billet. By now, he was wise enough not to say it out loud. His appearance - tall and skinny, almost as if a scarecrow and eyes that were deeply green enough to be rather unmanly - was enough to make him the butt of jokes among the other soldiers at the barracks. If he started talking to himself now, out loud, he could only imagine what would happen. He might even be reassigned, and Frederic didn't want that. Butt of jokes notwithstanding, even his patriotic fervor to serve against the Fatherland's enemies in the war of vengeance was not enough for him to wish to be reassigned from Paris, the dream stationing for a young infantryman in the Wehrmacht.
Of course, there wasn't much chance of him talking out loud, not after he had been holding conversations in his head for so long. Even before he had been sent a thousand miles from home among a platoon who mocked him, Frederic had already been his best friend, his own discourses being much preferable - and more pleasant - than what he usually got from others. No reason why that would change now.
But it was just so unfair, he had to admit as he finished brushing his short hair. It was so light a shade of brown. Just a bit lighter and he could have at least one aspect of him match the Aryan ideal. As it was...Well, no use whining over that again, he settled, placing his soldier's cap snug on his head. I might as well be cheery for once. I'm in the City of Lights. Any day now I might be sent away. Although to where, he didn't know. The Fuhrer was the master of Europe, America complacent beyond the sea. There were rumors the treaty with Stalin might be overturned or the attempted campaign against Britain might be resumed.
Frederic wasn't a politician, but hoped it would be the former. He had an admiration for England, their culture, their country. It was a shame that circumstances had made them oppose the Fuhrer, and when this all was over, maybe he could visit there. Russia, however...Frederic had never liked Reds, and his father had served in the East until the end of the first war. The Soviet Union was a crumbling edifice. A campaign in the East would be swift, a few months at best with all the living space the Greater German Reich could ever need. It would be exciting to take part in the final struggle against Soviet Communism.
But truth to tell, Frederic preferred it here in Paris. If he never had to fight again, it would suit him fine, also. It would be a sad day for mother if he never came home.
"Wasserman! Schultz! The hauptmann is looking for you!" came the voice of Fritz, one of Frederic's few true friends in the regiment. Frederic hurried out of the barracks' lavatory, straightening his uniform. Hauptmann Moller was standing before the barracks, orders in his hand. "Just down from the Military Governor's office, new orders for our roster. Wasserman, Schultz, you two are rotated onto guard duty. I'll put you on the corner of Rue Plumet and Rue Morgue. The halftrack will take you there in an hour."
The ride out was far from unpleasant for Frederic. He enjoyed being posted to Paris for entirely different reasons than its assured safety or the occasional glances of its appreciative women towards a man in uniform. He had been very young during the first war. So had his father, whom he didn't even remember, who had fought through so long of the dogged Eastern campaign only to be killed in the last few days by French machinegun fire. Only a few days before the Armistice. Only a few days before he could have returned home to him and Mama and helped them lead a normal life in the years of insanity that followed.
For that, Frederic was happy to be stationed in Paris.
The halftrack dropped him and Schultz off at the street intersection, with, no surprises, Frederic being the one chosen to cross the street to stand guard there. Not that he minded the extra twenty foot walk; he would be standing there for eight hours. Eight hours of boredom. Paris, like the rest of France, was almost too pacified. No resistance to speak of, the officials all bending over backwards to collaborate. He tried to distract himself with thinking how he would spend his free time tonight. Maybe he would finally, actually go to a dance hall when he got off.
No, Frederic certainly wasn't expecting anything to happen during his shift.
Paris, April 1941
I just want to be blond, Private Frederic Wasserman thought to himself as he looked in the mirror of the billet. By now, he was wise enough not to say it out loud. His appearance - tall and skinny, almost as if a scarecrow and eyes that were deeply green enough to be rather unmanly - was enough to make him the butt of jokes among the other soldiers at the barracks. If he started talking to himself now, out loud, he could only imagine what would happen. He might even be reassigned, and Frederic didn't want that. Butt of jokes notwithstanding, even his patriotic fervor to serve against the Fatherland's enemies in the war of vengeance was not enough for him to wish to be reassigned from Paris, the dream stationing for a young infantryman in the Wehrmacht.
Of course, there wasn't much chance of him talking out loud, not after he had been holding conversations in his head for so long. Even before he had been sent a thousand miles from home among a platoon who mocked him, Frederic had already been his best friend, his own discourses being much preferable - and more pleasant - than what he usually got from others. No reason why that would change now.
But it was just so unfair, he had to admit as he finished brushing his short hair. It was so light a shade of brown. Just a bit lighter and he could have at least one aspect of him match the Aryan ideal. As it was...Well, no use whining over that again, he settled, placing his soldier's cap snug on his head. I might as well be cheery for once. I'm in the City of Lights. Any day now I might be sent away. Although to where, he didn't know. The Fuhrer was the master of Europe, America complacent beyond the sea. There were rumors the treaty with Stalin might be overturned or the attempted campaign against Britain might be resumed.
Frederic wasn't a politician, but hoped it would be the former. He had an admiration for England, their culture, their country. It was a shame that circumstances had made them oppose the Fuhrer, and when this all was over, maybe he could visit there. Russia, however...Frederic had never liked Reds, and his father had served in the East until the end of the first war. The Soviet Union was a crumbling edifice. A campaign in the East would be swift, a few months at best with all the living space the Greater German Reich could ever need. It would be exciting to take part in the final struggle against Soviet Communism.
But truth to tell, Frederic preferred it here in Paris. If he never had to fight again, it would suit him fine, also. It would be a sad day for mother if he never came home.
"Wasserman! Schultz! The hauptmann is looking for you!" came the voice of Fritz, one of Frederic's few true friends in the regiment. Frederic hurried out of the barracks' lavatory, straightening his uniform. Hauptmann Moller was standing before the barracks, orders in his hand. "Just down from the Military Governor's office, new orders for our roster. Wasserman, Schultz, you two are rotated onto guard duty. I'll put you on the corner of Rue Plumet and Rue Morgue. The halftrack will take you there in an hour."
The ride out was far from unpleasant for Frederic. He enjoyed being posted to Paris for entirely different reasons than its assured safety or the occasional glances of its appreciative women towards a man in uniform. He had been very young during the first war. So had his father, whom he didn't even remember, who had fought through so long of the dogged Eastern campaign only to be killed in the last few days by French machinegun fire. Only a few days before the Armistice. Only a few days before he could have returned home to him and Mama and helped them lead a normal life in the years of insanity that followed.
For that, Frederic was happy to be stationed in Paris.
The halftrack dropped him and Schultz off at the street intersection, with, no surprises, Frederic being the one chosen to cross the street to stand guard there. Not that he minded the extra twenty foot walk; he would be standing there for eight hours. Eight hours of boredom. Paris, like the rest of France, was almost too pacified. No resistance to speak of, the officials all bending over backwards to collaborate. He tried to distract himself with thinking how he would spend his free time tonight. Maybe he would finally, actually go to a dance hall when he got off.
No, Frederic certainly wasn't expecting anything to happen during his shift.
