Chapter Text
September, 1944. It had been nearly five years since Poland had been invaded and annexed by the Soviet Union and Nazi Germany. Five years of brutal fighting, of unimaginable horrors, of solely being able to trust one another. Mat and Jon were always close, but this was a new type of tight-knit relationship that had formed out of necessity. They watched their parents be crushed underneath the rubble of their home, two more victims of a raining canopy of German artillery that showered the skies of Lodz that fateful September morning.
A sobbing Mat had to be physically dragged from the scene by Jon, lifted overhead and carried bodily from their city and deeper into Poland. They found refuge in Warsaw, sitting in wait for weeks for the end to come. When it did, they attempted to fight back against the invaders, clawing and biting to the very bone alongside their countrymen. Instead of death, they found themselves kidnapped by Soviet soldiers and brutalized. They barely managed to escape by crawling through the mucks of the city sewers to their salvation: the Partisans.
“We found him out by the border to the Mokotow district. He claims to have fallen off a Soviet transport for prisoners of war, but I’ve never seen an Italian out this far east.” Jon announced as he carried a squirming hostage in his arms, followed quite closely on his heels by Mat, who had both he and Jon’s rifles slung over his shoulders. “You can probably interrogate him, but I don’t think he knows much.”
“Excellent job, you two,” Andrzej praised, nodding at two other partisans to take the prisoner from Jon. “Anya was just about to head out. We received intel that there’s a Norwegian loose around the hospital, but he’s refusing help. Seems awfully skittish. You up for the task?”
“Of course, sir,” Mat agreed with a nod of his head, handing Jon his rifle before they joined Anya and made their way northeast. Nimble feet moved swiftly across the cratered city streets, heads on a permanent swivel, shifting at every miniscule sound. “Did the scouts give any other information about this Norwegian? Is he potentially a ploy to lure in insurgents?”
Anya shook her head, a few strands of her golden hair falling loose from her braided bun. “Just that he seems scared and won’t talk to anyone, won’t let anyone touch him. My best supposition is that he was on a transport and was left for dead because they believed he was too far gone to waste further resources on.”
“‘Waste resources on.’ Like they aren’t shipping them to their death all the same.” Matt scoffed, shaking his head. No one was entirely sure what happened to the people that were deported from their homes, but it was easiest to assume that they were dead. Where could that many people be deported to? The logistics were impossible, and evidence was clear that true intentions involved the slaughter en masse of all Poles, regardless of background.
“Which means he definitely needs our help. We have less resources than the Nazis, but we can make it work.” Jon inserted, sounding quite determined. Matt had always been envious of the intensity of his brother’s altruism, the manner with which he loved and cared for the world around him. Matt desired to emulate his brother from a very young age, and knew that in all ways that mattered, he fell flat, too sharpened by the coldness of others to be filled with boundless kindness.
“Agreed,” Anya chirped in response, her body going rigid as she noticed movement amongst the ruins ahead. She squinted, calculating the situation. “There he is. Come.” Anya hopped atop mounds of stone with unparalleled grace while the brothers tiptoed on the flat, dusty earth toward their query. The man was thin and pale with sickness, his blond hair oily, unkempt, and sticking to his face, blue eyes wide with fear.
Jonatan licked his cracked lips, approaching low, his rifle hiked over his shoulder, palms open and tilted toward the stranger. “Hey, it’s alright. My name is Jon, that’s my brother Mat and our friend Anya. We’re here to help you.” The man attempted to get up, scrambling against the detritus of artillery fallout, but didn’t have the strength to actively lift himself up. He was panting, a hollow, desperate sound, followed by the occasional wheeze or gasp. It sounded excruciating, and explained very well why the Germans had left him for dead.
“Friend, we are not going to harm you,” Mat murmured, tone soft and even, as he, too, shouldered his rifle. Mat crawled on his hands and knees, on the same level as the man. Once he reached his side, the stranger stilled, his eyes locked on the base of Mat’s throat. Brows furrowed, Mat followed the gaze, noticing that his magen david dangled from the collar of his blouse. The man brushed his fingertips against the intricate golden design with a certain tenderness that inspired intense empathy to blossom in Mat’s chest. “You’re Jewish, aren’t you? So am I.”
The man nodded weakly, swallowing hard. “My name is Gimle. The Germans took me from my home and threw me off the train. They said I was too…too far gone, like my mother.” His eyes shimmered with unshed tears, a wave of trembling causing him to almost violently spasm in the dirt.
Mat’s chest grew tight, his gaze darting sideways to meet Jon’s. They couldn’t leave the man to die, not when he’d clearly suffered as much as anyone in Warsaw had. “Well, Gim, we don’t know the meaning of ‘too far gone’. We’ll take you to our camp and let our medics have a good look at you, alright?”
“Thank you,” Gimle murmured, his muscles relaxing for the first time in what had to be a long time. Jon handed Mat his rifle once more and hauled Gimle into a carry, his upper half dangling over Jon’s back, while Jon wound his arm around Gimle’s waist to hold him steady. He nodded to Anya, who led the way back toward base, her eyes scanning the scenery to keep watch for any potential adversaries.
Once they arrived, Anya climbed up her tower without uttering another word. Jon and Mat brought Gimle to the makeshift hospital in the lower level of their main building, Jon’s touch incredibly gentle as he eased the blond onto one of the beds. “What have you brought me this time?” Piotr, their primary medic, questioned with a friendly, yet exhausted grin.
“This is Gimle, he was thrown off of a train by Nazis. He is ill, but we do not know what from,” Jon supplied, patting Gimle gently on the shoulder. “Take good care of him, will you, Piotr? We will check on you when we can, Gim.” Jon offered the man a soft smile, then turned heel. Gimle reached for Mat with a trembling hand, his fingers winding around Mat’s. Mat squeezed the fingers, tenderly knocking their foreheads together. He nodded encouragingly, helping Piotr ease the blond back against the sheets.
“I’ll be back soon, Gim.” Mat promised, adjusting the straps of rifles on his shoulder before heading deeper into the house. He suspected that Jon was in search of Andrzej, and it was a simple deduction to figure out where the two would be found. Mat’s fingers encircled the railing as he descended the stairs into the basement, inhaling sharply as he turned a corner to find Andrzej, Jon, and the prisoner from earlier tied to a chair. Mat handed Jon his rifle and crossed his arms, brows bunched as he listened to the interrogation.
“I already told you, I know nothing about German movements in the area. I was conscripted into the Italian military and captured by the Americans at Anzio. We were transferred into the care of the Soviets, but our transport was attacked by Nazis. I ran as far as I could, and these two were the first to find me.” The man nodded to Jon and Mat, who stood shoulder to shoulder, or as much as they could with Jon having a good half a foot over his brother.
“How are we supposed to know that you’re telling the truth?” Andrzej questioned, stepping closer to the stranger, his figure looming over him. “If I believe you, and I free you just to find that you harm or slaughter the precious few folks I have holed up here, I would never forgive myself. Do you understand why I am finding it hard to trust you?”
“Of course,” The man replied, his eyes wide as he stared up at Andrzej, his lower lip quivering. “I can assure you I do not believe in the cause any of the Axis fights for. I only fought because I was forced to, not for any nationalist zeal. I just want to get home to my family.” That was something that many in Warsaw could relate to, though they had no such home to return to any longer, and many of them were metaphorically orphaned by the invasion. Mat could still see the blood dribble from his mother’s pink lips, her fingers twitching from where her arm was caught underneath the rubble.
“I feel for you, friend. We all feel how you do. Give us some time to talk it over, yes?” Andrzej, ever the altruist and adoptee of wild young adults, pursed his lips and leaned in toward Jon, whispering softly. Mat stepped closer in the hopes that he could hear what they were saying, but was interrupted by a shout and clamoring from the floor above. He grabbed the railing and hauled himself bodily up the steps faster than should be possible, his fingers wrapping around his rifle as he dashed into the sunlit ruins around them.
A patrol of Germans approached from the west, firing at Partisans that hid behind various objects. Anya slowly knocked the twenty or so down one at a time with clean, precise headshots. Mat dove behind cover, crouched low and poised to fire. After a couple of rapid, tight beats of his heart, Mat wheeled out of cover for a brief moment to fire a couple of rounds, eventually landing a shot in the throat of one of the Nazis. Jon joined him a moment later, a bit too tall for the cover, the crest of his head visible, hair blowing in the slight breeze.
Minutes passed with each brother peeking out to fire a handful of times, the steady, almost musical sound of the bolt of Anya’s sniper rifle the only thing that Mat could hold onto. His head was clear of all else, focused solely on the task at hand. An unshakeable dread began to fill the pit of Mat’s stomach, causing bile to rise in his throat. Before Mat could stop him, his fingers reaching forward, Jon darted toward another bit of cover that was closer to the attacking Nazis.
Mat could hear the round before he saw the result, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge. His eyes widened and he stumbled in his urge to rush forward, scraping his palms and knees on stone as he crawled toward his fallen brother. Jon lay halfway between the two sections of cover, blood sprouting from a large gash in his throat. Sobs bubbled up in the base of Mat’s chest, his hands hovering over the wound uselessly as Jon stared up at him, his lips gaping wordlessly.
Suddenly, an unfamiliar presence joined Mat’s side, fingers wrapping around Mat’s wrists to direct his palms below Jon’s wound. “Above or below, in the direction of the heart. Stops the blood flow.” A low, rumbling voice directed. There was rustling, then the larger hands joined Mat’s, packing the hole in Jon’s throat with gauze. Mat shook in the effort it took to repress his cries, uncaring that they were in the open and vulnerable. Anya’s bolt had silenced, which meant that it was very likely the threat had been terminated, moments too late.
Jon’s fingers were already cold when they wrapped around Mat’s wrist, his lips white and silent, despite their unceasing movement. Mat began to cry in earnest, shaking his head. “It’s okay, Jon. You don’t need to say anything. I love you too, big brother. Always.” Jon’s eyes were wet for the first time since Lodz had been invaded, not out of fear for himself, but in empathetic pain for his brother. Mat bent down to press a kiss to Jon’s temple, peeling back to find that he had grown still.
A painful, hacking sob tore through Mat’s throat. Tears cascaded down his cheeks, his hands slowly loosening their grip from Jon’s throat, one instead lifting to run his fingers through Jon’s dark curls affectionately. “He was too kind for this world, the best big brother in the world.” Mat muttered to no one in particular, his eyes memorizing Jon’s face for the last time.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” The stranger beside Mat spoke again, reminding him of his presence. Mat finally glanced toward him, eyes narrowing as he absorbed the uniform that he wore. Mat backed away, picking up his rifle so he could direct the barrel at the stranger. The man’s eyes went wide, arms shooting up as he stumbled backward onto his ass, clearly not a threat. Rage boiled in the depth of Mat’s chest anyway, his teeth digging into the meat of his tongue. “Soviet scum! What the hell are you doing here?”