Hogan's Heroes 1. Newkirk

_**Author's notes: **Well, this story was long in the making! I started writing it almost two years ago, but when there were only a few chapters left my interest in fan fiction disappeared altogether. But the story remained in the back of my head and the other day I decided I would finish it regardless, because I liked it too much to just let it sit unposted on my computer._

Contemplations_ is a follow-up to _Reflections_ and it will make more sense if you've read the prequel, but the story can be read independently as well._

_If you're bothered by the glumness of this story, well, there will actually be an at least semi-happy ending. ;)_

_Thanks to LJ Groundwater for betaing this chapter, though by now you probably don't even remember doing it because it was so long ago. ;)_

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>The big clock over the kitchen table is ticking and ticking, tirelessly counting the passing seconds. In the silence, the sound is harsh, almost overbearing.<p>

Newkirk steels a glance at Mavis, who is sitting across from him at the table, tightly clutching her cup of tea. But her distant eyes aren't directed at him, or the cup in her hands, or anything else in the kitchen, but at something else entirely. Something that is invisible to him.

There didn't use to be this silence between them, he thinks. When they were younger they could happily chat away hours together, effortlessly, carelessly, like time was a limitless resource free to waste as they saw fit.

When they were younger. Before the war.

But a lot of water has passed under the bridge since. Only it isn't really water that has passed, but bombs and bullets and war and years of captivity in a foreign country.

And it's strange how they both lived through the same war, and yet that common experience only served to estrange them from each other while all those other hardships they went through as children, or teenagers, brought them closer together.

But he realized, when he saw Mavis again after returning home, once the war was finally over, that things weren't the same between them any more. Mavis wasn't the same anymore.

Then again, neither is he, he supposes.

The easy familiarity, the understanding between them always taken for granted, has disappeared. But really, what had he expected? He'd spent years as a POW, locked up behind barbed wire during the day while carrying out dangerous undercover missions at night. That's an experience he doesn't share with her, one he can't expect her to understand.

Just like he can't imagine what it must have been like living in London during the Blitz.

He wonders if Mavis blames him for being away for so long, even though he couldn't help it. It doesn't feel fair, because it's not like he voluntarily signed up to go to war; he was _drafted_, darn it.

"Looks like it's going to rain again," she suddenly says.

He looks up, slightly startled. Her eyes are still not looking at him, though, but are staring at something outside the window. He follows her gaze, but there's nothing of interest there, nothing out of the ordinary. And yet she doesn't avert her eyes; they're fixed at whatever it is they're seeing.

He studies her face. There are fine lines in it, only barely visible, but still. He finds it odd that he hasn't noticed them before. She's too young to have lines like that.

"Yeah, it does," he agrees.

Then there's silence between them again. Mavis slowly lifts her cup and drinks once, twice, before putting it down. She is still not looking at him. He wonders what she's thinking.

He's been doing that an awful lot lately – wondering what's going through her mind. He didn't use to do that before the war, because on whatever few occasions that her thoughts weren't obvious to him, she would tell him. But when he first saw her again after returning home, he truly did wonder.

She hugged him hard that time, harder than he could ever remember being hugged. Even harder than the day he left to fight in the war. He never recalled her being that strong, but the arms around his neck were pulling him into such a tight, desperate grip that it almost hurt. They remained standing like that, close together, for a long time.

Yes, her arms were strong, but what struck him the most was how her face was closed once they disentangled themselves. He could no longer look into that face and tell what she was thinking; her thoughts were hidden from him.

Perhaps she is thinking the same about him – he doesn't know. They've been apart for so long that he can no longer tell.

And sitting here at the kitchen table, with the old clock on the wall ticking away tirelessly, he suspects that she no longer understands him. And can he blame her, really? There is so much he's been through that she hasn't, and that part of him is forever out of reach for her.

After all, what would she know of living with the constant fear of discovery and a subsequent firing squad hanging over one's head, or the gut wrenching feeling as a Gestapo officer takes a look at the forged identity papers in his hand and frowns suspiciously?

Or the unquestionable loyalty and camaraderie that forms between men who put their lives into each other's hands every day? Or simply the frustrations and humiliations inherent in the everyday life of a POW, locked up behind barbed wire? Everything that has shaped him, been a part of his reality for so long?

Maybe she even realizes this, and that's why she's so distant. Time and circumstances have created a rift between them, and all they can do is stand on opposite sides and stare out over the gaping crevice, unable to reach each other.

He studies the lines in her face again. And then he wonders what _he_ knows about being woken up in the middle of the night by the shrill sound of air raid sirens, about having to run for cover as German bombers indiscriminately drop their loads on the civilian population? Or fearfully huddling with crying strangers on the cold stone floor in the London Underground, wondering if everyone else made it to relative safety in time? Or digging through the rubble of a block of bombed-out buildings in the vain hope of finding survivors?

Mavis's eyes suddenly meet his; when he sees the expression in them, he has to look away.

_No, _he realizes, _he doesn't know anything about that. _


	2. Schultz

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>In a way, Schultz supposes he is lucky, because Karl came back from the war, whereas so many others sons didn't.<p>

He remembers it as clearly as the day it happened – the image of Karl standing in the doorway, hesitant, unsure. Like a ghost he just hovered there, an apparition returning to his former home but afraid to step inside lest he might no longer be welcome. Weary and thin, but _alive_.

Schultz could do nothing but stare, because his entire body was frozen. He couldn't speak or move, not until Karl took a hesitant step towards him, still looking unsure whether he had any right anymore to cross the doorstep. As if he thought he had committed some act heinous enough to forever banish him from the house he grew up in.

His paralysis let up, then, and his feet moved more quickly than he remembers them ever doing before. In a few short steps, he was there in the doorway, gathering Karl up in his arms, because he looked so frail, so unsteady, that Schultz feared he might collapse into a heap and never find the strength to stand again.

And as they stood there embracing each other, tightly, he realized that Karl was crying. He was _crying_, and Schultz hadn't seen Karl cry in many years, not since he was a little boy. But now he stood there with silent tears rolling down his cheeks and he didn't even seem ashamed, didn't make any attempt to hide them.

And he had cried too. Because ever since that frightful drafting order came, he had thought that he would never see his son return home again.

But now, Karl was back, he was home. And he was alive.

Or so he _thought_, until he looked into his son's eyes.

And he realized with horror that he had seen eyes like that before. During the Great War. Soldiers who had seen too much, been through too much, and who were never quite the same again. Perhaps they couldn't handle their comrades being killed, or perhaps they couldn't handle having to kill others. Perhaps they'd hidden in one trench too deep as bullets whistled over their heads, or heard one anguished cry too many from the men dying all around them.

Whatever it was, he had seen eyes like that before. And looking into them always made a chill pass all the way to his bones, because it was like looking into the ghastly realm of death itself. There was no life in such eyes, no hope, no happiness.

And he would think, then, that perhaps those men were already dead, that death itself had already claimed them as its own, having breathed its icy coldness into their very souls. Drinking life from them, leaving only a hollow shell.

And now those eyes are in the face of his own son. It feels as if they follow him wherever he goes, haunt him when he tries to sleep.

The eyes dredge up memories as well, old, almost forgotten memories that he has tried to tuck away under years of happier ones, aware that he would never quite succeed. He saw so many things that are now etched into his soul, and there is no way he can just shrug them off and pretend that they never happened.

He wonders, maybe he also had eyes like that, once the Great War came to an end. He isn't sure. At the time he tried to avoid mirrors, because he didn't want to look into them, afraid of what he might see. Perhaps there'd only be an empty shell staring back at him. The sad remains of a man that war swallowed whole, and then disdainfully spit back out again.

But he wants to believe that everything will work out, that everything will be fine. That in the end, things will be alright. After all, some of those men he remembers, the ones with the dead eyes, did eventually get better. Time healed, and they returned to their former selves.

A few of them.

His wife doesn't understand. She didn't fight in the last war, of course, and he never had the heart to tell her of all the horrible things he experienced during those frightful years that never should have been. Unlike him, she has no way of knowing what her son has been through. So she tries to reason with Karl, asks him to please tell her what is wrong, and if there's _anything_ they can do to make him feel better. To make him return to the young man he once was, before the war. Of course, she doesn't really say this out loud, but he can hear it in her voice; it's there, along with the despair that comes with being powerless to help.

But he knows that there is nothing they can do. Because he was there too, in another war that is now all but forgotten in the shadows of the one that has just come to an end. And he knows that nothing heals but time.

They can only wait. And hope. Hope that the lost, forlorn expression in Karl's face will eventually fade, and that there will once more be a flicker of life in those eyes.

He tries to take comfort in the fact that at least their family is complete, unlike so many other families that have lost loved ones.

He looks at the young man sitting in front of the fireplace, staring into the dancing flames as they engulf the firewood, slowly consuming it. Karl will probably sit there until darkness falls, until the fire eventually dies out, and there is nothing left of the firewood.

Nothing but burnt-out husks and ashes.

And that's when Schultz wonders, even though their family might be complete, if it will ever be whole again.


	3. Kinch

_**Author's note: **Thank you so much for the reviews, everyone! :)_

_And since a couple of reviewers asked about it – yes, this story will end on a happier note than what it may look like at first. ;)_

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>It's strange how that is, Kinch thinks. That one day you're this one person, and the next you're another man entirely.<p>

And once he was a hero, once he was important.

But that was back in Germany. Now he's just nobody.

Again.

His old job as a telephone technician wasn't there anymore when he returned to Detroit. Heck, his former _employer_ wasn't there anymore; another man who didn't live to see the end of the war.

But he eventually found another job, though. Those long years spent manning their secret radio in the tunnels beneath Stalag 13 did do him some good after all, he supposes.

He also supposes he should be happy; in the end, their side won the war and he made it back home safe and sound, which is more than can be said for a lot of other people. But he can't shake this feeling that _something_ is missing.

Readjusting is hard, he thinks. Even though he's lived most of his life as a civilian, suddenly returning to that life after everything he's been through feels strangely _off_.

He's now wearing the clothes of an ordinary civilian, clothes that could have belonged to any man he passes on the street. The green jacket he always used to wear got lost somewhere along the way, after his repatriation and between the debriefings he got shuffled around to. At times he sort of misses that jacket – it was shabby and filthy and had holes in it after being worn for so long, but in a way it had grown to become a part of him.

Well, it doesn't matter. It's not like he could have walked around in it now anyway. The looks he gets are disdainful enough as it is even with him wearing clean, proper clothing.

_The looks._ He had almost forgotten about those while he was in the camp. No, not forgotten, because that's a thing you just don't forget about, but perhaps chosen not to remember, not think about.

No, Detroit hasn't changed one bit since he left it. Of course, it wasn't like he had expected it to, but secretly he had been kind of hoping that maybe, just maybe, things would have changed while he was away, maybe _people_ would have changed, and…

_Right_. As if. People don't change. They're the same everywhere, he thinks as he walks by a restaurant with a "No blacks" sign flapping in the wind.

Maybe Germany and America aren't so different after all, when it all comes down to it.

And that makes him want to scream, just _scream_ at the people who give him all those all-too familiar, disapproving looks as if he doesn't have a right to even be there, _I fought to keep all of you safe and free_. Fought in this miserable war, so that they could all live in a world free of oppression and tyranny.

But they don't see that; all they see is another _nigger_.

And that's when he realizes that he misses Stalag 13.

Well, he doesn't miss the camp as such with its lousy food, barbed wire and early morning roll calls. He's glad to be rid of all that. But he misses the men he served with, he misses the camaraderie between them all.

Most of all, he misses being respected, and people seeing beyond the colour of his skin when they look at him.

It's so ironic, he thinks, how he used to long for home while he was in Stalag 13, but now that he finally _is_ home, he finds himself missing the camp instead. Part of him even wishes he were back, because there, at least he mattered. He made a difference, and the people around him acknowledged that.

Still, it's a stupid notion. Perhaps there's something wrong with him, because really, what kind of ex-prisoner would miss his former jail?

But he can't help but think that in a way he was freer back there, despite being surrounded by fences and guard towers and machine guns. Because no matter what some might think, the worst prisons aren't necessarily physical.

He takes another look at the "No blacks" sign. And then, he suddenly recalls how the prisoners in the camp would pass the time talking about all the things they would do after the war. Once they were home, and their lives were once more their own.

Some dreamed about big things. They would travel the world, or become rich and successful. Others were more modest; they were content dreaming about eating a nice steak with fried potatoes, or asking the redhead next door out to the movies. Others yet were practical, down to earth, and talked about getting an education or finding decent employment.

Someone had asked Kinch, then, what about him? What would he want to do after the war, once this was all over?

And he had said, _I want to start a family_.

There were some eye rolls and dismissive snorts at this – and Kinch admits that it probably wasn't the most interesting or exciting thing to say – but it was his heartfelt wish. He wanted a family; he wanted sons he could teach to play basketball, and daughters to sit on his lap as he read them bedtime stories.

But as he looks at the sign swaying gently back and forth in the wind, he realizes that he isn't so certain anymore. After all, would he want his sons and daughters to grow up as second-class citizens? Never to be truly equal or have a given place in society?

They deserve better than that.

And perhaps he is just being conceited and entitled, but after everything, he can't help but think that _he_ deserves better, too.


	4. Klink

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>As it became obvious that the war was coming to an end, Klink's fears grew in both numbers and strength until they reached a stormy panic. There was no doubt that Germany was going to come out of this as the loser, and everything <em>that<em> heralded was truly frightening. His Fatherland's imminent defeat opened up for so many terrible prospects and uncertainties that were now gathering outside like uninvited guests, banging on the door, demanding to be let in.

Yes, so many questions of what would happen once Stalag 13 was liberated.

Would the prisoners lynch him? (No, surely – probably – Hogan wouldn't let that happen, no matter how much of a grudge he might hold against Klink after all the years in German captivity.) Would the Allies put him on trial for war crimes? (He didn't _think_ he had done anything that would merit it, but one never knew what atrocities the victors might decide to pin on him.) Would he be handed over to the Russians? (And wouldn't _that_ be the irony of his life, when he had spent so much of this war trying to – and so far succeeded, even – avoid getting sent off to the Eastern front.)

So many horrible uncertainties, and each of them threatening to put an inglorious end to Colonel Klink for good.

However, even though he had barely dared to hope for it, the surrender of Stalag 13 turned out to be a peaceful affair. Humiliating, yes, but peaceful nonetheless.

Afterwards, he spent some quite forgettable time in an Allied POW camp. Where _he_ was the senior POW officer. Oh, how Hogan would have laughed if he knew about _that_! Well, perhaps the man did know; Hogan always had this eerie knack of seeming to know everything, even the kind of things that a normal POW shouldn't know about at all.

He remembers his time in the camp as consisting of mostly waiting. Waiting for the announcement of Germany's surrender that would inevitably come. Waiting for news from the outside world, of what was happening to their defeated Fatherland. Waiting for someone to tell them what would happen to _them_.

Time passed slowly. There were rumours, speculations, and guesses flourishing, but little substantial information from their captors. And day after day, Klink would walk his usual round along the camp perimeter – at a safe distance from the warning wire, of course – morosely staring out over the barbed fence surrounding them, hoping that the familiar routine would help to dispel at least some of his worries and fears. Not knowing was really the worst part.

Then, one day, some important-looking people arrived in the camp. A couple of them wore American uniforms, but the others sported civilian attire, a rather uncommon sight in a military POW camp. Klink paused in his aimless pacing, then, to curiously stare at the visitors as they walked into the commandant's office, closing the door behind them.

About ten minutes later, one of the camp guards exited the building and walked up to him. _Colonel, you're wanted in the Commandant's office_, he said.

Klink's heart almost stopped at that. What did those people want with him? Had the Allies decided that he, a high-ranking Luftwaffe officer, was to stand trial for whatever war crimes they'd decided he was guilty of? Were the men in the civilian suits here to take him away to face his ultimate fate?

On unsteady legs, he followed the young guard inside. He hoped no one noticed his hand trembling as he saluted. However, the looks the men gathered in the room gave him weren't accusatory or resentful like he had expected, but rather interested and curiously evaluating.

_Have a seat, Colonel_, one of the men said, indicating a chair.

Klink sat.

To his immense relief, it turned out that he wasn't being accused of anything. No, the men before him were from the Allied occupation administration, and they were recruiting Germans willing to work for them and help to make things run smoothly by functioning as intermediaries between the occupying forces and the civilian population. And for this task they wanted Germans who were fluent in English, had previous experience with administrative work, and weren't Nazis. As a matter of fact, his name had actually been put forward by the former senior POW officer at Stalag 13 (at this, Klink's eyebrows shot upwards, because why would Hogan ever recommend _him_ for anything?). If he was willing to accept the offered position, he would leave the camp sometime during next week to start his new life as a clerk working for the Allies.

And Klink accepted. What else could he do? It was surely better than being imprisoned here behind barbed wire, not knowing when he would ever be a free man again.

Perhaps he should be content with his lot in life. After all, he has a job with a steady income and an apartment of his own (albeit rather small) in a time when so many people are both homeless and jobless. What's more, he survived the war unscathed, despite all those worries that he wouldn't live to see the end of it. And unlike so many of his fellow officers, he was never accused of any war crimes. Even his stint as a POW was relatively short and painless.

In the end, all those fears that plagued him during the long, dreadful years of war never came to fruition. And now, here he is, all safe and secure, despite his previous convictions that he would never be.

But despite that, he's not content. Because now that the looming danger and uncertainty have disappeared, and he no longer needs to worry about his personal safety for the first time in many years, there is this growing realization nagging at his consciousness. The realization that he has gone through life worrying about nothing and everything, and now that there is nothing left to worry about, he doesn't know what to do with himself.

There is this painfully empty void inside of him, and he has nothing to fill it with. Perhaps it was always there, but he never noticed it because his fears were always vying for his attention, or maybe the void was simply left by the fears as they disappeared.

He thinks that maybe if he hadn't let his fears so totally dominate his life, he would have had something to fill that emptiness with. But he always focused so much on things that in the end never happened instead of actually _living, _letting his days – his _life_ – go to waste.

And so there is still one fear left, one that just won't disappear no matter what. The one fear that perhaps, when it all comes down to it, his father, the strict military man, was right.

Maybe he really _is_ a failure.

And not just in the way his father meant it.


	5. LeBeau

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>His Paris has changed.<p>

He can't put his finger on exactly _what_ it is that has changed, though, but perhaps it has something to do with the haunted eyes he sees all around him, belonging to people who have lived – existed – under foreign occupation. Or perhaps it's the tiredness, the abject weariness that inevitably settles in after a long war in which no one is truly the winner.

He knows that some would argue otherwise, but he can't see them as victors, not really. France has lost too much for that, and so many of her young sons are lying dead on foreign soil, never to return again. At times, it's almost as if he can see the gaps in the crowds, the mysteriously empty slots where all those people would have been standing, had they been alive today.

Well, whatever the reason is, his Paris now feels like a different place. It's not the city he once used to know, before the war. It's not the place where he used to laugh, drink, and sing in the company of friends, on those beautiful spring evenings when there was still a chill in the air from the winter gone by, but also the light of an approaching summer. The atmosphere has changed so much since then, and everything feels sadder, more forlorn.

Even the tones coming from a lone street musician standing in a street corner are tinged with sadness. The man is wearing a black beret that fits him badly and droops slightly to the side, giving him an eccentric, almost vagabondish look. Maybe the beret is some kind of souvenir or a leftover from better times long gone by, and now he can't bear to throw it away for all the memories it holds.

LeBeau recalls – whimsically, because it's not like it really matters now – that the last time he walked past this square, before the war, the tunes he heard were cheerful. A middle-aged man with a harmonica had been standing in that corner, now occupied by the man in the beret, singing about love lost and then found again. It had been a song filled with hope. Slightly solemn and sung in a minor key, but still hopeful.

But the tune that the man with the beret is singing is only sad. There is love lost, but none recovered in the end. The sorrowful tones haunt him as he walks on until he turns a corner and they fade away into nothingness.

He steels a quick glance at the faces of the people he passes by, wondering if they feel the same thing as him – this creeping _estrangement_ – but their looks are closed, giving away nothing to strangers. Perhaps another leftover from the war, like the fallen buildings that still haven't been rebuilt.

_So different_, he thinks. He left one place, but returned to another. It's like he's an alien from another planet, worlds lying between him and this strange, unfamiliar place he finds himself in.

And perhaps there really _are_ worlds in between, or at least one – a smallish town named Hammelburg in war-torn Germany. All the years he spent in that odd, insulated world, in Stalag 13, have changed him, and in more ways than one.

So in retrospect, it was probably silly thinking he could just return to Paris and pick up the pieces of his life from where he had left it. Like he could just leave everything that happened in Stalag 13 behind, letting it remain behind the barbed wire as he left through the front gates, and then live a normal life as those years slowly faded into dusty memories.

And even though he never really realized it while he was in the camp – he was too busy with other things, then – it's something that has slowly become clear to him now that he's home again. But during his time in Stalag 13, his perception of home slowly changed, until it was no longer Paris with its bustling streets and gourmet cuisine and romantic outposts, but rather a drafty wooden barracks smack dab in the middle of Germany.

And now, he isn't sure if that perception will ever change back. Because he's been through so much with his fellow prisoners. They've all been through so much, and shared so many things that he will never again share with anyone else. And definitely not with the faceless masses of people jostling him in the street, people whose names he doesn't even know and that he will probably never meet again. Why he should call a place like that his home, when he has nothing in common with the people around him? They don't know him, can't relate to what he has gone through. They haven't shared the debilitating fear of a Gestapo crackdown, the triumph of a successful mission, or the danger of death with him.

They're just anonymous faces passing him by. They're not his friends in Barracks 2. The ones who know him, who will support him, stand by him no matter what. Who would risk their lives for him, and he for them.

Some of his old, pre-war friends are still here in Paris; he's even met a few of them since his repatriation. But things aren't the same anymore, because there are years between them now, years of death and suffering and war, and nothing can really overcome that they never went through those years together.

He turns another corner, crosses another street. There should be a church there to his left, he thinks, but it's no longer there. Instead, there's a block of houses whose white plastered walls stand out against the grayed taint of the surrounding, considerably older buildings. The ones that are still standing, having withstood whatever it was that levelled the church.

He supposes that one day, he might get used to this, to seeing the results of the havoc wrought upon his home country. But that day is not today, and probably not any of the days in the near future either.

No, Paris has changed, and it no longer feels like home.

Or maybe, he wonders, Paris hasn't really changed at all. Not truly, not fundamentally.

No, maybe the one who has changed is him. And perhaps that's why he doesn't feel at home here anymore.


	6. Burkhalter

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>He used to be an officer once, but now he's just another civilian, scraping by on his small pension, only barely making ends meet.<p>

Albert Burkhalter winces as his boot scrapes against a brick lying forlornly on the steep sidewalk. Those old wounds he sustained in battle, years ago now, the ones that had him removed from active duty, still pain him sometimes. A sudden movement or a careless twist of a limb, and the agony shoots through his spine like fiery needles.

Still, he's gotten used to that pain by now and it doesn't really bother him much. There are fresher wounds, much deeper and infinitely more painful.

He's been trying to forget, to put the memories behind, but he can't.

The humiliation is still as fresh as it was on the day of Germany's defeat and unconditional surrender. The capture, the endless interrogations, the confinement – an unending string of degradation, looping around his neck and slowly choking him.

The worst part was how those Allied soldiers, simple privates and non-coms, considered his hard-won medals mere war trophies to be taken home to pass around among gaping friends and family while gloating how they got them from some captured Kraut officer.

Those medals, part of his pride and standing as an officer, embodying the valour and bravery he had showed in battle, reduced to mere bounty to be distributed among green soldier boys whose only claim to medals was to take them from captured enemy soldiers. He still remembers how those filthy, greedy hands had grabbed for the shining metal on his chest, and the rude questions of how he had earned this or that, questions he refused to answer.

But it didn't stop there, oh no.

Like so many of his fellow officers, he was accused of this as well as that and had to stand trial like a common criminal. But the evidence against him was weak. They never could pin any of their ludicrous charges on him, never prove that _he_ was responsible, and in the end those Allied judges had to acquit him, to the sound of disapproving murmurs from the rabble filling the court room.

How disgraceful that had been, having to defend himself in court like a petty thief – he, who not long ago had been one of the Reich's most esteemed generals, an officer whose presence would command rigid attention and salutes. And respect.

But the judges, the jury, and the prosecution alike, even the men listening on the wooden benches showed him nothing but contempt. They didn't even try to hide it, but looked at him with mouths drawn into hard lines and narrow eyes filled with angry accusations.

The charges were, as expected, ridiculous. He had only done what officers always do in wartime – his duty – but the ignorant barbarians presiding to judge him had called it _war crimes_. Since when was it a crime to serve one's country, to give and follow orders, to conduct oneself as a true officer of the Reich?

No, they didn't understand. Could not be expected to understand, because they had never served their country with weapon in hand, never spilled their blood on behalf of _Volk_ and soil.

And what's more, they never understood any of the values embodied by a true officer. Values he had lived for, values that he would have given his life for, should it ever have come to that.

Values that are now dead. Dead and meaningless. To the people scraping by on their meagre daily rations, they mean nothing. Wherever he looks, he only sees hunger and desperation in the eyes around him on the streets. Not one of those single souls cares about honour and valour anymore, if they ever did. If it can't be exchanged for bread, it's not worth the time and bother.

It's horrible, what the German people have been reduced to. Scurrying among the ruins of bombed-out buildings hoping to find something of value, no matter how insignificant. Resorting to begging on the streets, and worse. He has long since lost count of all the young and not-so-young women approaching him, reaching out to tug at his sleeve as he passes them by. But he always shakes the poor, loathsome creatures off, angry and disgusted.

He sees another woman like that eyeing him when he walks past her, tattered scarves tightly wound around her head and shoulders, so he speeds up his steps, quickly passing her by. Fleetingly, he wonders if her husband is dead, in a POW camp, or perhaps even one of those officers having to stand trial like he did. An officer, once proud and valiant, but now broken and powerless.

Germany's finest, reduced to criminals and thugs by the victors, who refused to leave the defeated even their pride. Everything that was important to them, everything that mattered, has now been dragged into the dirt, spit at and defiled. Everything they struggled to uphold has lost its importance, those who valued it now gone. And the wretched men he sees on the streets no longer have any love for the old martial traditions, the ones that separated the strong and worthy from the simple commoners.

The officers are all gone now, faded into the woodworks, those few granted their freedom now having forgotten the old glory and honour they once embodied.

He used to be an officer once, but now he is no one. And the values he used to live for, that made him what he was, are all gone.


	7. Carter

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>Carter always thought he knew what he wanted to be when he grew up. Whereas other young boys would tether between the prospects of becoming a pilot, a cowboy, or a police officer, his answer was always the same: <em>I want to be a chemist. <em>

Amused grown-ups would sometimes laugh at this rather precocious reply – now shouldn't a nice young man like him be dreaming about fighting crime or perhaps serving his country by joining the military? Surely that had to be a more exciting career choice than mixing chemicals in a lab somewhere?

But Carter only smiled, offering a polite _no sir,_ _I'd rather be a chemist_ in reply.

That conviction stayed with him, and as the other boys his age eventually abandoned their occupational dreams and became factory workers, bus drivers, or farmers, Carter still held on to his.

Of course, becoming a chemist meant having to go to university, and that sort of thing cost money. Money that he or his family didn't really have, but in the end he was lucky enough to secure a position as an assistant to a pharmacist thanks to his extensive chemistry skills.

It wasn't the kind of job one would get rich doing, but it wasn't exactly low paying either and he was making enough money to slowly start saving up for the schooling he was planning on attending. A chemist education didn't come cheap, that much he knew after having checked the tuition fees, but he kept close tabs on his bank account and sometimes entertained himself with calculating how much longer he would have to work in the pharmacy before having amassed enough money.

Of course, some townspeople snorted at this. They regarded his academic leanings with suspicion, thinking them snobby, big-city delusions. What was wrong with finding a decent blue-collar job in Bullfrog like everyone else in town?

But Carter didn't listen to them. He never did care much what people were saying behind his back anyway. He had his dream, his passion. His future life was waiting for him, once his savings were big enough.

Of course, the war came in between. He never got to go to university before being sent off on that fateful mission that would land him in Germany for the rest of the war.

At first, he was certain that this would put his ambitions on hold until the war was over. Because what possible use would he have for his chemistry skills in a prison camp?

Ironically, it turned out that those skills _did_ come in handy, more than he could ever have imagined.

Of course, he had spent countless hours experimenting with the chemistry lab he kept in the basement back home, but it wasn't the same thing. Because in Stalag 13 he actually got to put his skills to real, honest use for the first time.

No, it wasn't the same thing at all. Because all the experiments he fiddled with back home never killed anyone. His bubbling concoctions never took the life of another human being.

He stands in the doorway, looking at the familiar set-up that is his old chemistry lab. It looks exactly as it did when he left it, except dustier – bottles containing colourful substances neatly lined up, a kerosene burner on the table, various pipettes and measuring devices all spread out. It should be fully familiar, and yet it feels so strangely alien.

It's like he doesn't belong here anymore. Like he isn't _welcome, _a pariah unworthy of even setting his foot in here. As if this lab shies his presence, wants him out. Which is of course stupid, because nothing in the room is alive or has feelings one way or the other, but still he can't help being overwhelmed by the feeling whenever he comes in here these days.

He hasn't actually used his chemistry lab since his return, not even once. And it's ironic, because back at Stalag 13 he would spend many an evening after lights-out, on those slow-moving days when they didn't have a mission to carry out, fantasizing about playing with his chemistry lab and thinking of all the experiments he would carry out once he was home again. He really missed that lab during his time in Germany.

But having returned to Bullfrog after all those years, he finds that he can't touch it without being overwhelmed by guilt. Because it is because of this lab, and the skills he learned in this very room, that innocent men and women are dead. Because of _him_.

Of course, no one will blame him for what he did. No, rather, they'd call him a hero – he's already got the medals to prove it. He used to think like that himself, even, when there was still a war raging – that he was making bombs and explosives in order to help with the war effort, just doing his part like everyone else. He never did contemplate much about the deaths those explosives caused. That _he_ caused. Because there was a war going on, and in wars you don't think about that, or you'll go crazy. At least that was what one of his fellow sergeants told him before getting killed on a bombing mission.

But now that the war is over, he can't help but think about those people. The ones that are dead because of him. Who only happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. In the wrong train. Outside the wrong building. Working at the wrong factory.

He runs a finger over the rim of a cracked bottle that has some unidentifiable, grainy substance still sticking to the bottom, the remnants of some experiment performed years ago. So many memories – and now they're all stained with the ugly taint of death.

Merely touching the things in here makes him feel vaguely filthy, like his foul deeds have materialized and are clinging to him like a second skin. The thought is disturbing, and he pulls his hand away. His gaze drifts to the boxes in the corner; there is no point in putting off the inevitable anymore. The lab is going, he is getting rid of it once and for all because he can't stand it anymore – everything in here will be stashed into those boxes and taken away.

_Someone once asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, and he had said,_ I want to be a chemist.

But that dream is gone now. Looking at the lab around him and feeling the self-disgust and regret welling up inside of him, he knows that the young boy who spoke those words, so long ago, was wrong.

No, after everything that has happened, he will never be a chemist.

Not now, not ever.


	8. Hilda

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>After all that has happened, it's strange how life can still return to some degree of normalcy. In some ways, almost like things were before the war. Of course, food and most everything else is still scarce and hard to come by. And the ruins of what used to be houses remain just that – ruins. A few buildings have been rebuilt, such as the <em>Rathaus<em> and the local church, but most haven't. There are more pressing things to deal with, after all. And besides, it's not like there's really anyone around to do it either, not with the best part of Germany's men either dead or POWs in Russia.

_Russia_. She supposes she's lucky that Hammelburg isn't part of the Russian occupation zone. She's heard so many awful things about what the Russians have been doing to German POWs and civilians alike. Things only spoken of in whispered rumours for fear that they might actually be true.

At least she should be happy that her brother Friedrich didn't end up in some labour camp in Siberia. At least he's safe in the US. At least...

Her fingers fiddle absentmindedly with the photograph she's holding. She doesn't want to look at it again; right now she can't bear to. There's too much bitterness in her for that. What she would like to do the most is to tear up that photo in her hands and burn the pieces, but she knows that she would regret it afterwards, despite everything.

She so wishes Friedrich were here. And it doesn't fell _fair_ that he's not. It's been so many years now since she last saw him; he should be sitting here right next to her, telling her amusing stories to cheer her up, the way he used to do before the war whenever she was feeling sad. He always knew how to put a smile on her face no matter how glum things were around her.

Perhaps she's being selfish thinking like this when there are so many brothers and fathers and sons that will never be coming back at all. At least Friedrich is alive and well. At least...

She runs her fingers along the edge of the photograph, toys with a creased corner. She thinks of the old picture of Friedrich that she used to keep in the drawer of her desk at Stalag 13, and all the times – when no one else was in the room – that she would take it out to look at. Wishing that she had more photographs of him. Hoping that once she came back home after work, there would be a letter from him waiting for her.

But this photo is one she could have done without. As well as the letter that accompanied it. She's already read through it several times, but she isn't sure whether the news have really sunken in yet. It feels so unreal, so unexpected.

_It's not fair_, her mind childishly screams at her again, stubbornly protesting facts that she is powerless to change. No, she can't do a thing about it, because she is here, in the remains of what used to be the picturesque town of Hammelburg, and Friedrich is on the other side of the world, in a country she has never been to, only seen pictures of.

And right now, she hates that country. It's ironic, a more rational part of her mind notices, how she never did hate America during the war, when America and Germany were bitter enemies bent on destroying each other. But no, she didn't hate them, not even when the news of Friedrich being a POW in the US arrived or Allied planes were bombing Hammelburg to pieces. Because hate always seemed to be such a destructive feeling, one that starts wars and brings misery to people who want nothing more than to live their lives in peace. She's seen so much hate in this last decade, more than she cares to remember. The propaganda was always filled with it, and so were the endless speeches and rallies and gatherings, and she got so tired of it all.

Not only their politicians and military and leaders hated the enemy, but it seemed her neighbours and friends also did. At times she would recoil at the venom in their voices, the glint of hatred in their eyes as they spoke of the Russian _Untermenschen_ or the American _Schweinehunde_.

And that's something she could never understand, because how can you hate a person you've never met, someone you don't know anything about?

No, she never understood that. Not until now. Because now she realizes that she also hates like that.

Not really wanting to but unable to stop herself, she steals another glance at the picture still in her hands. The picture of Friedrich. No, she mentally corrects herself, the picture of Friedrich and his wife. His American wife.

_I'm sorry, Hilda,_ his letter had said. _But I hope you understand. _

He'd gotten to know her during work detail – voluntary work detail, as he wasn't required to work, being an officer. _She_ was helping out at the farm Friedrich had been assigned to. The POWs were given a relatively fair amount of freedom, partly because both they and their captors knew that escaping to Germany was virtually impossible, and partly because the American industry and farms needed able-bodied men when so many of their own were off fighting in the war. So things slowly developed between them, and they didn't stop until he had lost his heart to her, and she to him.

But in the end, after the war was over, he was to be sent home. Repatriated along with the other German POWs in the camp.

And that's when they decided they would marry. It was the only way they could stay together, as Friedrich would otherwise have been sent home to Germany. Apparently, _her_ father had contacts in high places that could arrange for this to happen; the letter is very sketchy on the details, though, and she suspects it wasn't exactly a by-the-book procedure.

_I'm sorry, Hilda_. _But I hope you understand._

Their wedding had been a quick, simple affair. And she hadn't even been there – she, Friedrich's only sister. She hadn't even known about the wedding, not until the letter with the attached photo arrived.

She missed him so much during his long absence, and she still does. So many times did she fantasize about the day he would be repatriated and the two of them finally reunited. But now, Friedrich isn't coming home. Not now, perhaps not ever, because he's chosen that American woman over her. The one who's standing there in the picture in her white wedding dress, flowers in her hands, smiling, because the handsome young man at her side is her husband. He's all hers, now.

While all she has of Friedrich is pictures and letters and memories.

And that's when she buries her face in her hands and cries.


	9. Tiger

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>Perhaps she should consider herself lucky, Tiger thinks. Because in the end she survived everything, when so many others in the underground didn't.<p>

Outside, it's a beautiful summer's day, but she can't quite enjoy it. And that doesn't feel right, because she used to like the summer – its warmth and the sun, all the people bustling in the streets, little children running and laughing. The world was always a friendlier place in summer, even during the war.

The war.

Sometimes she wonders if there will ever be anything else ever again. At least for her, anyway. It's a mystery how people around her seem to have bounced back so quickly. Like decades have already passed since the war came to an end. Like all those who died and suffered were never truly _real_, only figments of the imagination, or mere ghosts walking among the living, forever unseen and unheard.

But she can't let go, not yet.

She looks down at her hands. They're shaking, again. She wonders if they'll ever stop doing that. Frustrated, she clenches them into fists, trying to stop the telltale trembling.

But the memories don't go away even if the shaking subsides. They're always there, threatening to rear their ugly head and overpower her when she least expects it.

And it's ironic how it's the height of summer, the midday sun at its peak, and yet all she can think of is a dark and cold Gestapo cell.

Perhaps they grew careless, towards the end. Or maybe it was the Germans who grew more desperate, less particular. Any suspicion, no matter how small, was enough for them to crack down.

She doesn't know who ratted them out. If anyone actually did. Maybe it was their own fault for being inattentive, or perhaps it was just their time. Maybe their luck had simply run out, like so many others' had over the years.

She witnessed it happening too, a few of those times when something went wrong and Lady Luck took her graces away; she stood watching, hiding in the shadows as men in black uniforms, materializing out of nowhere, grabbed their underground contacts and took them away. None were ever seen or heard from again, their deaths never officially reported.

She always knew that next time, it might be her turn. It was a thought that never left her. It was there in the back of her head when she went out to meet a contact, or smuggled secrets documents sewn into her coat. Or when she was trying to fall asleep. Or waking up in the morning. Whenever, wherever – it was always there.

So in a way, it was odd that when her time finally came, she was totally unprepared for it. She used to believe that she would face this moment with a fierce acceptance, a resolute stoicism, but the only thing she could think as those men with guns stepped forward was, _this can't be happening to me. It can't be happening. Not now. Not to me. _

And rather than fear, she felt bitterness. Because the war was winding down; everything was coming to an end, and yet she had let herself be caught like this. So close to the end.

So close, and yet so far away. As she was led away, she was sure that she would not come out of all this alive, and it felt so _unfair_. Tears burned behind her eyelids; she had fought so hard, risked everything, and yet fate had deemed her unworthy of seeing the long-awaited end of this devastating war.

The cyanide capsule she always kept hidden on her was soon found and taken away. She quietly watched it go, her eyes following it longingly as the stone-faced Gestapo sergeant in front of her held it between two fingers, inspecting it coldly before placing it on the tray holding her other belongings.

An urge to make a desperate rush for it came over her, to grab the capsule and embrace the quick, painless death it would bring, rather than having to endure the tortuous agony that awaited her. But the two guards holding her arms in a viselike grip only tightened their hold, as if sensing her thoughts. Probably they had similar experiences with other prisoners desperately trying to avoid the horrors that the Gestapo had in store for them.

So instead, she only closed her eyes, willing the world around her away for a few seconds. She would get through this without betraying her friends in the underground; the _Bosche_ would not get even one word out of her, she decided. A vain, ridiculous notion, she realized even as the guards took her away for questioning, but it was all she had to hold onto.

And in the end, they broke her. She didn't talk, she didn't betray anyone, but in the end she still broke.

She remembers crying, sobbing, and pleading. They did such terrible things to her in that cell. She wishes she didn't have to remember, that she could wipe her mind of it all, but the memories are as clear and sharp as ever.

During the long hours that she lay huddled in the dark, time melded into a blur. The floor was so filthy, covered with stains from things she didn't want to even imagine. Her own blood was on that floor too, a horrible reddish taint.

Then, the interrogation sessions suddenly ceased and they left her alone. For a long time, no one came. She was alone in her tiny cell, wondering if they had forgotten about her, or simply left her here to die a lingering death.

When the door to her cell finally opened again, she was still huddling on the floor, too weak to move at all. But there were soothing voices mumbling in her ear, and gentle hands touching her, which was odd, because the hands were never gentle. Not here, not in this place. They just weren't.

Words were spoken – perhaps to her, or to someone else – but they were far too many and far too loud for her to catch them all. However, a few things still stood out in the ear-shattering cacophony of sounds – _it's over, it's all over. The war is over. _

But she wonders if it will ever truly be over for her. Because even though the Allied forces freed her, they came too late. She had already broken, like a fragile glass figurine, shattered into a thousand jagged little pieces.

Perhaps one day, she'll forget about all this. Maybe one day, the memories will fade, leaving only a distant recollection, too shapeless and vague to hurt any longer.

But that day is not today. So she only looks down into the hands lying in her lap, fingers intertwined. They're still shaking, she notices.

And once again, she wonders if they'll ever stop doing that.


	10. Hochstetter

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>It wasn't how things were supposed to have turned out, Hochstetter ponders. Not even close to it. Germany should have been victorious, and National Socialism prevailing.<p>

Yes, it was the way it _should_ have been, but at the end that dream never came to fruition. Their enemies were too many, too strong, and too stubborn. Too _stupid_. Indeed, too stupid to realize what glories they could have shared in, if only they had embraced National Socialism with open arms, instead of degenerate ideas like Social Democracy, Communism, and the ugly beast known as democracy.

Democracy. _Bah_. He frowns upon such delusions. Everyone with half a brain can tell that democracies never work out in the end. People need to be led because they can't lead themselves, as history has clearly shown time after time again. Besides, the German people _want_ a strong leader, as the last election held in pre-war Germany proved when the Party won a landslide victory.

But in the end, their efforts were all for nothing. All their hard work, their careful manipulations and orchestrations, are now in ruins, in pieces. And he isn't sure whether those pieces can ever be put together again. They simply shattered into too many and tiny shards as everything came down around them. And so the ideals they had fought for – some even _died_ for – were shamefully cast aside. Denied. Defamed and denounced.

Everything abetted by their conquerors, of course. The self-righteous men in their uniforms and judges' cloaks, pointing their fingers and trying to place judgment onto them, the loyal supporters of the Third Reich who only did what duty and honour demanded. But now, they have been condemned into history as evil, inhuman beasts. Despite how they were only trying to save Germany from the rot and decay that had been eating it from the inside out ever since the Great War came to an inglorious end. But now _they_ are the ones called evil.

Madness. Logic turned upon its head. And yet people are eating it all up.

Why can't they understand what they, the members of the Party, were trying to achieve? And the necessity of it?

He holds no doubt that one day the German people will regret this. _Europe_ will regret this, once the rotten ideals of democracy have gained hold of all corners and layers of society, permeating the hearts of men with its alluring but deadly siren's song. But no one speaks of the moral corruption, the perverted mindset, and the decaying values that will inevitably follow in its wake.

Indeed, democracy promotes weakness and softness. It embraces mediocrity instead of fostering strength. It has no understanding of concepts like honour, bravery, and loyalty.

Besides, how can a country be run by its people, the common masses? The very idea is ludicrous – the majority are unfit to make decisions on behalf of their fatherland. They would selfishly choose the things that favour themselves rather than the nation as a whole. Only a select few are able set aside the wants and needs of the individual for the good of the country and its people, like it behooves a true leader.

And real leaders are forged by steel and fire and war. The citizenry with their petty, selfish concerns cannot be allowed to lead. They can be turned into useful members of society, but they can never be the ones who actually rule the country, as democracy dictates. No, that sort of task must be left to those who are competent enough to handle it.

Like the loyal members of the Party. They could have led Germany to greatness and glory. Turned her into a mighty empire that would have lasted a thousand years, her power unchallenged.

If only National Socialism had prevailed, the way it was meant to.

But it didn't happen, and now Germany is ruined. And not only because of the bombs and casualties and cities turned to rubble. Such wounds, though grievous, can still heal with time. No, Germany's real ruin is in how the minds of the German people have changed. Even towards the end of the war he could feel the shift in those around him – the unspoken-but-still-there disbelief in the ultimate victory. The doubts, the loss of will to carry on.

_Traitors_. So many of them. He thinks that if everyone had persisted in their beliefs in the Führer and the Reich, maybe they could have won, despite the odds. But so many officers were fickle – some even plotting from the inside to bring down those in charge and institute their own order. How could they expect Germany to win when they couldn't even keep a united front among themselves?

Yes, so many officers turned traitors towards the end. And even more did _after_ the end. Cowards who would suddenly deny the values they had not long ago claimed to adhere to. Weaklings who would no longer stand up for what they believed in.

But he refused to be like them. No, Major Wolfgang Hochstetter was still a proud National Socialist and not afraid to show it. And so, he stood there in _their_ courtroom, among _their_ judges, refusing to deny or show regret for his actions as his trial was held. Everything he had done had been with the good of the Reich in mind, nothing more, nothing less. He had opted to speak in his own defense, refusing to let a lawyer put words into his mouth, so he could expose all the blatant lies and hypocrisy of those who stood there presuming to judge over him, a loyal German citizen.

Deep inside, he felt a strong conviction that he was doing what was right by refusing to cave in and tell his judges what they wanted to hear. It was the only honourable thing left now, sticking to his beliefs.

The consequence of that was a sentence of twenty years in prison.

And even then, as the verdict was read out to him by an old man wearing a ridiculous wig, he stood tall and proud, still convinced that it was all worth it.

Now, however, when his life has been reduced to iron bars and stonewalls and the dreariness of imprisonment, he isn't so sure anymore.


	11. Marya

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>Marya remembers how she rejoiced when the war finally came to an end. She celebrated like she had never done before; her heart was beating so fast and her head was spinning from sheer happiness that it was all over. She could not imagine how she could ever be sad again. Not on a day like this.<p>

But the overwhelming joy that came with victory was short-lived, mournfully brief like the sun on a winter's day. Because when she returned to that small village on the Russian border, the one that she had always called home, she found out that she was no longer welcome.

And she never knew that looks could be filled with so much hatred. Harsh like blows, and just as painful. At first she didn't understand, because why should these people, among whom she'd grown up and lived most of her life, look at her like she was an unholy creature of sin and evil that had crawled out of the shadows to breathe her deadly venom into their midst?

No, she didn't understand. She was confused – did they mistake her for someone else, perhaps, someone else who had brought despair or discord to their village while she had been away? But she hadn't been gone for that long – even if it had felt like it – so surely they should be able to recognize their Marya who always had a kind word for everyone and laughter twinkling in the corner of her eyes?

However, it wasn't until she crossed the doorstep to her family home that she found out why everyone was throwing her such dirty looks. Her mother was standing at the stove as she explained, hunched down over pots and kettles, a wooden spoon in her hand. She was stirring and stirring, never once looking up from the simmering stew while she talked.

As her mother spoke – she was the first person since her return to say anything to her that wasn't insults – Marya could only stare, mesmerized, as the spoon moved around in the stew. Because it was all so unfair, so _pointless_.

And it was all due to a unlucky coincidence, a bad stroke of fate.

But Ilyusha from their village had seen her. Somehow, impossibly, they had been at the same place at the same time.

Yes, he had been there, as she had cavorted with a German SS colonel, far away from the front and the scenes of war playing themselves out all over Europe. Offering herself up to the enemy, all smiles and fluttering eyelashes and seductiveness.

_What were the chances of that? _she thought angrily, bitterly. So very bitterly.

And of course, Ilyusha had drawn his own conclusions. Conclusions that he was quick to tell the rest of the villagers on the day he returned home.

And because of that, they all despised her. There was no listening, no reasoning. The time for that had long since passed, she realized as she tried to explain that it wasn't like that, it wasn't what they were all thinking.

Except that it was. Because in the end, they were right about what happened between her and that SS colonel. And between her and all those other men, ranking officers with medals pinned to their chests and squadrons of men under their command. The _reason_ behind it they don't know and they didn't want to hear it either, but that never mattered. They didn't believe her, and even if they did, she isn't sure it would have made a difference. Circumstances were irrelevant; what she had done was inexcusable to them. Unacceptable. Condemnable.

_Traitor_, the voices would whisper. _Disgrace_. It was as if the wind carried those words with it, singing them into her ear no matter where she had taken refuge in a desperate attempt to escape the hatefulness emanating from the people who were once her friends and neighbours.

The whispers brought other words too. Horrible, ugly words that she had silently thought about herself many, many times, but that no one had ever spoken out loud to her before.

And it was much worse hearing such things than merely thinking them to herself.

_I did it to _protect_ you_, she wanted to say. No, not say – scream, shout, _yell _into those disdainful faces looking at her like she was less than the dirt trampled under their feet. But the words stuck in her throat; maybe it truly didn't really matter any longer. After all, there is no reason or reasoning in wartime, and the ravaged peace that follows it can never understand why men and women did what they did back then.

She was certain that things couldn't get any worse. Because what could be more horrible than being looked upon as something filthy, something so dirty that you cannot even stand to remain in its presence?

But she learned that there was in fact one thing that was even worse.

And that was when the men and women then averted their eyes from her and looked away, like she was air, invisible and unnoticed. Because if no one would look at her, or talk to her, did she even exist at all?

Was she even alive anymore? If people saw right through her as were she a ghost or acted like she wasn't even there, refusing to acknowledge her existence, perhaps she had then truly ceased to exist?

Whatever the case, she couldn't stay in the village anymore. There was nothing left for her there.

When she left, she walked past that old barn that she remembered from a cold winter's night blizzard, experienced years ago in the unforgiving Soviet winter.

It looked so different when there was no snow whirling around it or covering it in shapeless white. Parts of the walls had fallen down; this barn could no longer offer any protection from the cold. It was just an old ramshackle, torn and shabby, its magic all gone, having faded like the fairy creatures of childhood fantasies are wont to do as the years pass.

It had offered her sanctuary once, but that had been a long time ago.

She stood there looking at it for a long time, before turning and heading down the rocky, muddy path stretching out before her. _Anywhere is better than here_, she thought as she left.

And now she's back in Germany again. Somehow, her feet carried her back here, even though there's nothing for her here either. But at least it's familiar, as familiar as a country can be that has lost a war and lives under the yoke of occupation by foreign armies.

And even though it's summer here, and the snow of winter has all thawed away and the ice has long ago melted, she is still frozen on the inside.

She never knew that German summers could be so cold.

And this time, there isn't even any snow to wipe away the tracks.


	12. Langenscheidt

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>In a way, Karl Langenscheidt supposes he needn't really have worried so much. Not about the things he <em>did<em> worry about, at least.

After all, the takeover and subsequent liberation of Stalag 13 by the Allies was a peaceful affair. No shots were fired, and no one got killed or even wounded.

He remembers looking at the cheering prisoners – no, make that ex-prisoners – swarming the tanks that had just rolled into the compound, thinking _for them it's over. For us Germans, it has just begun. _

He and the rest of the former camp guards were then herded into the barracks where they nervously awaited their fate, speaking quietly among themselves, some lightning cigarettes and inhaling deeply, as if this were to be their last smoke. They didn't have to wait for very long before they were ushered out again, though, and onto the trucks that were now waiting in the compound. As Langenscheidt stood in line waiting for his turn to hop on, he threw a last glance at the liberated prisoners who had gotten what looked like a party started at one end of the camp. He envied them, because at least _they_ were going home.

Then there was suddenly a hand on his shoulder, and as he turned around in surprise, he saw one of the former prisoners standing there, a somewhat sheepish smile on his face. _Hey, take care of yourself now_, he said as he shuffled his feet, hands stuck deep into the pockets of his jacket.

_You too_,_ Carter,_ Langenscheidt replied before an American GI ordered him aboard the truck with a wave of his rifle. Not long after, the trucks started moving, the little convoy slowly rolling out through the gates that those Sherman tanks had rolled in through not long ago.

And so began his life as a POW. After a rather unpleasant, seasick journey across the Atlantic he ended up in a camp in Louisiana, where he spent his time picking cotton on the white-dotted fields that seemed to stretch on endlessly towards the horizon. He'd never seen cotton fields before his arrival in America, but after a few months he began to wonder if he would see anything else ever again.

But all in all, it wasn't too bad. The guards were friendly enough, and so were the local townspeople at the farm he worked at. The food was better than he was used to from Luftwaffe rations, particularly towards the end when the infrastructure destroyed in the Allied bombings prevented what little supplies there was from being distributed.

It took a long time before the first letter from home got through, though, nerve-wracking time that he spent worrying and imagining the worst. He still remembers it clearly, how his fingers were shaking as he opened the envelope adorned with his mother's neat handwriting, afraid of what he would find out. But it turned out that – amazingly – his parents and sisters were all well, under the circumstances. His older brother was a POW somewhere in England while their younger brother had been wounded in battle and would walk with a limp for the rest of his life, so the doctor had said, but at least they were both alive.

It was with great relief that he put the letter aside after having read it over four times, savouring every precious word from home. He had thought, then, that maybe things would turn out alright from now on. His family was safe, the war was over, and Germany had been liberated from the Nazis who had brought so much grief to their country. Now he only needed to be patient and wait until the Americans saw fit to repatriate him, so he could go home and start his life all over again.

And once more do what he loved the most – writing. He had missed that, during the war. But the dreariness of wartime Germany had halted his inspiration badly, as had the constant worries and fears weighing on his mind. But now that things were looking up again, he felt inspired again.

And just like in Stalag 13, he spent a lot of time quietly observing the interaction between the guards and the prisoners. Once more, he found enjoyment in watching people and analyzing human nature for use in his writings. When he was back in Germany again, he would return to being a full-time writer, of this he was certain. There was so much he had learned, both in Stalag 13 and in this camp that he could put into his novels.

Then one day, the prisoners were all ordered into the rec hall to watch some movie or the other. This wasn't by any means an unusual occurrence – their American captors would occasionally showcase movies as part of their de-nazification program, short propaganda pieces that highlighted the virtues of democracy. It was usually a rather dull experience, but the camp guards would hint that refusing to participate in these showings might affect how long they'd have to wait before being repatriated.

Besides, it wasn't as if he could really argue with the message brought forth in those movies, however boring they might be.

However, as it turned out, this particular movie was something else entirely.

Of course, he'd known about the labour camps – they all had, at least towards the end of the war. But _this_? This was completely different, something he wouldn't have been able to conjure even in his wildest nightmares. Such cruelty, such blatant disregard for human life; he couldn't wrap his mind around it. So he only stared in shock as the horrifying pictures played out on the screen, hardly believing what he was seeing.

As the footage ended, he realized there were tears rolling down his cheeks.

How could this have happened, and in his home country no less? How could anyone be capable of such atrocities? He had no answer, and he wasn't sure if he even wanted to find out.

The sight of those emaciated, wretched bodies only barely recognizable as human beings haunted him for a long time afterwards, as did the corpses of skeletal men, women, and children – _children!_ – that had been ruthlessly shoveled together in shallow trenches. While he had seen his share of horrors and tragedy during the war, he had never realized before just how ugly human nature could be.

Once, he had enjoyed exploring that nature and writing about those observations, but now he only feels disgusted by the realization of what humans are capable of doing to their fellow men.

And now, as he sits on his bunk, absentmindedly flipping through the notebooks where he's jotted down ideas and drafts for his stories, he realizes that he no longer wants to write again. Probably not ever again.

Because if _this_ is what human nature can be turned into, he doesn't want anything to do with it anymore.


	13. Gertrude

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>Gertrude's gaze drifts slowly to the man lying next to her, his chest heaving with each snore. It's too dark for her to discern much, the man's – well, her husband's – facial features vague and shapeless in the dimness. For a while, she imagines that it is Otto lying there next to her, snoring contentedly. She used to enjoy listening to his snores at night before falling asleep, the noise that other women might have resented serving as a steadfast reminder of her beloved husband's presence.<p>

But the man lying next to her now isn't Otto, of course. Otto is long dead, his frozen remains lying under a giant, impenetrable sheet of snow somewhere in Russia.

At least, that's what she thinks, even if she doesn't have any idea what happened to him. But if he were truly alive, he would have come back to her by now, or at least sent her a letter…

But there was nothing, not a word from him, only that telegram delivered by that stout-faced officer years ago; _we regret to inform you that your husband Otto Linkmeyer is missing in action. _

For a long time, she refused to believe that malicious message, hoping against all odds that there had been a mistake, a simple mix-up, perhaps there was some other Otto Linkmeyer that had gone missing, _something_. Anything.

But over the years, she slowly came to accept the gruesome facts. Otto was dead and wouldn't be coming back at all. All she had left of him were memories and those reoccurring dreams where they were together again, from which she would wake up with tears running down her face.

Eventually, the grief abated somewhat. It never left her completely, of course, it was always there hanging over her like a grey cloud or a persistent shadow, but it wasn't quite so overpowering anymore. The pangs of sorrow were more like a dull throbbing instead of the previous spiky thorns boring into her heart, sharp and painful like needles.

For a short while, she had even been foolish enough to entertain the hope that she might find another man, someone else to love. Perhaps not quite like Otto, but at least someone she could feel affection for.

Those hopes had been short-lived, however. Her brother Albert's insistence that she marry had only intensified as the inevitability of the outcome of the war grew more obvious.

_You realize as well as I that it is only a matter of months before Germany loses this war. And when that happens, I might not be able to provide for you anymore. You need to think about your future. Without a husband to support you, how will you get by? If you don't want to marry for social status, then at least marry out of necessity! Not for me, but for your own sake, Gertrude… _

In the end, she had agreed to meet this man that Albert had served with in the Great War, Major Helmut Bernhofer. He turned out to be at least twenty years her elder, overweight and with a stiff leg. But as a retired officer, he had the financial means to be a good match, could easily support a wife even in these troubled times when everything was scarce.

Like expected, she felt no affection whatsoever for the man. Oh, he was courteous enough, kissed her hand and showed her all the manners of a true Prussian officer. The medals on his chest were shining and his uniform immaculate, the creases of his trousers oh-so sharp and symmetrical.

But still, she felt nothing.

Later that evening, when she and her brother were alone again, Albert continued to press her. But this time, it was different. And that difference made her stop in her tracks, because it was so unexpected, coming from him. Unlike all those other times when he had played the matchmaker, trying to secure a husband for his wilful sister, she sensed the note of genuine concern in his voice. It wasn't just about finding a match for her, about upgrading her social status from widow to wife. No. Whatever fate had in store for their fatherland and for him, he did not want to leave her with no means to provide for herself in the trying times ahead.

And his persistence was unwavering.

_There are thousands of widowed women in Germany who would do anything to marry Major Bernhofer. Bur for old friendship's sake, he has agreed to marry and support you. This might be your last chance, Gertrude. Please consider it. _

And the way that he said _please_, one of those words that Albert rarely used, finally convinced her. Even if she didn't care about marrying for her own sake, she would marry for his.

She owed him that much.

The marriage itself was a hasty affair, only attended to by a pitifully small number of guests. But who cared about a wedding these days anyway, when people would trade their heirlooms for a loaf of bread and air raid sirens filled the air with alarming regularity?

It didn't matter. She never loved him anyway. And, at their wedding night, when he finally rolled his massive weight off her and fell asleep, loudly snoring, she only felt a gaping void inside.

Because the man next to her wasn't Otto, and never would be. She knew then that he'd never harbour anymore love for her than all those other friends and acquaintances of Albert's that had come and gone, their eyes glazing over with disinterest as they looked at her and her plain appearance.

She steals another glance at the man lying in the bed next to her. She supposes she should be grateful that she has a husband when so many German women have lost theirs, along with any decent means to support themselves and their children.

She should be glad that she has a bed to sleep in, that she has food to eat and a roof over her head, when so many others in Germany have none of these things.

But all she feels is emptiness.


	14. Crittendon

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>It is a fine day, the sun peaking out from behind a few puffy white clouds marring an otherwise almost perfectly blue sky.<p>

Crittendon quietly hums a tune to himself as he saunters down the street; it's one of those rather bawdy songs he learnt at the Academy. He doesn't sing the actual words, of course, because they're unfitting for a gentleman such as him, but he likes the melody nonetheless.

The street is as good as deserted, the pavement flanked by husks of what used to be beautiful buildings. He remembers these blocks well from his childhood, back when they were still vibrant and full of life, full of people running errands, yelling to one another from across the street, and chatting amiably on the street corners. He really loved this particular area when he was a boy, partly because of the kindly Ms Potter who used to live in that small yellow house with the blue and red-striped curtains and would come out to offer him candy when she saw him outside. Her garden was the prettiest, most well-kept one in the whole neighbourhood, and she would take great care of her dear flowers as if they were her children, watering them with utmost concern and fret over any brown leaves or wiltedness she spotted among the garden beds.

He would sometimes help her with that, and she would smile and ruffle his hair, telling him what a sweet boy he was. Ms Potter even kept geraniums in her garden, something that Crittendon had only rarely seen before. It was such an inconspicuous flower and most would opt for more colourful plants instead to decorate their gardens, but he always enjoyed the sight of them. Perhaps it was because they reminded him of his mother, who had always loved geraniums and who used to ruffle his hair just in the same way that Ms Potter would.

He visited her occasionally as an adult too, even a few times during the war. But the last time he came here, the blue and red-striped curtains were gone from the windows, and so were the geraniums in the garden. He had knocked on the door, only to be greeted with the surly face of a middle-aged man telling him that there was no one by the name of Ms Potter living her anymore.

He turns a corner to the left, continuing down the narrow alley. Some children push past him, laughing and jostling among themselves.

There used to be a florist shop here, he recalls, but it has all closed down now. Instead, there are only dark steel grates covering the door, and the windows gape emptily at him. The beautiful red roses and purple lilies that once overflowed the little table outside are all gone. The place is empty, abandoned and there has been no one to take over the establishment.

He remembers buying a bouquet for his mother from this store once. He only had a few pennies, so what he could afford was rather modest, but his mother had been overjoyed anyway, placing his gift on the living room table where it remained days even after the flowers were wilted and the vibrant colour all but gone from the petals.

The alley widens into a larger square, and he crosses it, well familiar with the way. He's walked here more times than he can count, both as a boy and as an adult. Only a few minutes later, he arrives outside one of the parks where he used to play during his childhood. Carefully, he presses down the rusty handle of the gate surrounding the greenery area and walks in, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

There has been no one to care for this park in a long time, though. No one has planted any flowers in years, and what remains of the flower beds have been taken over by thistles and nettles. Crittendon used to know the gardener, Mr Anderson, who worked in here, but he hasn't seen the man since the war started and the man was drafted. He isn't sure if Mr Anderson ever came back once it was all over, but if he ever did, he's not a gardener here anymore. He would never have stood for letting his park decay into this unkempt mess.

The grass hasn't been cut at all, and long straws are drooping over the walkway. Neither has it been watered, given the brown and withered appearance of what should have been a luscious green. No one has trimmed the bushes either that are now sprouting like unruly mops of hair, their long, uncut branches reaching out for him as if to tug at his jacket in protest at their current state as he walks by.

It used to be so beautiful, this park, and the sad remains make his heart twinge uncomfortably. He just thinks there should be _someone_ to take care of it, to offer people some well-deserved beauty after all the long years of war.

He exits the park on the other side, pressing down another rusty, creaking handle.

The street outside is not very busy, so he crosses it quickly and walks on, northwards towards his destination. As he walks by the lumbering houses flanking him, he can't help but to recall how their windows used to have potted plants in them, proudly displayed by their owners. But there are none left now, only curtains and a chapped porcelain vase. On one of the walls there is a grey and faded propaganda poster still nailed to the facade, encouraging young men to sign up for a war that is now non-existent.

But no flowers.

Turning a corner, he pulls a key out of his pocket as he stops at the sign hanging over the entrance bearing the inscription _Crittendon's flowers_.

He did get his own florist shop after the war was over. However, it would seem that people have no need or desire for such things as flowers anymore. It was the war that did it, though he isn't sure if it was the bombings or the letters about loved ones not returning or the poverty and lack of amenities that still hang as a shadow over the country. The conspicuous absence of all those weddings and celebrations and anniversaries that he wanted to provide his flower arrangements for is almost painful.

Still, he can remain in business, despite people's lack of need for this type of soothing beauty in their lives.

Because there is one thing that's still needed, there is still one thing that people want him to provide his services for.

The funerals. They will always be there, again and again.

And if he had known this was the only thing his little shop would be needed for, he would never have made his choice to become a florist.


	15. Helga

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>Helga's gaze slowly drifts to the photograph adorning the top of the bookshelf. The piece of furniture itself is old and worn, the dark wood cracked in several places. There isn't a lot of books or other things in it, but she put the photograph in its current place on the very day she moved in, and there it has remained ever since. Far too many times too count, she has considered taking it down, stuffing it away in a drawer, or perhaps even throwing it out, but she's never had the heart to actually do it.<p>

And she won't have it tonight either. The picture will remain there, she knows, because she just can't bring herself to get rid of it.

She sighs and lets her head fall back against the chair, allowing herself a few minutes of rest, of peace and quiet. She is thankful that she has this small attic room to call her own, when so many of the other nurses where she works have no other place to go to at the end of their work day, having to make the hospital their home.

_Herr_ and _Frau_ Kranz – her landlords – are really nice people, though. _This room used to be our son's, but he no longer has any use for it_, they told her when she came here. The rent they're charging her is modest too, even though they could easily get a lot more in this day and age when housing is scarce and many people are still living in shelters and other improvised homes.

_But you are such a nice and sweet young lady. And Germany could not make it without nurses like you taking care of its people in our time of need_, they said.

She never heard the couple mention their son again, but she did see the photos that were kept on display in the living room – the oldest one showing a baby sprawling on a blanket, the most recent one a grown man in a sergeant's uniform staring solemnly into the camera.

Though she's never asked, she's certain that the man – the sprawling baby – on the pictures is dead. Perhaps he was even one of the patients – victims – that died under her care. Another person that she failed to save, that she helplessly stood watching as his life slowly drained away from him like water from a rusty bucket.

Of course, she'll never know that, and she prefers for things to remain that way. It's hard enough as it already is without her knowing the identity of all those dead people, their dreams, hopes and memories now forever lost.

Somehow, she had expected it all to turn out differently when she left Stalag 13 and moved to Köln to study to become a nurse, going against the expressed wishes of her parents.

She still remembers the words in the first few letters she received from home after telling her parents about her decision. The disappointment, the desperate pleading that would gradually transform into stern orders for her to come to her senses and get married instead of engaging in this futile pursuit. A woman of her standing shouldn't have to work at all, and most certainly shouldn't get her hands dirty being a nurse. Why would she choose such a way of life when she could marry a fine German officer instead, and just _why_ did she have to let her parents down like this? After all they had done for her, and now she had no compunction shaming them so horribly?

After some months of this, the tone of the letters changed, once her parents realized that there was no changing their wayward daughter's mind. Instead of the cajoling, the guilt-inducement, and the subtle threats, there was now only a cold distance. Like the letters were no longer being addressed to a daughter, but to a disliked acquaintance that one was forced to correspond with for the sake of courtesy. There was no more _Dear Helga_ at the top of the paper or any _We hope to see you back home soon_ towards the end, just a frosty detachment that spoke more clearly than any words could have.

_One day, you will regret your decision to become a nurse_, one of the letters had said. One of those letters that would now only arrive sporadically, written out of duty more than anything else.

She had shrugged that sentiment off, though. She had known, then, that this was the right path for her. Because she wanted to _help_ people. The war was chewing up so many of Germany's young men and then spitting them out again, all torn and broken. She wanted to do something for those poor souls, something that _mattered_. So she became a nurse, hoping she could help all those desolate war victims with desperation shining in their eyes.

She was so proud on the day she graduated. She and her class mates were all smiles during that brief ceremony, cheering and hugging each other. Because now, they were real nurses and could actually make a difference.

Or at least, that's what she had thought back then, being helplessly naïve and idealistic. Then the real world crushed that little bubble as she was assigned to a field hospital, the stream of wounded and dying men coming in turning into an uncontrollable flood as the war progressed.

And she had realized, then, that there was very little she could do for all those maimed, burned, or blinded victims lying there on the filthy makeshift beds, moaning in pain and crying for their mothers. Never before had she felt so utterly helpless, so maddeningly _useless_, as she walked between those endless rows of patients, changing a bandage here, checking the blood pressure there. In the end, she was an insignificant pebble in this raging flood of death and madness. The men she tended to more often ended up dead later in the same evening than not. And the stench, the horrific injuries, the cries of the wounded as surgeries were performed without anaesthetics made her nauseous. A few times, she even had to go outside and vomit.

Once, a doctor saw her as she was standing there, heaving and coughing. She was embarrassed and expected him to show derision and disgust, but he only gave her the barest of glances, shrugging the incident off with a simple_ Don't worry about it, it happens to almost everyone_.

As the doctor turned and walked away, red-stained coat swirling behind him, she realized that his words had not comforted her at all. Because they had been spoken mechanically with no feeling or compassion whatsoever, as if by a machine rather than by a human being showing concern for another. But perhaps that doctor had found the only viable strategy for working in a place like this without going insane – shutting off your emotions and no longer letting yourself feel concern for anyone. Like a machine, something unperturbed by the all-encompassing suffering and death.

But she could never do that. It just wasn't her. So instead she found herself lying awake at night, thinking about those unfortunate victims she wasn't able to help, that were still suffering as she was cosily snuggling in her bed.

Now the war is over, and there aren't any more soldiers with bullet wounds in their guts hurriedly being carried inside on stretchers or civilians with shrapnel lodged deep in their bodies to deal with. But everyday, she sees the aftermath of what the war has done, the wounds and disabilities it has caused, all the lives it has ruined. These people will never heal, no matter what she does. She's still as powerless as she was back then. Day after day, she has no choice but to come face to face with misery and suffering, and she wishes she knew how that doctor at the field hospital managed to distance himself from it all, because she sure isn't able to.

She casts another glance at the photo on the shelf, showing her on the day of her graduation, wearing a nurse's stark white uniform, all smiles and happiness.

_One day, you will regret your decision to become a nurse_, one of the letters had said.

She never did believe it back then, but now, after being faced with reality, she's starting to wonder if her parents weren't right after all.


	16. Hogan

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>The train is busy; it's rush hour and sweaty, stressed people are jostling for precious space. Even though the windows are open to let some of the stale outside air in, the summer heat is suffocating.<p>

Suddenly, there's a sharp jolt and the train comes to a screeching halt, lights flickering for a short while before going dark.

Power failure.

People groan and mutter, dismayed at the delay. They have places to be, after all.

Hogan, however, only leans back in his seat; unlike most others on the train, he has nowhere he needs to be. Not now, not today.

The train remains still, unmoving. So to pass the time, he starts talking to the man in the seat next to him. After all, it's not like he has anything else to occupy him, so he might as well.

The other man is wearing a pinstriped suit and a tie, and has a briefcase in his lap. He looks important, but unlike the stressed commuting people around them, he seems to take the delay in stride.

His name is Goldmann, he tells Hogan, and he has a slight but still noticeable German accent. Probably most people wouldn't react to it, but after the years as a POW in Germany, it doesn't escape Hogan.

It turns out that the man is the CEO and owner of Goldmann Bank Corporation, and on his way home from an afternoon business meeting. Or rather he _would_ be, if their tax money were spent more wisely, Goldmann remarks with a pointed look at the unmoving interior of the train. In any case, there are far too many boring meetings with self-important people in his line of work, he confides to Hogan with a shrug.

Hogan nods in quiet understanding. He never much enjoyed attending meetings either.

They talk for a while. Hogan likes the man; he is open and straightforward, without being pushy or brusque. They come from very different backgrounds, but perhaps under other circumstances, they might have been friends.

"I have to say that I'm surprised to see a CEO willfully subjecting himself to the joys of public transportation," Hogan says half-jokingly when there's another jolt, but no further movement. "Hardly fit for a man of your standing".

Goldmann suddenly becomes serious. He hesitates for a while before saying anything more. When he does speak again, his voice is solemn, reflective. "You know, it's funny how people consider me a rich man because I have money. Because my business has succeeded. But I tell you, money is not everything, and it's not what makes a man rich. No, in the beginning, when I first started the company and had to work myself half to death just to barely make ends meet, _that's_ when I was truly rich."

It's a rather cryptic thing to say, and Hogan isn't quite sure how to interpret the words. So he remains quiet, waiting for Goldmann to elaborate. He has a nagging feeling that there is more to this little exposé than merely a self-made man's appreciation for hard, honest work.

Again, Goldmann hesitates, but then resolutely reaches into his pocket and brings up his wallet. Out of one of the partitions, he pulls out a picture, looking wistfully at it for a few seconds before showing it to Hogan. The photograph is wrinkled and yellow with age, but still clearly shows Goldmann, several years younger and surrounded by a smiling woman and two adorable little children, the perfect picture of family happiness.

"This was my family, once," he says, the fingers holding the picture shaking slightly.

And Hogan knows, he _knows_, what Goldmann is about to tell him. With that German accent, Hogan can already guess what happened to the man's family.

Yes, he knows what Goldmann is about to say, and he doesn't want to hear it. He just wishes the man would stop talking.

Because _maybe_, just maybe, there's a chance, however tiny, that he could have helped these people – the smiling woman and the two little children in the picture whose names he doesn't even know. Perhaps they would have been alive today, if only he hadn't chosen to do nothing. If only he hadn't listened to London as they forbade him to intervene and thereby endanger their undercover operation, because there were more _important_ things to deal with. If only he had questioned those orders, if only he hadn't...

_If only. _

He resists the urge to put his hands over his ears like a child stubbornly trying to shut out the outside world. In the end, he has no choice but to hear this one out.

"The Germans took them," Goldmann continues. "I was away on a business trip in Switzerland when it happened, and I never heard from them again. I tried to look for them after the war, after everything was over, but they were gone. Without as much as a trace." The shaking fingers holding the picture are slowly turning white, because they're clutching so hard. Like they're holding onto a fading memory that's threatening to disappear into thin air. "I only wish I had been there too, when the Germans came for them. At least that way, we would all have been together at the end."

Hogan hears regret in his voice. The kind of regret that can only be held for something unfathomable, something a man has carried with him for far too long without being able to forgive himself.

"Sorry about your family," he says. And he means it. More than Goldmann will ever know.

The light comes back, there's another sudden jolt, and slowly, everything starts moving again.

_No_, Hogan thinks as the train picks up speed, _Goldmann isn't the only one still regretting things. _

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><p><em><strong>End note:<strong>__ Well, Hogan is the final character and hence this is the last "real" chapter of this story. However, there will be an epilogue as well to tie some loose ends up. _


	17. Epilogue

_**Author's note: **And finally, here's the concluding epilogue. Thanks to everyone that has stuck with this story to the very end, and for all your comments and reviews! :)_

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while._

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><p>Newkirk<p>

They're sitting at the kitchen table, him and Mavis, looking through an album with old photographs from their childhood that they've found in the attic.

They're pointing at the pictures, laughing and reminiscing together. And then, as he looks at Mavis' smiling face and gleaming eyes, he realizes that suddenly it feels just like it used to do back then, before the war came between them.

* * *

><p>Schultz<p>

When he first notices it, he thinks he imagines it, because it's been so long that he doesn't really remember what it used to look like.

But as he stares at Karl's face, he realizes it is truly there. It is not a figment of his imagination, nor mere wishful thinking. For the first time since his son came home from the front, there is a real smile on his face.

* * *

><p>Kinch<p>

Her name is Alice. His fiancée. She tells him that things are changing, she can feel it in the air, in the people around them. Soon, things will be different. Their children will not have to grow up the way they had to.

And he finds, one day, that he actually believes her.

* * *

><p>Klink<p>

As he opens the door, Greta immediately rushes to greet him, glad to see him home again.

He pats her head, smiling at her, and she wags her tail at him, barking happily. The show of unconditional love makes his heart jolt a little from sheer happiness, and he is once more grateful he finally got around to buying that German Shepard he always wanted.

* * *

><p>LeBeau<p>

In the end, he bought a house in Paris, the city that no longer felt like it was his. It wasn't a particularly beautiful house, nor was it very big or modern. But he bought it anyway.

Because inside, it smelled just like the house that he grew up in. And now, he has a small part of Paris that still feels like home.

* * *

><p>Burkhalter<p>

The officers club meet only once every other week, and then it's in a small, run-down house in a rather dingy quarter. But that doesn't matter.

Because during those times, everything is like it was then. He is once more surrounded be people who realize the importance of an officer's values, values that, despite what has happened to Germany, are clearly not yet dead.

* * *

><p>Carter<p>

He never did get the degree in chemistry that he had so often fantasized about in his youth. But he did go to university, after all, to study pharmacy.

Because he realized, one day, that all his extensive knowledge of chemistry could still be of use. Not to kill people as a demolition expert, but to help them as a pharmacist.

* * *

><p>Hilda<p>

Though she doubted it would ever happen, in the end she did find that big love that all her friends were always talking excitedly about, but few ever experienced. They even married, with her shining like the sun in her white wedding gown.

And she realizes, now, that she understands her brother Friedrich. Because she would have moved anywhere in the world to be with Klaus.

* * *

><p>Tiger<p>

It is late in the evening, and she brushes her hair out, preparing for bed.

It is not until she pulls the blue-striped cover aside that she realizes, that for the first day since the war ended, she hasn't been thinking even once about that Gestapo cell.

* * *

><p>Hochstetter<p>

His cell is dark and dreary, and the prison walls grey and looming. Still, there is hope.

He found out soon after arriving here, that there are many others here like him. And as long as people like them are still alive, the fight isn't over. One day, they will be free, and National Socialism can and will rise again, as long as they continue fighting for it.

* * *

><p>Marya<p>

Back in Germany, she met a man named Mikhail, a Russian officer. His entire village had been slaughtered by the Germans, and like her, he has no family or home to go back to.

But that's alright, because they still have each other. They can create their own home.

* * *

><p>Langenscheidt<p>

In the end, he did not become a writer. Instead, he decided to go into publishing.

And now, the book he's waited for so long to be published by his company is finally in print, and he can't help but feel gratitude and pride that he is allowed to play a part in making sure that this will never be forgotten. He turns the book, _Memories of a Concentration Camp Survivor,_ around in his hand; it is a tragic testament, but he will make sure it is told nevertheless.

* * *

><p>Gertrude<p>

There is no more love between her and her husband than on the day of their marriage. But it doesn't matter. Because in the end, he gave her the greatest gift she could ever have gotten.

It's a miracle, really, because after giving birth to her daughter, the doctors told her she could probably never have children again, and besides, she should be far too old by now. Smiling, she puts a hand on her stomach and the new life that is now somehow, impossibly, growing inside of her.

* * *

><p>Crittendon<p>

It is a glorious day; the RAF is celebrating a jubilee, and there are parades and orchestras and smiling people everywhere, many of them wearing officer's uniforms like him.

But the best part is no doubt the flower decorations. He smiles happily as he looks at the geraniums, grateful that he finally got the chance to make decorations for a joyous occasion.

* * *

><p>Helga<p>

The woman was scruffy and badly dressed as she came to the hospital, even her shoes had holes in them, but she still smiled like the most blessed person in the world when Helga put her newly delivered baby into her arms.

And it was worth it all for the chance to see a new life come into the world after seeing so much death during the war. She knows, then, that in the end, she did choose the right profession.

* * *

><p>Hogan<p>

The hand grabbing his sleeve for attention is small and unobtrusive, but the woman persistent nonetheless as she asks him whether he is Colonel Robert E. Hogan. She explains that she is the wife of Martin Koch, a man wanted by the Gestapo that he helped get out of Germany, and she has waited a long time for this opportunity to thank him for what he did.

He has never met anyone after the war like this, not someone personally affected by what he did. And that's when he realizes that even if he couldn't help them all, or even most, helping even a few still made it all worth it.


End file.

Hogan's Heroes, Angst, Drama