Chapter Eight
Eine furchtbare Geschichte (A Fearful History) - Berlin

"Marie?" A hand brushed Berlin's face, but she couldn't look away from her lap and the faint red smears on her white clothes. "Mon petit?"

"Mm?" The little German city didn't look up at the Frenchman.

"Ce n'est pas 'mm', cherie." France told her quietly, patting her cheek good-naturedly. "C'est 'oui'."

"Oui," Berlin fisted her hands in the skirt, careful to avoid the red patches on the cloth. "I understand." The French rolled off her tongue reluctantly, a mumble thickly steeped in her queit German accent, and made France pause.

"Cherie," He murmured, kneeling before her, "do not worry. We will have lots of fun en Paris; my home is tres beaux and-" His smooth voice choked off when a tiny tear fell onto th back of one clenched little hand. "Marie?"

"What about mein Vati?" Berlin hissed, raising her teary accusing blue eyes to meet Francis'. "Und mein Vader?" They're not having fun now, are they?"

"Marie?" "They're hurt, und tired, und unhappy, und hungry- und I'm not! It's not fair!" Her little voice rose, the indignation and emotion morphing into righteous fury, and drew attention from the other passengers on the train. They could hear the German in her voice, even though the slips to and from French were discreet.

"Marie, hush," France quickly tried to coddle her in close. "People are staring. Francais, s'il-vous plait."

"Nein!" Berlin broke away from the Frenchman and slipped out of their booth in the open car. "Ich hasse dich! I hate you!" And, with a blurry glare at the nation, she ran off down the aisle and into the next car. It wasn't hard to get away -no one stopped her- and she ducked into an empty compartment as she heard a following pair of footsteps.

Panting, she sat stock-still on the carpet floor, practically trembling with fear, and listened as the steps got closer and closer.

What had she done? She had offended her new guardian and now he had found her and she didn't know what he would do. In her short time with the towering Russian nation, she had been in so much pain she couldn't think. Would her new Papa hurt her too?

"Cherie?" A knock on another compartment made Berlin jump. "Are you there?"

'No, no, no!' Berlin panicked, searching for a place to hide. She couldn't get under the seats, or behind an obstacle -she was trapped, or so she thought. Suddenly, when she turned to pray to the sky, she saw a sturdy luggage hold above the door. She could make it, just barely, if she scaled the seats and pullled herslef up by her arms. The luggage rack could fall, break, and she could get hurt, but she reasoned that a fall was worth the risk of getting away.

"Cherie? It's me, Papa." France's voice was closer, next door, and Berlin acted on it. She scrambled to her feet, managing to get up onto the back of the seat, and leapt at the luggage rack. It bent slightly under her weight, making Berlin lose her breath, but held and she struggled to lift herself into the metal basket. It shook, groaning slightly as she curled herself up on it, and Berlin winced as she knocked her head against the ceiling.

Unfortunately, the blow made her yelp.

"Marie, ma cherie?" France must have heard her pained noise and his quick footsteps came to a halt below her, shrinking her lungs and knocking the wind out of her. He would find her, and hurt her or leave her, or he would tell the other nations and her family would suffer.

The door slid open below her without force, a gentle sound as the wheels rolled along the tracks, and Berlin could see the top of France's blond head as he walked inside. "Cherie... where are you?" He looked around, his face unreadable from her angle, and Berlin froze when the Frenchman carded his fingers through his hair. "Oh Dieu! Marie!" As he turned to leave, she saw a flash of anger in his eyes and, unable to help herself, choked off a moan and her eyes filled with tears. France, who had been right below her, looked up in shock and nearly cried out when one tear hit his cheek. Above him, Berlin whimpered and quivered as she cried, paralyzed with guilt and disquiet at what he might do to her for running and causing a scene.

"Oh, cherie," France cooed, reahcing up to pat her hair. "why are you crying?"

"Ich will mein Vati!" Berlin waield suddenly, clutching at the Iron Cross hanging around her neck. "Vati! Vati, hilfe! Es tut mir leid, Vati!"

France jerked in alarm, catching a few more tears with his jacket as they fell, and watched the little girl-city come undone in the luggage rack. She was shaking like a leaf, sobbing and jabbering German nonsense through her tears, and France made out mere fragments of her desolate moaning.

France didn't know what to say; she was right. America was taking care of Germany right now, with Britain's help, and her beloved father was in the hands of her abuser. Neither German man was faring very well, although Prussia was obviously in worse condition, but Berlin was being coddled like a princess. She'd been redressed in beautiful French clothes -lace, ruffles, ribbons- and scrubbed shiny for the trial that had ended only hours previously with many tears. Now she was disheveled and puffy-faced, terrified of him suddenly for a reason France could only guess at.

"Cherie," France said softly, sitting on the carpet and looking up at her. "you're right. Allemagne is with l'Amerique et Angleterre, and ton papa is with la Russie. It's bad, right now- very bad."

Berlin gasped, glancing at him through her hands, and she whimpered low in her throat. He dropped his shoulders, letting his fine hands rest in his lap, and met her eyes mournfully.

"I know." She admitted, sniffling,

"And I think that la Russie will not be kind to Prusse." France said softly, "Oui?"

"Oui." Berlin mumbled, "That man is ein monstrum." She shivered, touching a smear on her smock, and closed her eyes tightly. "A monster."

"Marie," France murmured, "would you please come down?" She met his eyes -blue puddles clashed with cerulean seas- and glanced away, worrying her tender bottom lip with her teeth, but nodded and shimmied her legs off the basket. She dangled from the wire basket for a few seconds, the frame bending under her weight, and France's heart stuttered when she dropped to the floor. He knew this little girl was no normal girl; she was the new capital of Germany, once the capital of Prussia, and she had been a major city during the war. She had housed tanks, auxilary troops, and even now she was thriving in the harsh post-war conditions. He shouldn't have cared fro her -not even the slightest- but the way the light caught her hair and the fire in her blue eyes made France proud; she was like his own little daughter, all wrapped in French lace and ribbon.

As she rose to her feet, she peeked at him through her hair anxiously: "Are you mad at me, papa?" She asked quietly, fisting her hands in her skirt.

"Never, ma cherie." France replied, and a sudden small smile bloomed on her mouth. He opened his arms again, no longer met with a wince, and pulled the slight little girl-city close to his heart. His heart fluttered tenderly as she returned the gesture and, casually picking her up, they returned to their seats, smiling.

That was the beginning of Berlin's tremulous future; divided in four, worse than any child of a divorce could ever be, with six men speaking for her body and soul. She had four new parents -she liked to think of them as such because it made the years easier to bear- with four different homes and rules.

Her British father, Mr. Kirkland or Mr. Arthur, was strict and firm with the rules he enforced upon her and always made certain that Berlin knew what she had done wrong. However, their interactions were hardly spoken, and Berlin spent many days silent with books and records or nature to occupy her. When they did speak, they spoke of technical fact and he taught her what he thought Berlin must know as a capital city and a growing young girl. Unlike him, Berlin's papa in France was affectionate and kind; they spent hours together, speaking and singing and just passing knowledge between them. He was a well of knowledge, both frivolous and useful, and Berlin loved the time she spent with this endless supply of nurturing and care almost as much as the time she spent with her "big brothers".

The big brothers she'd gained, Canadian and American, were shining examples to the young girl starved of hope and her home. She spent, as much as she wanted to, no time with her fathers and she took who she could get to fill the holes in her little German heart. Her Canadian brother, Matthew -Matthieu, Birdie, Mattie; he had many names- spoke to her in the German she missed, his voice soft but assuring, and America's brash courage was comfortingly similar to that of the father who'd been lost to the frigid snows of Russia. He treated her not as a city -or a pawn to be used, or a pet to fawn over- but as a girl growing up without her family to support her. He was her pillar -her power- and she leaned heavily upon him in the face of the Soviets, pale and shaking with fear.

The Soviet's relationship with young Berlin was much different. Stalin's grip of his half of the little girl-city was firm; he relaxed nothing as she aged and, blaming the damages of war, Berlin was enlisted to repay his country. Russia was no less overbearing. He had no love for the child and, with all the power he held in his home, he kept her confined and constricted what she could do.

However, even as her parents in the West watched her work tirelessly under the snowy Eastern nation, the Allies agreed that the tensions between them and their Russian ally were still great. How could they unify the country standing between them when they could not cross the borders themselves- the borders not set betweent heir feet, but between their hearts. None of the men truste Russia. Canada's faith, when he admitted to it, was as shaky and fragile as a newborn baby bird, and Prussia had yet to be heard from since the trial.

None of the Allies could bear to mention the word "reunification". It was a word laced with danger -a threat, a timebomb that was too volatile to use without risking death- and mentioning the idea in the presence of Russia was unthought of.

There was too much between the new halves -of Germany and of Berlin- for unification to bridge, and neither side would be the first to extend the timbers of peace to build those bridges.

It was only 1946 and it was already obvious that Berlin, and Germany, would remain divided.

Mon petit = (French) my little one
Ce n'est pas 'mm', cherie. C'est 'oui'. = (French) It's not 'mm', dear. It's 'yes'.
...en Paris = (French) in Paris
tres beaux = (French) very beautiful
mein Vati = (French) my Daddy
Und mein Vader = (French) And my Father
Francais, s'il-vous plait = (French)
nein = (German)
Dieu = (French) God
Ich will mein Vati = (German) I want my Daddy
Vati! Vati, hilfe! Es tut mir leid, Vati! = (German) Daddy! Daddy, help! I'm sorry Daddy!
Allemagne = (French) Germany
l'Amerique = (French) America
Angleterre = (French) England
ton papa = (French) your father
la Russie = (French) Russia
Prusse = (French) Prussia