LeBeau had promised himself that he was never, ever going to bake another strudel as long as he lived. Apple strudel had somehow become the symbol of everything he had suffered as a POW, and even the smell of the cinnamon-speckled pastry now filled him with an impotent, helpless anger.

The war was essentially over. The Unsung Heroes operation was essentially finished. Their jobs were essentially done. There was nothing left to do, no new caper to plan, no further reason to bribe or hoodwink or distract the guards. No need for strudel.

No more blasted strudel. Not ever again. He was free of that much.

LeBeau rummaged in the locker that served as their pantry, and pulled out the last few bruised apples and nearly empty bags of flour and sugar. For reasons he didn't even understand, he began the painfully familiar task of mixing dough.

Newkirk watched him for a few minutes. As LeBeau began kneading the dough, vigorously slapping it against the table with a rhythmic beat and a fierce scowl, he reached into his collar and came out with the wickedly sharp little dagger he called his pencil sharpener. Without a word, he began peeling the apples.

"I have no idea why I am doing this," LeBeau said after a while. The dough was smooth and elastic in his hands, exactly the way it was supposed to be. Exactly the way it had been a hundred, a thousand times before. Lives had been on the line. And he had baked cake.

Newkirk kept his eyes on his apple. He'd peeled it in a careful spiral, so the red skin had come off in a single, unbroken ribbon, a trick that always fascinated children. Legend had it that if you peeled an apple that way, then tossed the peel over your left shoulder, it would spell out the future, although more often than not the only thing you could predict with any certainty was that someone's mum was going to be very cross indeed about finding her floors all sticky with apple juice. Very carefully, he put the strip of peeling on the table, where it could not make any predictions. He was fairly sure he didn't want to know.

LeBeau slapped the dough against the table a little harder. "Why am I doing this? I hate making strudel! I hate cooking for Boche!" Slap!

"Maybe that is why you're doing it," Newkirk said, starting on a second apple.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Slap! "Why should I do nice things for Boche?" Slap! Slap!

"That's just it. No reason you should. But you're not doing it for the Krauts, are you?" A second spiral of apple peel joined the first. "You're doing it for you. You're making strudel to prove that now it's your choice to make it. Or not. No one's forcing you anymore."

LeBeau scowled at the dough, but there was no heat in it anymore. "I hate it when you make sense."

"People usually do," Newkirk said, beginning to slice the apples. "Truth's never been known for being what anyone would call pleasant. And here's some more of it. You walk out of here letting strudel mean prison bars and part of you stays locked up 'til you die. Every time you peel an apple you'll be back here. You don't want that."

"Humph. I would not be peeling it myself. What do you suppose le garҫon de cuisine is for?"

"Judging by your tone of voice, nothing flattering," said Newkirk, and shoved a tin plate full of whisper-thin apple slices across the table. "It's a cake, Louie. It's a cake you turned into a weapon, but that's all it ever was. Don't let it beat you. Not now. You're better than that."

He opened the stove door and unceremoniously tossed in the cores, then continued walking to the barracks door and opened it. "You're better than that," he repeated, not turning around.

LeBeau spent a minute just glaring at his perfectly stretched dough, his jaw tightly clenched against a few things that he wanted to say and a great many that he didn't. Then, with a sigh, he reached for the dish and began to arrange the apples just so. Looking back on that last strudel, years later, he came to the conclusion that that was not the moment when pastry stopped being the symbol of everything he had suffered. It wasn't even the moment when it stopped bringing on floods of bad memories. But it was the moment when he dimly began to feel as though someday it might be.

It really was infuriating when Newkirk was right.

When the strudel was done, LeBeau cut off a healthy slice, then two more, and left the rest of it in Hogan's office for later distribution. Covering the plate, he stepped into the compound.

It was crowded; the Germans had marched in men from more distant prison camps in what he assumed was a last-ditch effort to pretend that the war was still winnable. Not too many guards, though; the ones who hadn't deserted outright were off at the front, where they were also trying to pretend that the war was still winnable.

He found Schultz about where he'd expected; he was sitting on a bench near Barracks Four. It was a very poorly placed bench, given that it was partially obstructed by the recreation hall and further shielded by a clothesline that seemed to always have a great many towels hanging on it. In short, it was an ideal place to sit if the idea was not to be noticed by a bored guard… or an alert superior.

"Hi, Schultzie," said LeBeau, and plunked himself down on the small section of the bench that was not already occupied.

"Hello, Cockroach," Schultz said. He didn't seem to notice the plate in LeBeau's hand, which was highly unusual.

"Guess what," LeBeau said. "There were a few apples left. I made strudel to use them up. And I brought you a piece. Go on. Have some."

Schultz didn't reach for it. He turned towards LeBeau, his eyes sad. "Why?" he asked. "What could you possibly want from me now? You do not need my help anymore."

"That is not why I came," said LeBeau, uncomfortable. "I did not come here to ask for anything. I just… I just thought you might like it. You always liked my strudel before."

"I did. I do. Your strudel is sehr gut, almost as good as my mama's. But I know you do not make it only because you think I like it."

LeBeau didn't say anything for a long moment. He had known—they had all known, really—that Schultz was nothing like as foolish as he seemed. The guard had always known he was being led about by the nose; how could he not? And Schultz had played along, and had taken the food and other bribes when they were offered, because there was no real reason not to. But there was obviously a great deal more to him than the cowardice and gluttony he wore on the surface, and LeBeau found himself wondering how badly it had hurt to play the fool for so long.

"I… No. I did not. Before. But this time I did," LeBeau said. "This time… this time it is just a cake. Nothing more."

Schultz looked at him, searchingly, the way a papa would look for truth in a child's face. The way a soldier would look at a comrade as they scrambled back into the relative safety of the trench. The way a POW looked as his captors as he dropped his weapon and raised his empty hands.

After an achingly long moment, he seemed to have found whatever he was seeking. He didn't smile, exactly, but his expression softened, and he picked up a slice of strudel.

LeBeau picked up another and took a bite. He didn't often eat any of his own strudel; the bitter flavor of captivity— of resentment and frustration and fear— had always tainted it too harshly. It still did, somewhat, but a hint of victory's sweetness was lurking in there, too. He chewed thoughtfully.

"I did not want to be enemies," Schultz said after a while. "I did not want to have any enemies at all."

"I know," said LeBeau.

"I tried to… I tried to be your guard while still not being your enemy. We had to fight, because the big shots said there had to be a war, but I did not want to hurt anyone. I… did not ever want to hurt anyone."

"I know," LeBeau repeated. "We all know, Schultz."

Schultz, his eyes suspiciously shiny, picked up another piece, more to have something to do with his hands than anything else. He didn't say anything more.

LeBeau finished his, and brushed a few stray crumbs from his lap. "I have to go," he said, not sure what else there was to say. "I… I could write down my strudel recipe for your wife, if you like. For when you get home."

"Nein," he said quietly. "She has her own, and I would not insult her by asking her to change. Even if yours is better. I will go home, and I will eat her cooking, and I will try to forget what food tasted like here in Stalag 13."

"As will I," said LeBeau. "I hope you forget quickly."

"I do not think it likely. But thank you, Cockroach," said Schultz, and waited just a beat too long before tacking on a patently false, "For the strudel, I mean."

"You're welcome," said LeBeau, and got up to leave.

"LeBeau…?"

"What is it, Schultzie?"

"When you are home. You are a good baker. You should… you should sometimes make apfel strudel for your countrymen. Then they could… there should be at least one good thing you found in Germany, ja?"

LeBeau looked down at the battered tin plate in his hand. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps I shall."

Schultz nodded, accepting that lukewarm half-promise for what it was… and the best he could expect. Forgiveness was never as easy as that.

He had not sought this war. But he had been a part of it—albeit an unwilling part, a reluctant part, as harmless as part as he could manage. He doubted that he would ever be able to eat strudel again; it would always taste of regret now. Regret and shame.

Perhaps someday a German pastry eaten in a French kitchen could taste of peace. He hoped so.