Two men sat side by side on a park bench. The day was windy and they were a strange sight, for no one cared to sit out in the cold in such weather. One of them was reading a newspaper that was crinkled with the billowing wind, sometimes pages ripping, the other calmly sitting and throwing bits of bread down onto the floor for the pigeons. In a few years' time, this sort of wastage would be unthinkable.

"France has already surrendered!" Oktav seemed amazed, "it's but been twelve days."

Roderich did not look up from his task, "I suppose the English troops will have to defend it, no?" He thought of Francis and how he must be coping with such a loss. Then he thought of Arthur. Good, literate Arthur who used to see his Austrian symphonies and discuss art and literature and the like with him. Where was he now? Somewhere in a bloody field, face kissed with mud, most likely.

His lips quirked slightly. "Say, Oktav. What have you done with the cello?"

The newspaper was at last folded away, "I have sold it."

"Whatever for?"

"Roderich, it has a hole in it."

"…We could have gotten it fixed."

"Ah, but your Viktor friend is still gone. Who else can you trust at this time? What makes you think no one will steal it anyway?"

Both men were undeniably weary. The theatre was on a temporary hiatus, and the two Austrians found themselves unemployed. It was not an issue for Roderich, but Oktav was very unnerved by it. In these times, unemployed was the worst thing to be, but even worse was being a Jew. By this time they'd all heard about what the Germans were doing to the Jews in concentration camps. They turned their faces and pretended not to hear. If Octav could not find employment soon, he'd be drafted into the army.

"I hear the Germans are boiling down the Eiffel Tower to make guns." Oktav said, nudging Roderich playfully on the arm. The two men laughed, though none of it was funny. War was not funny, but sometimes not laughing killed.

More than a hundred thousand Austrian men became part of the Waffen SS force. It seemed like the country was in complete alliance with Germany, but still when Ludwig held out his hand, Roderich did not take it.

The theatre never reopened. Schumacher was nowhere to be found. Rumors went that he fled toEngland, but he could easily be dead and rotting somewhere. The war was taking its toll on everyone. Oktav's sister had recently died from the flu, and his mother went mad. His father was off fighting in the whermacht, and Oktav was left to care for his mother. He found a job in an ammunitions factory, and it often kept him too busy to care for himself. Roderich did what he could, sending them parcels of food every now and then. It really wasn't like he much needed it. Besides, if rations kept being reduced, then soon there would be nothing left.

"Who did you suck off to get these?" Oktav snarled with suspicion one day when Roderich showed up at his doorstep with five wursts.

The Austrian was surprised- his friend had never spoken to him like that. But it looked like Oktav had not shaved for days, maybe even a week, and he smelled rank. Roderich heard nonsensical mumbling coming from somewhere in the house, and decided to leave the wursts and turn tail. War changed people; Roderich was foolish to think anyone could be exempted.

Before he left, though, he caught a flash of a curious sight. The Giuseppe 1743 cello leaned against Oktav's rickety staircase, its bow cast on the floor beside it. It was still in its deplorable state, but it looked like it had been shined, and it seemed that Oktav had been playing it. He hadn't sold it after all.

A letter arrived for Roderich from Erich Fruehauf in late 1941. It went something like this:

"Roderich,

I hope you are doing well, and still as Viennese as ever. Isn't it odd that each time I think of Vienna, you are the one person that comes infallibly to mind? It's almost as if you are the personification of Austria itself, if it were possible. I hope you are still practicing on your Bechstein, and I hope you have received the cello I left for Oktav. He was always such a kind boy; I believe he truly deserves it. How is he?

Thank you to all the aid you've given me over the years, for helping me start my earliest symphonies and being such a good comrade. Germany will never want me back, but it seems the United States has welcomed me with opened arms. I hope nothing unfortunate has befallen you, though it may be a bit of a far-fetched wish in these times. I am sending in conjunction with this note a bag of apricots and some canned ham. From Canada.

I myself now reside in the United States, though I have no permanent home. Nonetheless, I am doing quite well. Of course, Americans aren't the greatest musicians, and I have had to find a new job since coming here. I am currently studying nuclear fission with a group of physicists working under Albert Einstein. It's much like what I used to do back in Germany before I was forced to run, so I am not at all out of my 'element'. Ha! I made a joke!

Truly, America holds such potential. It's really quite exciting and at the same time unnerving, because we are so lacking in resources. The President has approved of the project but has neglected to fund us. I think the bomb, when we develop it, if it works, will be a major turning point in the war against the Axis powers.

I pray we can both hold onto our lives until then.

Your friend,

Erich Fruehauf"

Ludwig found the letter and promptly tore it up. It was one of the few occasions he was visitingAustria, as he is usually halfway around the world, dropping bombs onBritainor invadingCanadaor some such ridiculous thing. But today he was in Roderich's home, and he had found the letter. He was very, very angry.

Alfred F. Jones was very, very angry. "Why the fuck would you write to an Austrian about our plans for the atomic bomb?"

Erich shrugged in his usual manner, feeling in his chest pocket for a cigar out of an old habit that refused to die. There were no more cigars, no more cigarettes, even. He could no longer afford it. "He is a good friend of mine."

"But Austria is allied withGermany," Alfred said, exasperated, "what if the Germans get a hold of our plans? Who knows if they read and censor letters? What exactly did you write?"

"Only that we were studying nuclear fission is all."

The blond American seemed relieved. "That's fine, I suppose. What is his name, if you don't mind?"

"I believe it's Roderich Edelstein."

For some reason Alfred seemed to react negatively to this, looking very put out and anxious, which confused Erich. Erich muttered a weak, "he's not Jewish, you know." But as quickly as the panic had settled in Alfred, it left. "Never mind that, the Germans are losing the war and they know it."

"The Germans themselves are engineering their own bomb," said Erich, "if Truman doesn't start funding us soon, we'll run out of time."

Alfred shook his head, an unruly lock of hair bouncing as he did so, "the Germans will not produce it fast enough. They also don't have adequate heavy water supplies, and have to depend onNorway. Not to mention that it is incredibly difficult and expensive to isolate uranium-235 from uranium-238, and money is one thing those Germans no longer have. We have time- if we need the funding, we'll make do with what we have. We'll scrounge up some money somehow and make the damn thing even if we have to hand make all our equipment out of cardboard." The young man looked no more than twenty five, twenty eight at most, but he spoke with a maturity far beyond his years. Erich could not help but admire this, "I suppose you are right."

The two men removed their lab coats and stepped out of the facility and into the dry night air, both looking exhausted and weary, having seen the potential for worldwide destruction in the off white of their gloves. It was late, and all their colleagues had already gone home.

"Let's go for a drink," Alfred growled as he wrenched open the door to his car, "We'll be driving for a while to get to the nearest town, but I'm fucking… Just… Thank God they're not rationing beer. The day they do it, I'm joining Hitler. Let's go."

God bless America.

Sometime in 1942.

There was madness in his eyes, and Roderich was afraid for it. "Ludwig, please, listen to me," the Austrian pleaded to no avail. The German was inebriated and neurotic, his great fists clenching so that the white of his knuckles could be just been defeated atStalingrad. Ludwig had not taken it well. He was still in his Luftwaffe uniform, which was stained with gasoline and dirt and stank of cigarette smoke.

"I don't understand," he pulled at his own hair, "why? Why? Why are they winning? Why are we losing?" and his eyes landed on Roderich, all prim and proper like he always was, and Ludwig drew the Austrian onto his chest, "I want to protect you," he whispered into Roderich's ear, "I won't let them take you."

Roderich closed his eyes and thought back to better times, to the times when he used to be so powerful. He had been drunk on it, just like all others. The concept of fair human behavior is always flawed, and in power comes eventual ruin. "All things fall, Ludwig, even your Reich."

He had expected some kind of violent comeback, but instead Ludwig just pressed him harder into him, as if wanting to physically become one. Eventually Roderich grew tired of the cigarette stench and moved to peel Ludwig's jacket off himself.

"I don't like what you do when you wear it, but I rather like your Einsatzgruppenuniform more," Roderich murmured distantly as he helped Ludwig shrug out of his uniform. Ludwig smiled fondly, still hearing gunshots, mines and missiles going off in the back of his head despite the relative quiet of Austria, "I did look rather handsome during the Anschluss parade, didn't I?"

Roderich stared. "You know that's not why." But he rather liked Ludwig's smile. It reminded him that yes; the man in front of him was still human. Roderich thought that if mankind were unable to smile, then there would truly be no return from cruelty. Ludwig clasped his hands behind the small of Roderich's back and pressed against him, breathing from the crook of the Austrian's neck, smelling the scent that was naturally him. It smelled like oranges and vanilla, and it was lovely.

"You haven't played for a while," Ludwig observed tiredly when he caught sight of the neglected piano, which had its cloths drawn and seemed to be gathering dust, "that is so unlike you; what is wrong?"

"I'm surprised you noticed," Roderich leaned his head against Ludwig's collarbone, too tired to put up his act, "but it is war, you understand, and I really am not sitting at home with nothing to do." He never thought about it this way before, but he had missed Ludwig greatly. He liked the weight of his hands on his back, liked the way his chest was hard and unmovable. He even liked the dirty stench of his sweat, so this was either a case of extreme loneliness, insanity or some other thing Roderich wouldn't care to admit.

But oh, how he longed to go to a good concert. How he longed to see the Athena theatre up and running again, how he longed for this war to just be over already.

Roderich could not help but strain his ears to Vienna's night, hoping to catch some strain of music- at this point, even a children's nursery rhyme would do. But there was no music other than the off tempo of shots being fired at irregular intervals. Occasionally there were commotions, screams and yells and cries, but those had been more frequent during the days of Jew-hunting. Now most of Austria's Jews had all but disappeared.

Roderich still visited Oktav whenever he could, but the man grew more and more unstable, so much so that on more than one occasion he threatened Roderich's safety. Then one day, just out of the ordinary, Oktav decided he wanted to join the Wehrmacht.

"You can't just leave," Roderich protested, "you have your mother at home- how will she manage?"

Oktav had a strange twitching all through his body, and sometimes stuttered and talked extremely quickly. It was not at all like his old patient, calm and precise self, "I don't fucking know, Roderich. I've lost everything- my music, my love, my life, my family… My father's things were sent back to us last week. He had his head blown off by some goddamn American, you know how- you know how I know? They sent me his fucking helmet with a fucking bullet hole in it. And you know what? I'm taking it with me, screw them all. That's what I'll fucking wear when I blast Uncle Sam's motherfucking brains out."

"Oh no you don't, Oktav," Roderich tried to stop him, he did, but Oktav flung his arm at the Austrian and almost struck him in the face, sending him reeling. The raven haired man was breathing rapidly, dark circles having formed under his eyes and his body having grown weak from hunger. But how was that possible? Roderich sent food and gifts and money to the boy whenever he could.

Then it hit him. Oktav had sold what he had given him for alcohol. The stench of it was everywhere, on everything. A wall was punched in and several pieces of furniture were overturned. Roderich could not imagine spending a night under this roof. Perhaps it was for the best…

Indeed, Otkav admitted that he'd sold what Roderich had given him, but claimed that the alcohol allowed him to escape from his misery better than proper nutrition, apparently. Strangely enough, his mother was physically quite healthy the last time he visited, though her mental constitution was really not any better, Roderich heard. He wasn't allowed to see her, never was, but he admired Oktav's strength for having held out so long.

"But what will happen to her, now?"

Oktav gave no reply, just slowly turned around and started to mechanically make his way up his staircase as if possessed. Intrigued, Roderich followed him, up the creaking stairs and into the upstairs hallway that smelled distinctly of yeast and rotting newspapers. Somewhere, a ceiling leak dripped. "Nein, it is not necessary if she does not wish it," Roderich stammered quickly when he realized Oktav was opening the door to his mother's room, the room she locked herself in and never came out of unless to use to toilet. She couldn't even wash herself, and Roderich had always respected her dignity.

But Oktav shook his head slowly and motioned with a quick movement for Roderich to take a peek.

The Austrian almost lost his meager lunch. There was Oktav's mother, not at all in good physical condition like Roderich had previously thought. In fact, she was literally a skeleton. The flesh had long since been peeled from her skin by rodents, it seemed, for Roderich was loathe to consider the alternative. She must have been dead for months. The room stank with the sweet musk of decomposing flesh and flies clung to every surface. Roderich had never seen anything quite like it.

"She says I'm crazy for wanting to join so late in the war, since we all know Germany might well loose," Oktav said absently, trudging into the room and holding up one of his mother's skeletal hands, a long strip of blackened skin still hanging at her finger, "isn't that right, ma?"

Roderich wanted to run, just run away and never come back. Oktav's eyes fixed themselves on him, though, speared him in his spot. They were a stormy silver, his eyes. "Won't you play for us, Roderich? I know you're not a cellist, but mama has heard all about you."

It was the strangest audience he ever had, even more awkward than the time he played for Ludwig stark naked. Roderich went downstairs, took the cracked Giuseppe by its neck and walked past the front door and up the stairs. He didn't even consider running away, because something told him that Oktav would wait for him forever with his mother's hand in his if he did so.

He started to the third suite for cello by Bach, in the key of C before Oktav stopped him quite rudely, "Nein, Roderich. I would like you to play a Kodaly."

Roderich wasn't even sure if that was allowed. But who cared if he played a Kodaly on a ruined cello to an insane man and his dead mother?

He was not very good at it, and the cracked instrument sounded utterly dismal, but he played. Hary Janos, Oktav's favorite. He played and played and lost himself in a past time that was far too recent for his liking, when he went to theaters at nights and laughed with the same man which he now feared, looking at him with empty, dead eyes.

"Thank you, Roderich."

"Nein, it is my pleasure."

Roderich took the Giuseppe with him when he left and never once looked back. That was the last time anyone heard of Oktav Blau again.

The next time Roderich visited the house, it was in ruins and no trace of the happy family that once lived there could be found.

August 30, 1945

Adolf Hitler died. Suicide. Roderich was in his home when he heard the news, and it didn't surprise him at all. Ludwig, too, was gone. Nothing drew any sort of emotional response from him anymore.

He listened to the deafening silence inside his head and knew that soon music would return to Austria.

April, 1945

"Pardon?" The Austrian lowered his papers, staring with wide eyes at the couple seated at the table next to him, "what did you just say?"

The other man, an American it seemed, turned to face him. "That it was only one bomb. And now Hiroshima is just gone."

"Oh," was all he could say. A low buzzing started in his left ear, and it stayed with him throughout the day. He left the cafe after calmly finishing off his afternoon tea. He moved as if in a trance, buying eggs from the market and sitting in the streetcars trying to keep them from toppling over. He couldn't dodge the crowds cheering in the streets, and did lose a few eggs on the way home. Oh well. He turned the key of his apartment in its keyhole and breathed in the scent of melancholy.

The war was over.

Millions of Jews, slavs, gypsies, and homosexuals died in camps and no one noticed. He didn't want to think about it- he tuned his radio, catching the faint hum of static before a BBC news station came into sharp focus. It was Windston Churchill speaking.

"…From Stetin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, an Iron Curtain has descended across the continent. Behind that line lie all the capitals of the ancient states of central and eastern Europe- Warsaw, Berlin, Prague, Vienna…"

Octav died in the war, his cause of death was undisclosed. Roderich wondered if he'd died fighting the enemy, or died a deserter's death. It pained him too much to think of it, and so he didn't. He stashed his photographs with the other young man away, even burned some of them.

Traitorously, life in Austria mended itself. Strains of forgotten compositions flitted up from the streets; soldiers returning from duty peppered the roads. They were coming back to ruined homes and scattered families, but they would live as long as they held to their spirits. Liberated Jews found refuge in allied countries, though some dared to return in search of their loved ones. Most of them found only ashes and the horrible inevitability of war, but their blood was still German, and Austria was where they belonged.

Safe between the walls of his home, Roderich heard about how the British had found so many dead at German camps that they had to bury them with bulldozers. Sometimes it was hard to believe that this sort of horrible thing actually occurred- and how Austria, even in his relative freedom, had done nothing to put a stop to it. When he thought of it, he had to fight back the urge to vomit.

He didn't know what possessed him to accept Erich Fruehauf's invitation to a vacation in America, but he went nonetheless. He could use the change in scenery.

In America, jazz was quite popular; Roderich could listen to it for ages, having not heard a lick of it during the war.

"How did you manage to evade the Nazis?" Fruehauf tapped his cigarette and took a long drag, "I can't believe you're still alive."

"I am lucky," said Roderich numbly, "I don't know how it happened, either. It just happened that way. Sometimes there are things you just can't control."

"Every Jew I knew in Austria is dead," the blond composer was blunt, "except for you."

"I am not a Jew."

At this, Erich paused and regarded him with a curious incredulity. "Then are you Austria?"

His dead heart tumbling against his ribs, Roderich started, "p-pardon?"

The other was dead serious. "Are you Austria, then?"

"I…"

"I think you are. Because survive is what Austria does. Anschluss, the draft, the Nazis, allied bombing, occupation by four armies, even the holocaust." Erich shifted in his seat, "I think you must be Austria personified."

Suddenly, Roderich no longer cared if Erich Fruehauf discovered his secret. "Yes," he agreed solemnly, "I am Austria, and I have blood on my hands."

"We all do," Erich picked up a cup of coffee and took a sip, and at this Roderich remembered his own drink, its contents quickly cooling. The brew was thick and deep- too rich for the Austrian after years of watered down teas and war-replacement products. It was all he could do to take slight sips at it. "We all do," the other man said again, "you made your choices, and I made mine. I might as well have been the one to drop those things on Japan; I did help design it."

"…You helped end the war."

"At what cost?" Fruehauf snapped, surprising his companion, "I can't even sleep at night anymore. It will be years until I can finally come to understand the scope of what I've done, what we've all done as a collective whole, and what humanity has become." His eyes softened, and his whole face drooped in sad exasperation, "and then what happens? I don't want to live to know."

Hearing this, Roderich could no longer hold back his anger. He dropped his cup on the saucer so roughly that splashes of the coffee dotted the lace tablecloth, "do not dare think of such a thing, Erich. I will not lose another friend. You are the only one left that means anything at all to me."

"I… I can't…" Erich buried his face in his hands and took deep, heaving breaths, "I don't…"

Austria watched his friend, the man that used to be so prideful and so strong, break down completely before him in the middle of a busy American eatery. The scene was so offhandedly sordid that he felt the urge to laugh. Instead, he asked Erich to come with him back to Vienna.

"I could never return there," the blond gasped, still not looking at him. "I can't go back and look at the whitewashed walls and smell that stench of death lurking in the streets. I can't go back, knowing that I ran from it for myself."

"Do you not miss the fripperies? The operas and the music?"

Erich considered this for a moment, his eyes glazing over as he thought of all the laughter and love he'd once held for the city. What he said next made Austria's heart crumble.

"I don't think I can ever enjoy music again."

Sometime in the 1950's.

Life went on in Vienna.

Roderich moved houses because he could no longer bear to look out his window and see the same destroyed buildings. So now he lived across another set of destroyed buildings that somehow made him feel more at ease. And he felt his very spirit being repaired as every day he watched the other house being rebuilt. He had his old Bechstein delivered to his new home, but he left it there in the unpainted guestroom, draped in white and gathering dust. Looking at it and remembering Ludwig's eyes on him made him hurt.

A year after his last visit to America, he received a note from Erich Fruehauf. And then a package came.

Roderich opened the package before he did the note, and horrified surprise shot through his very line when he uncovered Erich's Geigenbaumeifter. This was the violin the composer had held so close to him, allowing only his best and brightest students the chance to make it sing. Even without looking at the accompanying note, Roderich knew Erich was dead.

The violin felt oddly heavy nestled against his neck, its weight and shape no longer familiar to the Austrian. He fumbled and grappled, but eventually found an acceptable position for the thing. He set the bow against the strings and pulled, the terrible cacophony of unturned sound screeching from the beautiful instrument. Roderich cried out, and wanted to fling the damned thing away from him before he remembered how much it meant to Erich; how much it now meant to him. He tuned and twisted and plucked all afternoon until evening came.

Then he played Kodaly's Hary Janos. The music was stunted; sometimes Roderich forgot which notes came next, sometimes he repeated entire stanzas or missed crescendos, but his tears still dropped when he heard the familiar tune. All the memories he'd blocked rudely wrenched their way back into his mind, unwelcomed, like the Gestapo breaking down doors in the wee hours of the morning. He remembered all at once Octav's kind smile before it turned lurid, remembered the way the gentle boy climbed into his house through the window on the day of Anschluss to comfort him with Kodaly. This same song.

And Roderich himself had played Hary Janos for Octav and his dead mother the last time they were together. It was like saying goodbye but not really, because even now Roderich felt the younger man's skilled hand pressed over his and guiding his bow. He played the song over and over again until it was as if he had never stopped playing; all the nuances and small tricks came back to him, and the night whiled away like that. Erich was dead, too. And Roderich, Austria, still lived.

The thought made him stop. That, and the odd sound coming from underneath Roderich's open window. Shaking and cramped everywhere from exhaustion, he gingerly set the lacquered violin against the wall under the window, and looked down into the streets.

A young man was clapping frantically, "that was very gutt, sir!" he shouted when he saw Roderich's head emerge in the dark, "c-can you play anything else?"

Astonished, Roderich felt warmth spread across his chest. The war had done much damage, but there were some things that still would not change. "I daresay I can play anything," he fondly teased the overeager man below, dressed in an ugly wool vest and modest pants. The impact of his words made him sway on his feet- he could play anything he wanted now. Before he could stop himself, he added, "would you like to come up for a cup of tea?"

The young man's name was Andre, and he was just shy of twenty. He was timid, though soon admitted he was a pianist. Roderich poured Andre a cup of weak black tea and, for the first time in years, uncovered the grand piano left neglected in his guestroom. The youth's face light up like sunshine and his fingers twitched at his sides, the cup of tea forgotten. He swallowed nervously, "I- I can play some Debussy, but I am n-not very good."

The edges of Austria's lips quirked up. "Then I will teach you. Come, show me what you know."

End.

...Damn, I don't even know what to say about this. Writing this was emotionally draining- this whole piece is just depressing as hell. War changes people; I cannot stress that enough. I personally know people who have gone to war, whether it be the Second World War, the war in the former Yugoslavia, Bosnia, and present day Afghanistan. Whether you are a soldier or a civilian in a war-torn state, your life changes completely.

And what is there to do once the destruction ends? Where to go after that? How can you even hope to recover from something so devastating? Yet even in the darkest times, there is hope. For humanity is capable of miracles; it is in our nature to spring back and move forward.

Please review if you've read. It'd mean a lot to me. Thanks.