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Chapter Text

Part One: Children

~ I listen to the fleeting sparks in history
Souls who sing to those around them – and me
I crave them
I save them
Fruit of the eternal apple tree. ~

Chapter One

1930

Brooklyn Junior High School was a tall, pale-bricked, rectangular building with bars over the windows and a sun-bleached flag hanging from the flagpole out front. On a cold, bright day like today, sunshine gleamed off the windows and made the building stand out against the pale blue sky.

Standing in the middle of the bustling courtyard, Alice Moser squinted up at the building for a few moments. She'd been here last month with her mom for registration, but the school seemed a lot larger now it was packed with students and teachers and parents. A group of older kids barged past and jostled her sideways. The air was loud with shouts and laughter.

Alice looked over her shoulder to where her mom and baby brother had farewelled her at the black gates, but it was impossible to see if they were still there amidst the throng of mothers in their Sunday best and fathers wearing stiff suits and stiff smiles as they waved off their children.

Alice took in a breath, straightened her shoulders, and strode deeper into the pack of bustling students until she found the registration line. A few of the other kids in line glanced her way before losing interest. Alice's gut churned and she smoothed down her uniform: a collared white blouse with a tie, and a long grey skirt over stockings. Her mom had bought the uniform second-hand from an older student whose family they'd met at their new church, and her step-father had managed to darn all the holes and threadbare parts, but she still felt as if she stuck out like a sore thumb.

As the line moved forward, Alice looked around. The noise in the courtyard was only getting louder as the clock ticked closer towards the starting bell, and just with a quick glance around she could see that most kids here already knew each other; she watched them run across the courtyard toward each other and clap each other on the back, talking animatedly and waving their hands. A group of girls waved in Alice's direction, and after a second of panic she realized they were waving to another girl who'd walked up behind her.

She caught a snippet of their conversation as they joined up in a rush of excited voices: "- did you do over your summer break?"

Alice tried not to let her stomach drop, even though she found herself glancing to her left at the large building across the street from Brooklyn Junior High: that was Brooklyn Elementary, where most of these students had graduated from last year.

In the fold of her skirts, she crossed her fingers. Surely I'm not the only new student. She'd only moved from the Bronx, but right now it felt like another universe.

"Who are you, my dear?" Alice glanced up to see she'd reached the end of the line, where a bespectacled woman with feathery hair and a clipboard and pencil was looking down at her.

"Alice Moser," she blurted out. The woman glanced down at her clipboard with a slight frown. "I registered late but the office said it would be okay-" Alice cut off when she noticed the same group of girls from before glancing her way with funny looks on their faces.

"Not to worry," the woman said with a smile. "We've had lots of those this year."

Alice nodded nervously. That didn't surprise her. What with the market crash last year, she supposed her family wasn't the only one that had to move suddenly. Alice felt a pang of longing for her old house, then squashed it. You'll love Brooklyn. That's what her stepfather kept saying. She was still waiting for it to come true.

"Found you!" the woman stated, ticking the paper on her clipboard. "You've got ten minutes to head toward your homeroom before the bell rings. You'll be in… 3B." She started to move away, but then the woman added: "That's an unusual accent you've got there." Alice bit the inside of her cheek. "Are you from Canada?"

Alice shook her head. "No. Austria."

The woman's eyes lit up. "Oh, I've always wanted to see a kangaroo!"

Alice stared at the woman for a second, then sighed and decided it wasn't worth it. She turned away and strode toward the main entrance to the school building. She'd checked the school map before coming, so she knew exactly how to get to 3B.

As she walked away from the registration woman she found the group of girls from before standing directly in her path, chatting and giggling in a huddle. They'd been eavesdropping. Alice's mom's words of encouragement echoed in her mind: just smile, say hello, and you'll make friends in no time.

She flashed a nervous smile at the five girls. "Hello," she said. "I'm Alice, I just moved here from-"

"Sorry," said a tall dark-haired girl with her arm slung around another girl's shoulders. She smiled at Alice, but it didn't feel like a smile. "I don't understand what you're saying."

Alice blinked. "Sorry, I – I was just going to ask if–"

"Nope," said another girl with a smile playing at her mouth, "still nothing. Can't you talk right?"

Oh. Where before Alice had been standing with hunched shoulders, nervously fingering the leather strap around her books, she suddenly straightened. Something about the laughing eyes and smothered smiles of the girls in front of her had washed away her nerves.

She swallowed, and then said in a crystal-clear Brooklyn accent: "I was saying that I just moved here from the Bronx, and I'm looking for some interesting people to be friends with." The girls' eyes widened at the abrupt change in accent. "Don't worry about it though, I'll keep looking."

The girls glanced at each other, wide-eyed. Alice adjusted her book strap and strode forward again, her face calm and her chin high.

As she shouldered past them she switched back into her natural Austrian accent to say: "I can talk however I want to. I just like this better."

The girls erupted into whispers once Alice had walked past them. Alice didn't look back. As she kept walking toward the school doors, she felt the burn of satisfaction soothe the hurt sting of rejection. Things like that didn't hurt so much nowadays, or at least she'd gotten used to hiding the hurt – after five years living in New York, she was accustomed to blending in. It was more when people made fun of her mom's accent that she got really mad. Her mom couldn't switch and change and mimic like Alice could, and adults could be a lot meaner than kids.

Still, she'd promised her mom she wouldn't get into trouble anymore, after her less-than-perfect record at elementary school. Her mom lived very firmly by the 'turn the other cheek' motto.

Alice made it to 3B without further incident (aside from some minor shoving and pushing in the crowded hallways), and sank into her wooden desk with a small sigh. A few kids met her eyes and flashed a smile, but everyone was busy talking with their old elementary school friends or unstrapping their books and pencils.

The classroom was nothing special: a long, clean blackboard at the front behind the teacher's desk, rows of individual desks with creaky wooden chairs, and a ticking clock on the back wall. The dusty windows offered a view of the street beyond, which was near empty now that most students were inside.

Alice propped her chin on her hand and eyed her fellow classmates. They seemed a loud bunch, all packed in to one classroom, a mix of boys and girls. Alice was relieved to see that she wasn't the only one with secondhand clothes. She sat on the left side of the class near the middle, with a red-haired girl to her right and two boys in front and behind.

When the massive brass bell out the front of the school clanged, Alice's head jerked up and her eyes widened as a tall, dark haired man in a crisp charcoal grey suit and wire spectacles strode into the room. He looked young, maybe in his later twenties. He took his place at the front by the blackboard, folded his hands in front of him and looked out at the suddenly-silent class.

"Good morning, everyone," he said in a brusque voice. "Welcome to Brooklyn Junior High. I am Mr Hawthorne, I will be your homeroom teacher this semester. I also teach French, American History, and Physical Education. Now I'll take the register."

With her hands in her lap, Alice's eyebrows rose. It seemed Mr Hawthorne was going to be very different from her enthusiastic elementary school teacher. With a shrug, she settled back to sit patiently as he read through the register. A few names in, the girl to Alice's right leaned back and whispered to the boy behind her: "He must be new in the area, I've never seen him before."

The boy opened his mouth to reply, but Mr Hawthorne called: "Quiet, please!" and they both settled back into their seats.

Alice listened to each name and who answered to it, remembering faces and the way they answered. She was good with names.

"Alice Moser?"

"Present," she called, in as neutral an accent as possible. She didn't want a repeat of earlier. Mr Hawthorne looked up, noted her, and looked away again. Phew.

Two more names passed before:

"Finnigan Neri?"

"Pre- present." Alice's attention perked at the distinctive lisp over the s in 'present', and looked over at the boy who'd spoken – he had dark hair and eyes, a complexion that made Alice think he might be Italian, and was larger than most of the other boys in the class. He hunched in on himself despite his size and didn't make eye contact with Mr Hawthorne. He looked like Alice felt – sticking out like a sore thumb. A few students on the other side of the classroom giggled.

Alice eyed Finnigan for a few moments, waiting for Mr Hawthorne to call the next name so she could learn it. But he didn't. After another moment she looked back to the front of the classroom.

Mr Hawthorne's dark eyes were fixed on Finnigan. He looked down at the register, then back up, and called again: "Finnigan Neri?"

Finnigan's cheeks flushed pink. "Present," he called, a little louder. Alice saw his tongue trip over the s this time, turning it into a th.

More giggles.

Her head swiveled back to Mr Hawthorne, whose eyes had narrowed. Alice glanced around. Could he not hear him?

"Please respond to your name with a clear and understandable 'present'," the teacher called, enunciating carefully. He pitched his voice to the whole class, but his eyes were fixed on Finnigan. Alice's stomach dropped. Oh. "Now: Finnigan Neri!"

Finnigan had gone red now. Alice watched him swallow carefully, take a breath, and then call: "Present!" The th sounded even more obvious this time, and his voice had gone up an octave. The boy behind Alice snorted.

"Again," Hawthorne said. His arms folded across his chest.

"Present." That time was clearer, though the lisp was still there. Alice's stomach churned and she glanced back to Hawthorne. Her face was hot, she felt almost sick.

"Speak clearly." Hawthorne called, growing frustrated. Students throughout the classroom were laughing now and hiding their smiles behind their hands.

Finnigan Neri's eyes gleamed. He took a breath. "Present," he lisped in a small voice.

Mr Hawthorne reached behind him and Alice's stomach dropped away when she realized he'd picked up the wooden ruler resting on the edge of the blackboard. He strode forward, a frown darkening his brow. "I can't hear you–"

Alice's fists clenched in her lap and anger scorched through her veins. When it came to herself, her mom had always told her to turn the other cheek. But when it came to other people, she always had this to say: "Du musst dich für andere Menschen einsetzen, Alice." [You must stand up for other people]. Alice chose to take that literally.

She planted her palms on her desk and began to push herself to her feet, anger sharp in her chest–

"Leave him alone!"

The whole room froze. Laughter died, and in the third row Finnigan Neri hid his face.

Halfway out of her chair, Alice blinked and looked around. She hadn't spoken, so who–? her eyes snagged on the source of the shout: a tiny blond kid in the first row who'd shot to his feet a second before she had, and now glowered at Mr Hawthorne. Alice stared at him.

Mr Hawthorne turned slowly, his expression thunderous. "I beg your pardon?"

The whole class stared at the boy. He stood with his fists clenched by his sides and his chest heaving as he stared up into their teacher's face. "I said leave him alone."

It was all Alice could do to keep her mouth closed.

"What is your name?" Hawthorne asked, in a deceptively calm voice.

The boy's jaw clenched. "Steve Rogers," he said mutinously. Staring at his angular face, Alice realized that she recognized him. She'd seen him around the neighborhood since she moved two months ago, and she was pretty sure he and his mom went to the same church as Alice and her mom. He'd never stood out to her until now, though.

"Steve Rogers," Hawthorne repeated slowly. He checked his register with a scowl. "Hold out your hand."

A low mutter went through the classroom. Steve Rogers looked right into Mr Hawthorne's eyes with defiance writ in hard lines on his face. A tense moment passed, and then he held out his small, slender-fingered hand palm up.

Before anyone had a chance to prepare, Hawthorne brought the wooden ruler down on Steve Rogers's open palm with a crack. A collective gasp went up, followed by a few nervous titters. Alice flinched in her seat. Steve Rogers winced but then steeled his expression. Mr. Hawthorne raised the ruler again.

Part of Alice wanted to stand as well, to say give me the strikes too. Her mother's voice rang in her ear: Stay out of trouble, Alice. But she couldn't just sit here. She watched Mr. Hawthorne strike Steve Rogers again, watched the him do his very best to not react, then looked back to where Finnigan Neri was doing his very best to disappear. The boy was half in tears. She looked from him and back to the pink-cheeked, clenched-jawed Steve Rogers flinching as the ruler left red marks on his palm, and an idea occurred to her.

She sat back in her seat and began to think.

They got through the rest of the register once Steve Rogers had received five strikes, and the rest of the day passed in relative peace after the tense first homeroom. Alice didn't have much time to think about Mr Hawthorne in amongst the rush of meeting new teachers and classmates and learning her new schedule, though she did have a French class with him in the afternoon. Finnigan Neri and Steve Rogers were also in the class. Steve Rogers' palm had an ugly bruise laid across it.

Hawthorne seemed irritated to learn that there was a native French speaker in the class, a girl named Edith, but besides some snide remarks cast her way there was no scene comparable to that morning.

Alice and Edith got to chatting, and by the end of class Alice was hopeful that she'd made her first new friend.

That afternoon Alice went home to the tiny apartment over her stepfather's tailor shop, where the water pipes clanged in the night and it was perpetually freezing or sweltering, and let her mother bundle her into a tight hug. Alice's mom asked about her first day of school and about her new classmates. Alice responded with a two-sentence description of every person in her homeroom class including their names, who their friends were, and what she thought of them. She didn't tell her mom about what had happened in homeroom that morning. She was still thinking.

Her mom gave her a weird look, but then kissed her on the head and told her to go play.

"Where's Matthias?" Alice asked as she headed to the door.

"He's performing at Tillie's tonight with the band, he won't be back until late." Her mom brushed her feathery blonde hair out of her eyes and smiled at Alice. "But he wants to hear about your first day tomorrow over breakfast, so keep it fresh in your mind!"

Alice had just flung open the door when a squawk from behind her stopped her in her tracks: "Alice!"

She rolled her eyes and turned around to see Tom, her little brother, waddling toward her over the creaky wooden floor clad in nothing but a cloth diaper. His face was covered in jam.

"I'm coming back," she sighed, but crouched down to kiss the top of his dark-haired head. Tom was only two, but he seemed eternally concerned about where Alice was and where she was going.

She heard a creak behind her and looked over her shoulder to see Mrs Wells, their upstairs neighbor, glancing through the open door at Alice crouched down beside her brother. The white-haired woman's mouth curved down as she looked between the siblings and she turned to walk downstairs. Tom, oblivious, tugged on the collar of Alice's uniform.

"Off you go," Alice's mom said quietly. Turn the other cheek.

Alice kissed Tom's head again, more earnestly this time, then patted his little shoulder and darted out the door.

They'd moved in two months ago, but the neighbors still gave them sideways glances. Still, people had been doing that ever since her mom married Matthias. It wasn't even like they went out all together all that much. But when you were a white woman living with a black man, you may as well be standing on the street corner shouting your business to the world.

Turn the other cheek, mom always said. So Alice did. When she saw the side-eyes, or overheard the comments pitched just a tone too loud to be private, she turned away. When people stared at her playing with her darker-skinned half-brother, she pretended not to notice. Her mom and stepfather had never said it outright, but she knew that they had to go as quiet and unnoticed as possible to stay safe.

Each time she turned away and pretended not to notice, the cold, hard anger growing inside her like hoarfrost grew a little thicker.

But as everyone insisted on reminding her, she was still only twelve – too young to be worrying about things like that. And she had other things to think about. Like how Tom kept waking up two to three times a night and waking her up. It was enough to drive a girl crazy.

Sighing, Alice ran outside into the cooling afternoon air and went to go toss rocks at cans in the alley with the neighborhood kids.

Over the next few days, Alice sat through half a dozen more classes where Mr. Hawthorne found the weakest link and struck. In their Physical Education class he decided that the weakest link was little Steve Rogers, because he was small and wheezed when he ran. But Steve didn't cry when Hawthorne picked on him, he just balled his fists and got this stormy look on his face like David about to stand up to Goliath.

Standing in the middle of a throng of her classmates, Alice was fascinated. It reminded her of the part in an opera where the small, lonely voice suddenly swelled, expanded, until there was nothing else but that single voice in the universe.

Aside from the ever-looming threat of Hawthorne's ire, junior high was shaping up pretty well for Alice. She was getting to know her classmates, finding her feet in her classes, and since no one here knew about her stepfather and brother yet she hadn't experienced a single side-eye.

On Thursday in last period French, Hawthorne got started in on Finnigan again when he stumbled over the pronunciation of sil-vous-plait. It turned out the kid had a stutter on top of a lisp. Most everyone else in the class laughed behind their hands or pretended they didn't notice, but Steve Rogers stood up again and this time got sent to the principal's office with a warning that he'd be caned by the end of the week if he kept this up.

After class Alice cinched her books into their leather strap and then followed after Finnigan to check on him – Mr. Hawthorne had assigned him a tongue twister, the monster. She lost him for a minute in the thick throng of students in the hallways, but caught sight of him outside again as he walked around the side of the school building.

Alice rushed over, drawing in a breath to call his name, but once she rounded the corner of the building she stopped in her tracks.

This side of the grounds housed the teacher's parking lot, filled with a mix of cars from sleek black sedans to dinged-up lemons. Finnigan stood by the nicest car in the whole lot beside a tall mustachioed man in an expensive-looking suit.

Alice blinked. That's the principal.

She stared from the shadow of the school building as the principal clapped Finnigan on the shoulder and ruffled his hair. Finnigan smiled up at the man despite the shadows under his eyes from his harrowing French class.

Alice's eyes widened. Ah.

That evening Alice didn't speak much – not during family dinner, in which her mother described a business meeting she had helped translate for, or later when her stepfather turned on the radio and started dancing a giggling Tom around the tiny living room.

She sat, her chin propped on her fist, with a furrow in her brow.

Finnigan won't say anything, she realized. She was sure he got enough guff from the other kids for being the principal's son that he wasn't about to start being a snitch.

"Allie, what's the matter?" Alice blinked and looked up to see her stepfather peering down at her, Tom propped on his hip and his brow raised. Matthias was a tall man. His dark hair was always cropped close to his forehead and there was an ever present twinkle in his eye. He always dressed well on account of being one of the best tailors in Brooklyn, but allowed himself to relax at home – right now he wore his white undershirt tucked into his neatly-fitted tan pants, and stood on the wooden floorboards with bare feet. He cocked his head at Alice. "You look like you're trying to figure out how the universe got put together."

Alice shook her head at him. "No – not tonight, anyway."

He cracked a grin at her. "That's my girl." He sat down on the couch beside her and shifted Tom slightly. "So what's the matter? That ain't your song-writing face."

"I don't have a song-writing face."

"Sure you do. Is it boy trouble? Anyone at that new school bothering you?"

Yes. "No. Just thinking about some homework."

Matthias's grin softened, and she could see from the look in his eyes that he'd caught her lie. He was one of the very few who could. He tapped her foot just as her mom walked in from the kitchen. "You'll sort them out, Allie. I know you will."

"Sort who out?" Her mom questioned. "Are you in trouble, Alice?"

"No," Alice said, being more careful about the lie this time. Not that it was really a lie.

"She's scheming again," Matthias said with a wink at Alice.

"Himmel, hilf uns," [Heaven help us] her mom sighed.

"Ain't nothing anyone in heaven or on earth can do when Allie gets scheming," Matthias laughed, then gently settled Tom on the couch. "Come now, you want to dance your troubles away?" He stood up lithely and held a hand out toward Alice. He started moving his shoulders in time with the jazz song on the radio – Sing, You Sinners. The song had been playing nonstop since it first appeared in a movie earlier in the year.

Alice smiled, but shook her head. "No thanks, I'm still thinking. About my homework."

"So I guess it's up to you and I to tear up the dancefloor, Marie!" Matthias announced as he whirled to face Alice's mom. Her mom cast him an exasperated look, but burst out laughing when he took her hand and wheeled her into a spin. She fell into step with him in time to the song, spinning and stepping across the threadbare carpet. On the couch, Tom squealed in delight.

Alice sat curled up on the couch, watching her mom and stepfather dance with a smile on her face. And as she smiled, she schemed.

The next day, Alice sneezed in homeroom.

She continued to sneeze through her next two classes, and by third period French she had developed a cough. Mr Hawthorne seemed irritated by the interruptions, but he did not turn his ire her way – his favorite weak link was there after all, struggling through the French pronunciations. Alice sniffled and coughed through the first twenty minutes of the lesson until she sensed Hawthorne's razor-sharp focus on Finnigan reach its peak.

She held up her hand.

Diverted from Finnigan's tripping tongue, Hawthorne strode up the rows of desks toward where Alice sat. The students he passed kept their heads down, all too aware of their teacher's mounting frustration.

"What is it?" Hawthorne asked curtly, his dark brows drawn together.

Alice pointed to a line on her notepad. "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't under-" she broke off in an explosive sneeze which splattered Hawthorne's trousers in moisture and brought a disgusted expression to his face.

"Eugh!" he exclaimed and stepped back. "Moser, are you ill?"

She held a finger under her nose and looked up at him with bleary eyes. "I think so, sir, I" – another sneeze – "I think it's getting worse."

"Then why are you interrupting my class? Go to the nurse."

Alice meekly stood up and made her way out of the classroom. As she left the room she noticed Hawthorne heading back toward Finnigan Neri. In the front row, Steve Rogers looked over his shoulder.

She left the door open.

Alone in the empty corridor, Alice strode briskly toward the nurse's office. She didn't have long to make this work. Her footsteps squeaked on the hallway floor and her eyes darted around. On her way past a trash can she carefully eased her handkerchief out of her skirt pocket and tipped it upside down – a cloud of fine grey pepper fell into the can. Alice scrunched up the kerchief and put it away again.

Once she reached the administration offices she knocked on the nurse's door and darted in.

The nurse, a mid-forties woman named Ms Edna, glanced up from where she'd been filling out paperwork at her desk. Her eyes seemed wide behind her glasses and her white peaked cap made her head look strange and angular. "Oh, Alice. Are you alright?"

Alice smiled. "Mr Hawthorne just gave me permission to leave his class, I wasn't feeling very well." She held up a hand at the concerned look on Ms Edna's face. "But I'm fine now, I think I just needed the fresh air."

Ms Edna sat back in her chair. "Oh. Well that makes my job easy, doesn't it? Here, have a sweet and head back to your class." The nurse turned to her jar of sweets and unscrewed the lid, and Alice smiled. Ms Edna liked her because she'd come to her office after school a couple of times last week to help clean up.

"Thank you," she said earnestly, and accepted the paper-wrapped butterscotch with slightly pepper-dusted fingers. Ms Edna didn't notice. "Bye!"

"Head straight back to class, please!"

"You got it," Alice assured her as she closed the door behind her. Alibi complete, she turned not right, toward the hallway leading to her classroom, but left. Fifteen paces brought her to a sturdy wooden door with a brass name plate on it. Alice straightened her uniform, tucked the candy into her pocket (the non-pepper one), and then knocked.

"Enter," came a man's deep voice.

Alice opened the door but didn't enter. She stood politely in the doorway and waited for the man seated at the desk inside to look up at her. She'd opened the door onto a wide office with windows looking out over the front courtyard of the school, furnished with a mahogany desk, steel filing cabinet and a brown potted plant. Paisley white curtains hung beside the windows. There was even a leather couch for visitors – Alice couldn't begin to imagine how much money that had cost.

"Excuse me, Mr Neri?" she said with a bite of nerves in her voice. The man nodded and looked over, his eyes kind over his thick mustache. "Mr Hawthorne said he needed to see you in his classroom right away…?" Her gut churned. If this went wrong…

"Oh." The principal got to his feet and straightened his tie, glancing around at his office with a frown before heading for the door. "Is that so? Is something the matter?"

"I'm not sure," Alice said. She stepped out of his way and then paced ahead to lead him. She tried to keep her face angled away from him, but not so obviously that he'd grow suspicious.

"Hm. What's your name, dear?"

Alice wiped her sweaty, peppery palm on her skirt. They were thirty seconds away from the classroom. She really didn't want her name involved in this. "You know, we've just been learning to say our names in French today, but it's difficult because there's lots of words that are hard to pronounce-" she rambled for the next twenty five seconds, two steps ahead of Mr Neri as he ahed and mmhmed, suitably bored by her twelve-year-old chatter.

Alice slowed as they approached the open doorway, from which the sounds of Mr Hawthorne's raised voice could be heard. Mr Neri strode past Alice with barely a glance at her and reached the doorway.

Alice crept up behind him and peered in.

Finnigan Neri stood beside his desk, bright red and holding out his shaking hand. Mr Hawthorne loomed over him with his ruler. The entire class stared.

Finnigan swallowed. "C-comment vou-vous appelez… a-appelez-vous?" His lisp, choked by tears, made the words nearly illegible.

"A – a – a – appelez?" Hawthorne mimicked, sticking his tongue between his teeth to enhance the mocking lisp. "Are you attempting to speak French or Yiddish, Neri? I can't tell. Again."

"C- c – comment-"

The ruler made a sound like a cracking whip as it came down on Finnigan's shaking hand. Finnigan yelped and a tear spilled from his eye, and at the front of the classroom Steve Rogers was already half-out of his seat again, but then Mr Neri in the doorway cleared his throat.

The room froze. Alice hid behind the open door, but not before she saw the look on Mr Hawthorne's face when he turned around to see the school principal standing in the doorway to his classroom. It made something inside her sing.

For a few moments, the entire room was silent as Mr Neri strode into the room. Then he started yelling.

Alice waited until Mr Neri was about a minute into his shouting before she slipped into the classroom. She darted up the row to her desk and dropped into her seat, sparing a glance around the classroom of students staring as the principal shouted at their pale-faced teacher. No one had noticed her – actually, that wasn't true. Little Steve Rogers had noticed her because he was sinking back into his own seat at the same time, strangely mollified.

The two of them stared at each other for a few seconds. Alice's gut churned. Would he say something?

Then Mr Neri seemed to yell himself out. "Mr. Hawthorne, you will come with me to my office." He turned to the class. "Class is dismissed. Return to your homerooms." He stormed out of the room and Mr. Hawthorne slinked at his heels with a sick look on his face.

Once the door closed behind them, the entire class shot to their feet and started gossiping amongst themselves. The room filled with a hubbub of noise and Alice let out a sigh.

After a moment to calm her beating heart, Alice got to her feet and walked a few rows over to Finnigan Neri's desk. His face was still bright red and he looked like he wanted to melt through the floor.

"Hello," Alice said.

Finnigan looked up at her with a wary look in his eyes. She pulled the wrapped butterscotch out of her pocket and held it out. Finnigan took it, frowned at it for a moment, then looked back into her face.

She smiled. "Want to come kick a ball around after class?"

Steve didn't know how, but he was sure that that Moser girl had arranged this.

He kept turning it over in his head for the rest of the day as the gossip spread throughout the school. He barely paid attention to his lessons and then walked home with his hands in his pockets and a frown on his brow.

He kind of knew Alice Moser – he'd seen her in church before. She moved here with her mom a few months ago, he thought. He'd recognized her in their first homeroom class, but they didn't sit near each other and Steve didn't really know how to talk to girls, so they hadn't spoken. All he knew about her was her name, and that she sounded like she was from somewhere in Europe.

On Saturday, as Steve spent the morning with his mom solving puzzles in the newspaper, he went back over his memory of that final French class. He vaguely remembered Alice Moser leaving, though he was sure most people hadn't noticed. Then one minute Hawthorne was being his usual bully self, and the next the school principal was there to shout and drag him out. And Alice Moser returned. No one else had questioned the arrival of the principal – he could have just been walking past, after all. But Alice Moser had been there. Steve was sure she'd had something to do with it. Yet how could she have set things up that way?

He puzzled over it in the afternoon as he sat on the apartment's fire escape and watched a group of younger kids on the street below play marbles. His mom stuck her head out and asked if he'd been feeling sick, because he'd been frowning so much, but he just shook his head. He wasn't sick. He was confused.

The next morning, Steve went to church with his mom. Alice Moser was there. But this time, she didn't just sit beside her mom in the pew.

Near the end of the service when the choir came out, Alice slipped out from beside her mom and walked up to the front. She wore a Sunday best sky blue pinafore with a dark collar, darned at the shoulder, and well-shined shoes. Her blonde hair was neatly braided.

The dark-suited priest smiled at her and set a hand on her shoulder. "We've got something special planned today," he said to the congregation. "The young Miss Moser here has been practicing with our church choir these last few weeks, and she's going to give us a performance today. I hear it's her first performance in public, so let's be kind, everyone! I think you'll enjoy this."

The priest nodded to Alice and she went to stand by the piano. Steve watched her with a quirked brow. He couldn't think of anything worse than singing in front of a bunch of strangers, but if Alice was nervous she didn't show it. Her brow was set, her shoulders straight. She looked like she had when he spotted her sneaking back to her desk in French class.

The pianist started up at the plinky piano, introducing the opening notes of a classic choral song. Steve recognized it but couldn't remember the name. They didn't sing it often in church because the lyrics weren't in English.

The piano notes echoed across the congregation. Someone shifted in front of Steve.

Then Alice Moser opened her mouth and sang.

Steve's mom's hand flew to her chest. "Oh my word," she whispered.

Steve had to agree. Alice Moser singing was… he'd expected the usual nice, choral songs belted out by a thin voice, but this was… this was like the stuff they heard on the radio. He swallowed. Her voice rose, lilted, crested notes that Steve didn't know a human voice could hit so clearly. Alice's voice was high but rounded somehow, as if there were an entire universe inside her lungs just waiting to be released through her voice. She didn't sound like a kid.

The congregation sat spellbound.

Alice didn't meet anyone's eye as she sang. The song was slow, reminiscent, and Steve thought she's only my age, how is she doing that? He knew he sure as hell couldn't express such… such… he didn't even know what. Mrs Bodkins three rows ahead wept into her handkerchief.

Halfway through the song, the wind blowing through the open church doors must have kicked up because Alice's hair blew out of her face and the lit candles flared for a second. Alice's head jerked, eyes lifting, but she didn't stop singing and after a second of hesitation she continued on as normal.

Steve's eyes itched. He realized he hadn't blinked once.

Alice finished on a high, impossibly strong note, her mouth seeming kind of small compared to the strength and beauty of her voice. After a moment of silence the entire church burst into applause. Steve joined in.

The priest, clearly loving it, strode toward Alice and said once the applause had died down: "Our little church's choir is blessed to have you Alice, thank you so much. You've got a real gift."

Alice strode back down the aisle to her mom, and Steve saw her let out a shaky breath once she was out of the public eye.

So she does have nerves, after all.

As if sensing his gaze, Alice glanced up and looked at him across the church hall. Steve held her eyes for a moment before he realized what he was doing and glanced away. His ears flamed red.

His mom nudged him. "That girl goes to your school, doesn't she?"

"Yeah," he said, careful not to look back in Alice's direction.

"What do you think of her?"

Steve met his mom's eyes. She seemed genuinely curious, her cheeks still flushed from listening to Alice sing.

He opened his mouth and then closed it. What do you think about Alice Moser?

"I don't know."

~ I see you ~

Excerpt from: 'Controversial Figures of the Twentieth Century' by Brian Jameson (2002), p. 72:

There is little known about Alice Moser's early childhood. We know that she was only seven years old when she moved from Austria to New York City with her mother and father. Her father died only months later, and after working as a single parent for a year her mother Marie remarried in 1927, to an African American tailor and jazz musician, Matthias Johnson. Moser's half brother Thomas was born in 1928.

In 1929 the Great Depression struck, and in 1930 the new family lost their house in the Bronx and moved to the apartment above Johnson's tailor shop in Brooklyn. Fragmented school records from Brooklyn show that Moser was a bright student, with an aptitude for math and languages, and newspaper clippings from the time show that even at an early age she was making her mark as a singer.

Aside from these shreds of evidence, however, Moser's childhood is largely shrouded in mystery; partly due to the deprivations of the Great Depression which extended through her formative years and partly due to the quiet life she lived in Brooklyn. No doubt her mother and step-father, a mixed-race couple in prewar New York City, did not seek out the limelight.

Historians are curious about Alice Moser's childhood, but that curiosity does not hold a candle to what she would become, forged in the fires of world war and devastation: The Siren.

Chapter Text

Emily Dickinson : A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.

February 29th, 1936
Vienna
Dear Steve,

I've finally managed to be able to send you a letter. I promise I haven't forgotten you, but my uncle hasn't been very supportive of me keeping up a correspondence with New York. He's a complicated man to live with – he always says I can do something, but when it comes down to actually doing it… anyway, that's beside the point. The return address I've included is not actually where I'm currently living but is the address of a new friend of mine, Jilí. We met at the bakery, and now I think about it she must be the only person I've met who wasn't introduced to me by my uncle. Send all your letters to this address and Jilí will pass them on to me.

I'm sure you'll ask, so I'll tell you now: I'm alright. I've barely had a moment to stop and think, and I'm glad. Everything happened so suddenly. Before I knew it I was on the ship to Europe, and then my uncle was whisking me around Vienna to parties and visits. He's a very well-connected man.

I don't want to be ungrateful to him, but every day he takes me around to some new part of the city and expects me to fall in love with it, when all I can seem to do is miss what I left behind. I miss my home and my family so much, more every day I think. I keep expecting to turn around and see them there. Will you let me know if you've seen my brother? I've managed to send a letter and I'm hoping Tom will be able to write something in reply, but it'd be nice to hear from you about him.

And of course, I miss you and Bucky. Let me know how you're doing. I hope your mom's well.

I want you to know, I meant what I said before I left.

Please write soon.

Yours,
Alice

March 2nd, 1936
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

It was a big relief to get your letter. I had been kinda worried that you might've forgotten me, and I was starting to think about how to send a letter to someone whose address I didn't know. I was considering asking that lady in Flatbush who puts those witchcraft ads in the paper.

I  Bucky and I miss you too. This place isn't the same without you. I'm sitting next to empty desks at school, there's no one slipping me notes while the teacher isn't looking, there's no music where there used to be. You must've been really noisy for me to notice the silence now. I've still got Bucky, of course, but he's treating me like I'm made of glass (even more than usual).  I don’t think he really gets But enough about me, I'm fine – really.

I have seen your brother. Bucky and I took the train out to Harlem to drop off some food our moms made, and your stepfamily was real happy to see us. Tom's doing well, though he seems confused about where you are, but he's being well looked after. Apparently there's already a letter on its way to you.

Also, my god, I didn't know how many people you knew until every single one of them came and found me to ask after you. I've never had so many people talk to me in my life. I've attached some messages from the ones who wanted to write to you, hence the very fat envelope. There's a note from Bucky, too, you'll be able to tell from the horrible handwriting.

By the way, how did you ever befriend Mrs Symanski from the post office? I'm pretty sure she only speaks Polish, and I feel like I would've noticed if you learned Polish.

Mom's fine, she's been assigned to the TB ward so her hours have changed again. She says she hopes you're doing alright and that she misses seeing you at church.

Sorry to hear things aren't going well with your uncle – are you okay? He's not doing anything to make you unhappy, is he? Why isn't he letting you write back to home?

Sorry for the interrogation. I just worry about you I guess. Not that you can't take care of yourself! But Bucky and I have always been there to back you up (or talk you out of your revenge, though I'll admit I'm not as good at that as Bucky) and I hate the idea of you fending for yourself. I'm glad you're making friends, though. Say hi to Jil í for me. That's not an Austrian name, is it?

And what's Vienna like? Are you going to finish school now you're settled? Let me know as much as you can.

I miss you already, Alice. We'll just have to become the best set of pen-pals that ever existed.

I meant what I said, too.

Yours,
Steve

PS: I've included a sketch of our 8AM math class, to make sure you don't miss us too much. I never understood the word 'mindnumbing' until this semester.

March 6th, 1936
Vienna
Dear Oh Great and Powerful Pen-Pal,

Thank you thank you thank you! I thought I was doing alright over here, but then Jilí brought me your letter and just the sight of your name in your handwriting made me burst into tears. But stop! I can feel you feeling bad from all the way over here – I didn't tell you that to make you feel bad, I mean that your letter reminded me of home, and it reminded me to feel something. And then seeing all the messages from my friends back in Brooklyn was such an amazing gift. (Side note, please punch Bucky on the arm for me). Thank you.

(You're right about  Jil í's name by the way – she's not Austrian originally. Her family are Romani, they settled here thirty years ago.  Jil í's a typist, and while she doesn't share my taste in movies or books, we get along like a house on fire when it comes to music. I think you'd like her. She says what she means and she's not afraid to put up her fists).

Thank you also for checking up on Tom, that means more than I can say. My step-aunt did send a letter, with a few lines from Tom, and it was so good to hear from them.

You don't need to worry about me, I promise. My uncle has been very good to me – he's set me up in his house in Vienna, and my new bedroom is three times the size of my little one above the tailor shop in Brooklyn. I have all these new clothes and books and decorations, so many I hardly know what to do with them. My uncle has plenty of friends in Vienna so we're constantly going around to parties and gallery openings and performances. Steve – I think I might be rich now. I don't know how it snuck up on me by surprise, but there we are.

As for school, my uncle doesn't much see the point in me going back for only a few months and I agree. He's asked me to sing at nearly every party we attend, however, (you know the kind of rich-people parties where someone has to be singing or playing) and the other day when I asked about maybe going to a music school he said he liked the idea.

My uncle's life is all centered here in Austria, so I think that's why he doesn't put much thought into my correspondence back home. Plus he has a weird hangup against using English. Sometimes I speak to myself in English in my room just to hear the language.

It's strange using German all the time again. Reminds me of my mom, which is nice.

You asked about Vienna. It's… different. Things in Austria aren't like I remember them, but it has been a long time since I was last here. It feels more German than it was before, and the people are much more hard-hearted than I remember. It could have been because I didn't live in the city before, though.

Did you know that there's members of the German Nazi Party in the government here? I thought they were only in Germany, but Jil í says that even though the party is technically banned here, they still get in. We went to a function with some government types last week and some of the younger men were talking very openly about their support for that party. Seems strange to me, but I guess I haven't been paying as much attention to my country as I should have been.

Anyway. Vienna is beautiful – it's all sweeping boulevards and grand buildings, I can hardly believe I live here. It's so clean as well. My favorite building so far is the Vienna State Opera – it's an impressive enough place on the outside, but the inside is the most wonderful place I've ever been; it's got grand gold frescoes and an enormous chandelier and a giant mural painted on the ceiling. I know you'll say it's typical that I love the building full of music, but when my uncle took me there to see a performance I think I might have been looking more at the room than the singers.

It's no Empire State Building, though.

You know, I think you must be noisier than I remember as well, Steve, because I'm constantly expecting to hear your voice only to be disappointed. Whenever I see someone being rude or mean my first thought is 'oh no, where is Steve so I can stop him trying to fight this man'.

Don't get annoyed with me. I've pulled you away from enough fights to be justified in the thought.

Sorry this letter's gotten so long! There's so many things I've been wanting to talk to you about. Please write soon.

Yours,
Alice.

Excerpt from listicle '10 Austrians Who Changed the World', 2017:

1. We're going to get this one out of the way first because it's too obvious: Adolf Hitler. This may surprise some people, but Hitler was not actually of German blood. He was born in 1889 in a town in Austria-Hungary, and in 1907 went to Vienna to study fine art...

Chapter Text

Leonardo da Vinci: "The siren sings so sweetly that she lulls the mariners to sleep; then she climbs upon the ships and kills the sleeping mariners."

Alice went back to school on Monday to find that she had a new homeroom teacher. It only took her until the next period to realize that Mr Hawthorne was no longer at the school, and it took her until lunchtime to stop feeling bad about it. It didn't seem that Steve Rogers had told anyone what he saw so she wasn't likely to get in any trouble. She initially felt some guilt over costing a man his job in the middle of a depression, but in the end it hadn't been her doing – it had been Hawthorne's own actions that cost him the job. So she shrugged it off and got to know her new homeroom teacher.

Days turned into weeks, and Alice settled into her new neighborhood and school. Her mom and stepdad still pored over their account books in the dead of night when they thought Alice and Tom were asleep, but Alice noticed that their faces were no longer heavy with concern. Customers still visited the tailor shop and Matthias's band kept getting booked. The meals they had weren't made of much beyond potatoes and soup, but they didn't fall asleep to the sounds of their stomachs growling. Alice stopped looking at the job posting board at the post office.

One of the things her stepfather liked to tell his friends was: Allie'll see right through you. She knows how people tick. Alice didn't know about that. She enjoyed people-watching partly out of curiosity and partly to make sure she could fit in. She liked getting to know new people and being friends with them. Most of her classmates liked her – she always had people to chat to and hang around with. She was closest with the French girl, Edith, and Finn the headmaster's kid. She invited Finn to her church's choir and it turned out that lisps didn't mean a damn thing while you were singing.

She saw Steve Rogers around but he tended to keep to himself. Alice thought it was odd how loud Rogers was willing to be when he saw something he didn't like, but how normally he was shy, quiet, preferring to stick his nose in a sketchbook or go for walks around the schoolyard. He often came to school with skinned knees or knuckles, and sometimes he didn't come to school at all.

In the classes they shared she realized that he was actually very smart. They ended up silently competing against one another to get better grades, though Alice wasn't sure if it was all in her head. Of course she always beat him in physical education. But when Danny Hammond went around tripping up the girls in the gravel courtyard during class and Steve stood up to him (getting knocked twice as hard into the gravel for his trouble), Alice thought Steve might be the top of that class as well.

Later that month, Alice looked up at lunchtime and saw that little Steve Rogers had a nasty black eye and a new friend. He was taller, with dark hair and better clothes, and the way he hovered over Steve's shoulder made her think of the one time she saw the Pope in Vienna, surrounded by bodyguards. Steve did the hovering right back (though he didn't look quite as intimidating as the taller boy), and Alice realized that they were friends.

After some cautious snooping she found out that the taller boy's name was Bucky. After some more snooping, she found out that his real name was James Barnes. He was in the year above Steve and Alice, and once he and Steve started eating lunch together Steve came to school with less bruises.

A few months later, when carols clogged the radio waves and frost bit at the air, school closed for the Christmas holiday. Alice curled up in the apartment above the tailor shop with her little brother, listened to radio soaps with her mom, and sang along to the new jazz singles with Matthias. Matthias taught her how to sew warmer lining into clothes for the winter.

On Christmas Day Alice sang at church as a howling storm raged outside.

They returned home to find a fresh dump of snow piling the pavement and lumped on top of the sign for the tailor shop, and bustled inside to open presents. Alice got the latest Buck Rogers comic and the American Boy's Handy Book, because Matthias had seen her staring adoringly at it in a shop window a week earlier.

1931

Alice devoured the book in five days. The book contained useful advice on all sorts of things from how to make kites, to outdoor camping, making various kinds of rudimentary weapons, and knots. She started tying knots in Matthias's tailoring twine until he asked her to give it a rest, and began collecting useful tools: matches, string, a pocket knife Matthias had in the back of the shop, fishing line, elastic bands, and a bit of thin rope she'd found beside the dumpster in the alley.

Two days before school went back Alice's mom took her and Tom to the Brooklyn Public Library and Alice borrowed a book that had come out earlier in the year: The Secret of the Old Clock, the first of a new series called 'Nancy Drew Mystery Stories'.

"Mom," Alice breathed on the way home as she ignored her mom's pleas for her to stop reading while she walked. "Mama, I'm going to be a detective." Nancy was sneaking around a house, avoiding robbers while she searched for a stolen clock.

"That's wonderful, Alice," her mother huffed. She shifted Tom higher up on her hip and the two-year-old giggled. "Look out for the light post!"

Alice ran back to the library in a break between snowfalls that afternoon to borrow the other three books.

The day before school went back, Alice realized that she had no way to bring her newly collected useful tools around with her – decidedly a problem if the need for a tool ever arose. She decided to put some thought into it.

The next day school started up again and yawning students trudged through the brown slushy snow back to Brooklyn Junior High. Alice struggled under the weight of her book strap, which now contained not only her textbooks but the American Boy's Handy Book and the third Nancy Drew novel. Their new homeroom teacher, Mrs Bartlow, didn't mind them bringing in outside books as long as they were 'educational'.

Steve Rogers was back at school after an absence for illness before the Christmas holiday. Alice nodded at him on her way into homeroom and he nodded back, wide-eyed and pink-eared. When Mrs Bartlow asked them all what they did for the holiday, Steve said quietly that he spent it with his mom. Alice recalled hearing somewhere that his father had died in the war.

Alice dozed off in the warm classrooms throughout her lessons and showed Edith her new book at lunch. Life was back to normal.

Excerpt from: 'Nancy Drew: The Beginnings of a Legend' by Kathy Llewyn (2010), p. 3:

Dreamed up in 1930, the publishing company that produced the first Nancy Drew book could have no idea of the vast popularity the ensuing series would receive, despite their fervent hopes for reaching the female market. The original Nancy is independent, courageous, and bold, though she became more watered down later in the 1950s and 60s.

Nancy became a cultural icon who has inspired the likes of Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, and many women who have become involved in the world of crime fighting and justice.

A few days after the Christmas break Alice sat on a stoop a few blocks away from school with the Handy Book splayed open on her knees. Her elbows balanced on the bottom of the book and her chin rested on her fists as she re-read the section about manufacturing hunting traps.

It was a frostbitten day. Ice crystals gathered in the gutters and cutting winds howled down the street. Alice wore her thick winter overcoat, a woolen hat, and gloves, but her legs were getting cold through her stockings. She didn't feel like going home just yet though.

Matthias's family from Harlem were visiting. Alice loved them, really. They'd been hesitant when Matthias told them he was going to marry a white lady and become a stepfather to her daughter, but they'd warmed up to Alice and her mom since and never failed to shower them with affection. It was nice, especially since Alice's mom's family in Austria had basically disowned her after the marriage (Alice barely remembered them so she didn't mind). When they lived in the Bronx they'd been closer to Tom's family, and Alice had always enjoyed seeing the warm, loud way they all interacted with each other, hearing the music that pulsed with life, and the way they always had a little extra to spare no matter how dire things got.

It just got a little too much with a dozen people in a tiny apartment. So she was going to finish her chapter out here on the stoop as the cold wind howled.

A few moments later a new sound rose over the gusting wind. "What're you reading, Moser?"

Alice's head jerked up and she frowned. She knew that voice: Billy Russel. He was in senior year, and even if she didn't have a such a good memory for names Alice would know him on sight – he and his friends ruled the school cafeteria at lunchtime, raucous at their table and sticking out their feet to trip up anyone who had the misfortune to walk past them. Alice luckily didn't have classes with them but a boy from her homeroom, Danny Hammond, was shaping up to be just like them.

Billy had shouted to her from across the street. He was with four of his loud-mouthed friends, each of them rugged up warm in winter jackets and scarves which they pulled down from their faces to stare across at her. Alice contemplated fleeing. But in the next moment they dashed across the slush-filled street and encircled her stoop. Their eyes flicked from her open book to her pink-cheeked face, glinting.

"Billy," Alice said cautiously. She hunched over her book.

"I said, what're you reading? That's a real big book for such a small girl." Billy slid his hand up the side of his jaw and through his hair like he thought he was Douglas Fairbanks. He was fifteen and had hit his growth spurt early; he towered over her, dark haired and blue-eyed. Alice's friend Edith had called him handsome.

"I'm just reading a little before I head home," she replied. The other boys were scuffing their feet in the light snow and knocking each other off balance with their shoulders.

"What is it, a secret?" asked one of the boys. He was almost as tall as Billy, and though they'd never been introduced Alice knew his name was Jacob Marlow. He threw an arm over another boy's shoulder and let out a laugh that made Alice's hackles rise. 'Come on, what're you reading?"

"It's-" but the boys had apparently lost patience, because the third one darted forward and snagged the Handy Guide out from under her hands. "Hey!" Alice shot to her feet but she was a full head shorter than the shortest boy, and the one with the book had sidestepped away. She stopped short and pressed her lips together.

"The 'American Boy's Handy Book'," the brown-haired boy who'd snatched the book said in an incredulous voice. The others burst out laughing, throwing their heads back and smacking each other in the chest. Alice's cheeks burned. She looked up and down the road, but it was an offshoot of the main street and no one was outside in this weather.

Billy Russel took the book from the first boy and weighed it in his hands as he chortled. "What're you doing with a boy's book, Moser?" Alice reached out to take it from him but he spun away. He flipped the book open and rifled through a few pages until he landed on the section about sailboat rigging, and burst out laughing again.

"I'm reading it," Alice said, trying to keep her voice calm so they wouldn't hear her rising anger.

Billy ran a hand over his mouth and then smoothed down his hair again. He flipped more pages. "You spend a lot of time going camping in New York, Moser? Camping out in Hooverville with all the bums?" The boys burst out laughing again and Alice realized they'd formed a circle around her while she edged after Billy.

"Please just give it back," she said softly. Her eyes burned and her face was bright red, but she had control over her voice. She'd even softened her accent so they couldn't make fun of that as well.

"You don't need to mess around with all this," Billy assured her as he waved the book in his hand. "Surely they gotta make one for girls – sewing, and cooking, and… and-"

"Embroidery," suggested a boy beside Billy. Billy laughed and tossed the book to him. Alice flung her arm out to grab it but the boy dodged and lobbed it over her head. The Handy Book made a fluttering noise as it soared through the frozen air. Alice whirled around and gasped when she saw Jacob Marlow dangling the book by its cover.

"What, Moser, the boys' book didn't teach you how to catch?" he taunted her. His eyes glinted.

Alice's breath blew through her nose in a puff of vapor. "Give it back!"

"Oh, she's mad now," said a boy behind her. She looked over her shoulder but there were three of them there, laughing louder than the sound of her own sharp breaths and the heartbeat pounding in her ears, and her vision swam as she looked at them.

"You don't want it anymore?" came Billy's voice. Alice whirled again to face him and saw he had the book again, his fingers gripping the spine as he held it over his head. He smiled at her and again reached up to his face with his free hand, smoothing his eyebrow with his thumb. The action was so disarming that Alice let out a breath and held out her hand.

"Please."

His lips curled. "Right away, ma'am!" But instead of lowering the book into her open palm Billy flicked his wrist and the Handy Book flipped backwards, tumbling through the air with a rush of flapping pages until it came down with a dirty brown splash in the slush-filled street gutter.

"No!" Alice's voice broke and she dashed forward only for her foot to catch on something beneath her and send her tumbling to the damp ground. She landed hard on the heels of her palms and her chin banged into the pavement, ringing her head like a bell. Blinking, gasping at the sudden impact and the shock of cold water across her front, Alice rolled over to see the group of boys laughing again. Billy Russel winked down at her, then turned to throw his arm around Jacob Marlow.

He tripped me.

"Bye, Moser!"

Alice stared at the boys with frost and tears in her eyelashes as they turned and strode down the street. They barged into one another and threw elbows into each other's sides, making high-pitched impressions of Alice's accent as they left.

Eventually their words faded into distant sound and the warmth in her hands turned into a biting ache. Alice sucked in a shuddering breath and pushed herself to her feet. Her pulse still roared in her ears. Her hands were shaking.

She looked down at herself. The entire front of her coat, skirt and stockings was soaked in muddy, icy water. The right knee of her stockings had torn. She looked down at her shaking hands and saw that the concrete had torn through her gloves and left stinging red scrapes across both palms. The cuts blurred, and she blinked away angry tears. Her chin ached from its impact with the pavement.

A gust of freezing wind howled down the street and cut through Alice's clothes, making her shiver.

Shaking, angry tears streaking down her face, Alice turned to see her American Boy's Handy Book slumped in a brown puddle in the gutter, the pages crumpled up and bleeding ink into the water. Alice swiped away her tears, realized too late that she'd just smeared blood onto her face, and then stepped into the gutter to fish her ruined book out of the puddle.

She'd just picked it up by its soaking cover when she heard hurried footsteps behind her.

Panic zinged down her spine. Alice skittered further onto the street and spun around, holding the drenched book up as a kind of shield as her breath rasped in her throat.

But it wasn't Billy and his friends back to torment her. She peered over the top of the dripping Handy Book to see two boys standing on the pavement across from her: one taller and dark-haired, and the other blonde and tiny. They wore identical looks of concern as they stared at the miserable figure she cut, dripping wet and disheveled in the middle of the street.

"Hey there," said the taller boy. Bucky Barnes. Alice's fingers clenched on the book. "What're you doing out here soaking wet?" he looked alarmed, like boys always did when girls cried in front of them. "What happened?"

To Bucky's left, Steve Rogers looked from the warped book to Alice's face and asked: "Someone did that to your book?"

A car engine rumbled at the end of the street and Alice hesitantly stepped back toward the pavement. Her jaw worked furiously. "Yes."

"Who was it?" Bucky looked around as if he might have missed someone else on the deserted road. He stepped forward to hover a hand in Alice's general area as she stepped up onto the pavement, and then gently took the soaking book from her. After a second of hesitation she released it.

Alice wiped her eyes. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does," Steve urged. "People can't go around destroying things, it ain't right!"

"I know it's not," she breathed. She wiped her palms on her ruined stockings and pushed her bedraggled hair out of her face, trying to control her shaky breathing. You're okay, she told herself. Be okay. After a moment to put herself to rights, she took a deep breath and then looked up.

And she finally saw Steve properly. He was all righteous, fiery indignation, like she'd seen so often at school before: chin lifted, shoulders straight, determination sparking in his eyes. She'd never seen it on her behalf though. Despite the indignation, his brows were still furrowed together in a look of earnest concern. She knew that he'd been knocked down a fair few times, probably by Billy Russel and his friends as well.

Alice managed a weak smile at Bucky, who was fussing over her book trying to dry it out. Then she turned back to Steve. "Thank you for caring," she said.

She'd meant to say that so many times before, because her mom always said to thank people when they did something right, and Steve did something right all the time.

Steve blinked, and all of a sudden the indignation faded. "Of – of course." He glanced at Bucky, then back to Alice. "It ain't right," he repeated.

"It ain't," Bucky agreed. He held up the book. "I dunno if we can save this, sorry-"

"It's fine." Alice took it from him and tucked it under her arm, letting the dirty water seep into her jacket. "Thanks. I'm going to…" she wiped her nose. "I'm going to go." She spun on her heel.

"Wait," Steve called. "Let us – let us walk you home."

Alice paused and glanced back to see him looking at her with a conflicted expression on his face, his mouth turned down. Bucky glanced between Steve and Alice, a furrow on his brow.

"Thank you, but no," she said. "I only live a few blocks away."

"You gotta be freezing cold–" Bucky started, but Alice shook her head.

"It's really fine." She turned again and began striding away, her footsteps quick on the wet ground and her shaken pride causing tears to burn in her eyes again.

Steve's voice called down the street again: "Alice–"

"I said I'm fine, Steve!"

As she rushed off down the street with her destroyed book under her arm she heard Bucky say in a surprised tone to Steve: "I thought you said you weren't friends with any of the girls in your homeroom."

She just caught Steve's soft reply: "I'm not."

The next day Steve's head jumped up as soon as Alice walked into the classroom, but she avoided his gaze. He didn't know what he'd expected, but she looked as unruffled as he'd ever seen her; her clothes had been cleaned, she wore unbroken stockings, and the ribbon around her feathery blonde hair was as neat as usual. The only hint of the state he'd seen her in yesterday was a red scrape on the tip of her chin.

As she walked past, he heard her friend Edith exclaim over the cuts on her hands when she took off her gloves.

"It's nothing," Alice replied in her soft, low accent. Steve frowned in his seat.

He turned it over in his mind the rest of the day, trying to figure out who could have done that to Alice and her book. Unfortunately he knew of a few too many people capable of pushing short blonde kids into puddles. He also understood why she wouldn't tell anyone – talking only led to more puddle-pushing in his experience, and he didn't blame her for not telling him and Bucky. They were hardly knights in shining armor.

After school he and Bucky wandered the alleys around Brooklyn Junior High, talking and kicking their toes through snowdrifts. Steve's mom was at work and Bucky's parents had their hands full with his three younger sisters, so it suited them both just fine to wander through the streets. As long as Steve stayed warm. Bucky had caught on fast to how easily Steve got sick.

It was another wet, snowy day that left murky puddles in the gutters, and before long a howling wind picked up. The cold air burned down Steve's throat.

"Want to head back to mine?" Bucky suggested. "If the girls are quiet for long enough, we might be able to play cards."

"That's a pretty big if," Steve said wryly. He'd met Bucky's sisters. All of them were in elementary school and all of them talked twice as much as Bucky, which was already a lot. Still, he shrugged. "Sure, why not."

They headed in the direction of Bucky's family's tenement building, retracing a familiar route as they had most other afternoons. They turned right onto a narrower street, the same one they'd found Alice at yesterday, and Steve felt Bucky tense up beside him. He looked up. Steve's eyes weren't so good but he could clearly see what was happening a couple hundred yards away.

Alice Moser sat on the exact same stoop they'd found her near yesterday, her gloved hands resting on the cover of a thick book on her lap. Her cheeks were pink under her pale hair. Standing in a half-circle in front of her were five taller boys, and the sound of their laughter echoed up the street to Steve and Bucky. Alice glared up at them and her hands curled into fists where they rested on her book. Standing directly over her was Billy Russel, who chuckled as he ran a hand through his hair.

"Should've known it was Billy Russel," Bucky muttered. Then: "Oh, hell."

Because Steve had taken off down the street, his fists clenched and his expression thunderous. Bucky broke into a jog after him. In the same moment, Billy snatched Alice's book away from her and laughed when she leapt off the stoop and jumped up to try to take it back. He lobbed it to one of his friends and they tossed it around in a circle as Alice darted after it, grasping at thin air.

Yards away now, Steve saw Alice fall still in the middle of the circle of taller boys and a tear track down her face. His blood boiled.

"Hey!"

All five boys and Alice looked over at Steve's shout, and their eyebrows went up.

"The hell are you doing here, small fry?" Billy said with a laugh in his voice. Steve closed the distance between them and then launched toward the book in Billy's hand.

"No!" Alice cried.

Steve's fingers stretched for the book, only for Billy to yank it upwards over his head.

"Give it back to her, Russel!" Bucky shouted as he ran up.

"What, you two sweet on her or something?"

Steve jumped for the book, heart hammering in his chest, but he wasn't tall enough. Russel laughed in his face.

"Russel–" Billy's pals rushed to block Bucky from getting closer, getting in his face and laughing. Alice, Steve distantly realized, was calling his name. But Billy was distracted. So Steve bent his knees and then leaped upwards, fingers outstretched.

The next thing Steve knew, a firm hand planted itself in his chest and he went flying backward. He felt the brief, sickening swoop of weightlessness before he crashed into the disgusting brown puddle in the gutter. Water sprayed up into his eyes and nose.

"Steve!" Bucky and Alice cried in unison. He barely heard them over the explosive laughter of Billy and his friends.

Steve rolled out of the water, spluttering, just as Billy tossed Alice's book into the puddle after him (Encyclopedia Britannica, Steve read) and ground his foot into it, smushing the pages into the concrete below and getting it well and truly soaked.

Steve's fingers curled into fists. He looked from the second ruined book and up into Billy's laughing face, and charged. But he only got two steps before a hand curled into the back of his shirt and yanked him backwards.

"Steve, stop!"

He glanced over his shoulder, jaw clenched, but hesitated when he saw not one of Billy's friends but Alice, her eyes wide. She shook her head at him. "Stop."

He stopped pulling against her grip.

Then a fleshy crack resounded and Steve and Alice both looked over to see Bucky reel back from Jacob Marlow, his hand covering his nose and his eyes screwed up in pain. Alice cried out.

"Keep your nose out of it, Barnes!" Marlow jeered. Steve's hands fisted again and Alice let go of his shirt.

But before Steve could launch forward again, Billy turned away from them and clapped Jacob Marlow on the shoulder. "Alright fellas," he laughed. And like that was an off switch, the whole lot of them pulled away from the doubled-over Bucky and wandered back the way they came.

"Hey!" Steve shouted. He stormed back onto the pavement and started pacing after them. "You think you can go around just–"

"Leave it, Steve," Bucky said thickly. He straightened to reveal the blood flowing from his nose and over his chin, and held out an arm to block his friend. "They're leavin', let 'em go."

The sound of Billy and his friends' laughter faded. Steve's pounding heartbeat settled some, and he registered the cold slicing his lungs and the sound of himself dripping all over the pavement. He glanced at Bucky, who had his hand over his bloody nose.

Both of them turned to Alice.

She stared at them both in horror. "You shouldn't have done that," she said, stricken. Her eyes flicked from the blood on Bucky's face to Steve's bedraggled figure. She looked guilty.

"We had to do something," Steve said, dripping wet and starting to shiver. He imagined he looked a lot like an angry cat. "They can't go around just grabbing people's things and wrecking them."

Alice let out a sigh. Steve opened his mouth, needing to do something about the anger and indignation coursing through him, but then Bucky bent over to pick the book out of the puddle and Alice flung out her hand and shouted: "Don't touch it!"

Bucky yanked his hand back and Steve shut his mouth with a clack. Steve had heard Alice sing with all the volume of a full-blown choir, but he'd never heard her shout like that, urgent and loud. He and Bucky both stared at her.

Alice's hand was still stretched toward Bucky and the book as if throwing up an invisible barrier. Her eyes were wide. Slowly, she drew her hand back and licked her lips. She looked from the book, to Bucky, to Steve. Steve could see some kind of calculation happening in her eyes.

Finally she shrugged and gestured at the book in the puddle. "It's an old phone book. I wasn't reading it."

Steve and Bucky's heads swung back to look at the book, and they could see it now – the book lay sprawled open in the puddle, but it certainly wasn't an encyclopedia. Finely-printed names and numbers slowly bled off the pages. The Encyclopedia Britannica dust jacket was slipping off.

Steve and Bucky were still staring at the phone book when Alice fetched a stick from beside the porch she'd been sitting on and used it to fish the book out of the puddle. Steve's brows drew closer and closer together as he watched her knock the sopping mess of pages into a pile of trash that would be collected the next day.

He shook his head. "What the…" he didn't know how to finish that sentence.

Silently, Alice peeled off her gloves and dropped them on the trashpile too. Then she reached into her pocket, drew out a white handkerchief and offered it to Bucky.

"Thanks," he said, slurring over the blood in the back of his throat. He took the handkerchief and stuffed it up his nose.

Right. Bucky. "You okay, Buck?" Steve asked as he turned to his friend.

"M' fine," Bucky said nasally, waving Steve off. Another cold wind tore down the street and sliced into Steve's dripping shirt and trousers, making him shudder. "Steve, you'll catch your death–"

Steve was about to argue when a warm weight dropped around his shoulders and abruptly interrupted the biting wind. He whirled around to see that Alice had shrugged off her warm winter coat and slung it around his shoulders, leaving her in just her school uniform and a cardigan.

At his dumbfounded expression, Alice merely shrugged. "You got pushed into a puddle because of me. You looked cold."

"I wasn't," he said, stupidly. Alice's eyebrow rose.

For a few moments the three of them just stood on the pavement, looking at each other. Alice's cheeks were pink from the cold wind and her pale hair drifted about her face. She looked back at him with that blank guileless look, the one she'd given him when he caught her sneaking back into the classroom as Mr Hawthorne got fired, the look that said I have done nothing wrong, ever, and there is no need to question me.

Steve's eyes narrowed. "I don't… why did you put a dust jacket on a phone book?"

For a few moments the look didn't shift, and Steve reflected that he'd never met anyone who confused him as much as Alice Moser did. He was confused by most girls, but she brought a new meaning to the word.

Then, slowly, a smile crept across her face and her green eyes sparked. She cleared her throat. "Have you ever noticed that Billy Russel always runs his hand across his face and through his hair like he thinks he's a movie star?"

Steve and Bucky stared blankly for another moment.

"The hell is she talking about, Steve?" Bucky muttered.

Alice kept smiling. "Follow me."

She didn't give them a moment to question her further, just spun on her heel and started speed-walking down the street. Bucky and Steve glanced at each other, and then took off after her. She ducked down a side street and checked back to make sure the boys were following her before turning down an even smaller alley.

Alice's footsteps echoed off the empty pavements and her school skirt snapped in the blowing wind. Bucky and Steve rushed after her, one trying to watch where he was going at the same time as trying to mop up the blood running from his busted nose, and the other trying to keep up while shrugging his arms into Alice's coat.

She led them through a warren of streets, and when her pace started to slow and her footsteps grew more cautious Steve looked around with a sinking feeling. He knew this area – they were approaching an alley near the bridge where he knew Billy Russel and his friends liked to hang out, kicking cans and trash and sometimes cats, if they could find them. Steve glanced at Bucky, and from the wary look on his friend's face knew that Bucky had figured out their destination as well.

"Alice…" Steve called.

"Shh!" she called back right before she squeezed into a gap between two tall tenements, so narrow that it looked like she'd been swallowed up into the side of the building. Bucky and Steve shared one more wary glance before following her in.

The alley (though it barely deserved such a title) was narrow, damp, and smelled very strongly of rotting trash. Steve scraped his knee against the brick wall trying to dodge past a wooden crate someone had left there, then glanced up to see Alice crouched at the end of alley and peering between two large metal trash cans.

Behind Steve, Bucky cursed under his breath. "Goddamn crate – Moser, what the hell–"

"Shh," she whispered, turning away from the trash cans with her finger pressed to her lips. Bucky fell silent.

Alice's face split open in a grin and she jerked her head at the gap between the trash cans. "Come see."

Steve sighed – why not, you followed her this far – and then crouched down so he could squeeze in beside her. Still blinking puddle water out of his eyes, he ducked his head and peered through the narrow gap between the trash cans.

Sure enough Alice had brought them to Billy Russel's favorite hangout. The tall senior and his four friends stood in the alley beyond, being as loud as usual. But instead of kicking things and making terrible jokes, they were… rubbing their faces? Steve frowned and then looked closer.

Billy Russel stood closest to the tiny alley. He was itching madly at his face and scalp as if he were covered in invisible ants. He made wordless noises of frustration, scratching and rubbing and jiggling his legs as if incapable of standing still. He turned, growling, and Steve noticed that his lips had swollen up like two fat sausages.

"Make it stop!" Billy ordered one of his friends, who was scratching his neck but not nearly as desperately as Billy.

Steve watched with wide eyes as Billy let out a wordless roar, dropped to his knees, shoved his hands into the nearest pile of gritty, muddy slush and then dumped two handfuls of the stuff right on top of his head.

Steve slowly pulled away and turned to look back at Bucky. "Look," he mouthed.

Bucky impatiently moved in, his shoulders digging into Alice and Steve as he got a good look at what was happening in the street.

When Bucky pulled back his eyes were wide. "How?" he breathed. He turned to Alice, who wore her guileless look for an instant more before her lips twitched. Bucky sat back on his heels. "You a witch?"

Steve found himself laughing under his breath, covered in dirty puddle water as Alice's jacket kept him warm in the tiny, disgusting alley. Alice met his eyes. "Itching powder?" he guessed.

Alice Moser's green eyes glittered as she smirked.

After that strange afternoon in the wintry alleyways of Brooklyn, Steve started to pay more attention to Alice.

He still vividly remembered what she'd done that first week of school; somehow manipulating a bunch of adults to get Mr Hawthorne kicked out of their class. He was pretty sure he knew why she'd done it, too, and if he knew how in the hell she'd been able to do it he couldn't say he wouldn't have done the same. And now Billy and his friends, too – whether they knew their hours of uncontrollable itching were because of her or not, they left Alice Moser alone after that.

But Alice was quiet. Not in the same way he was, not socially; she got on well with everyone, but she didn't draw a lot of attention to herself. Except on Sundays when she stood up in front of the entire church congregation and brought the house down. After about the third time, Steve was able to get over his shock at her voice well enough to actually enjoy her singing.

He'd always thought she was interesting, but he'd never really sought her out before because… well, he was terminally shy. That wasn't it, though; he'd also sensed that there was something more to her. Alice Moser hid parts of herself and that made him cautious. She wasn't a bully, but he wasn't certain she wasn't a liar.

Bucky, for his part, was a big fan of what she'd pulled off with Billy but speculated that Alice was, in his words, a 'troublemaker'. He didn't have any classes with her or Steve since he was a year older, but he started nodding to her whenever he saw her around school. She always nodded back.

Now that Steve was looking he realized that while Alice didn't speak up much, she sure noticed a lot. He'd always known she was quick in class since they'd been competing for the best grades practically since the first day, but he found a new appreciation for how quickly she always answered the teacher's questions, and her wire-trap memory.

When Steve got into arguments and fights at school, he turned around and more often than not would see Alice's green eyes on him. She didn't look like she was laughing at him or embarrassed by him like everyone else, though. She didn't look like Bucky's mix of exasperated and yet supportive either. He couldn't quite decide what she looked like.

When he glanced over his shoulder in homeroom or spotted Alice at lunchtime she always had that guileless expression on her face. But as if a switch had been flipped, Steve could see her thinking now; could see her noticing things and figuring things out all around her. She noticed people, and seemed to understand what was happening beneath the surface. Bizarrely, it reminded Steve of the time he saw an owl on his apartment's fire escape one night a few years ago: those intelligent, wide eyes, sizing him up with a cocked head.

And Alice knew so many people. Her best friend was Edith, but she was friends with just about everyone. Her route to school in the morning brought her past Steve's tenement building, and he realized that his own downstairs neighbor said hi to her every time she walked past. The baker down the street gave her leftover pastries. Alice took the pastries with a smile and shared them with the newsies at the end of the block. Steve walked past them once, trying not to stare as Alice talked and laughed with the paper boys as if they'd known each other since they were infants. They talked about the town like they owned it, like they were the ones who really ran it. Maybe they did.

Steve wasn't following her (his mom raised him far better than that), but now that he'd noticed Alice once it was as if he couldn't stop noticing her. She was everywhere.

Captain America's Brooklyn by Kathleen Williams (1999):

"In the early twentieth century the surrounds of New York City exploded with population and urbanization. Brooklyn in particular was a hub for the Great Migration of the 1920s, attracting African Americans from the south and thousands of migrants from South America and Europe. The Depression brought down that explosion of growth, leaving Brooklyn struggling with unemployment, homelessness, and starvation. One in three New Yorkers was unemployed. Salvation Army food stations and shanty towns became a familiar sight."

One afternoon a week or so after the Billy Russel incident Steve found himself waiting out the front of the school building, his fingers tucked under his armpits for warmth and his breath coming in bursts of vapor. Dozens of other students filled the noisy courtyard outside Brooklyn Junior High, chatting or kicking balls around.

Steve would much rather be sitting somewhere warm (not that he'd ever admit that), but Bucky had been given detention and had to stay for half an hour after school. It wasn't his fault. He'd been standing up for Steve after Steve told a kid in Bucky's class to quit stealing other kids' lunches, but when the teachers showed up it was only Bucky who got the detention time. Steve intended to wait as long as it took for Bucky to get out.

In the meantime he leaned back against the side of the stone steps leading up into the school and cast his eyes around the courtyard. He'd picked up the habit of people watching from Alice, who always seemed to be aware of everything happening around her.

Steve almost sighed when his eyes landed on the girl herself. Alice was everywhere. She sat on a bench on the far side of the courtyard by herself, with one leg crossed over the other and a thick book propped up on her lap. She was mostly obscured by the book, save for the top of her head.

Steve watched her for a few moments, careful not to stare like some kind of creep. As he did he realized he'd seen her reading that book before. A lot. It had a navy blue cover with dark grey lettering and a cracked spine.

He leaned against the steps for a few more minutes, regularly glancing over at Alice as she sat with the book. The more he looked, the more the furrow in his brow deepened. His foot began to tap against the ground.

Finally he walked over.

When she heard footsteps, Alice closed her book and looked up with a faintly curious look on her face. Her expression cleared when she saw who it was.

"Steve," she acknowledged in her soft accent. The sounds of other kids laughing and chatting were quieter here.

"Hey, Alice." He nodded at the book with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "What're you reading?"

She tilted the cover to show him. A history textbook.

"But you're not reading it," Steve said.

Alice looked up at him. "What? Obviously I'm reading it." Her voice brooked no disagreement – she made it sound as if what she said was so obviously the truth, that contradicting her would be tantamount to insanity.

Steve shrugged. "You ain't turning the pages."

For a few long, silent moments, Steve and Alice just looked at each other. Her eyes hadn't widened or shown a flicker of surprise but Steve knew he'd startled her. He let her squint at him, calculations no doubt churning away in the depths of her mind.

Finally she let out a breath. "Nobody else noticed," she muttered.

Steve shrugged again.

Alice stared at him a second longer then smiled wryly and flipped her book open. "Here."

Steve… didn't know what he'd been expecting, but he certainly hadn't expected to see a giant hole cut out of the middle of the textbook. Alice had glued the pages somehow, turning the book into a kind of box with the front cover as the lid. Inside the book/box, she'd stored all kinds of things: a small, rusty pocket knife, loops of rope, string and fishing line, a large piece of glass that looked like it once belonged in a magnifying glass, matches, a square of gauze, wire, and, for some reason, a snickers bar. These were all neatly arranged on top of a small stack of notepaper. It all looked old and mismatched, but she'd clearly taken care to collect these things.

Steve looked up from the hollowed out textbook and into Alice's calm, guileless face. "Why?"

She shrugged. "These things might come in handy sometime, and keeping them in a book means I can bring them around anywhere, even class. No one ever notices – well." She squinted up at him again. "You're a lot smarter than you look, Steve Rogers."

"Not as smart as you," he said non-self-consciously.

Alice's lips curved up. She patted the seat next to her. "You're waiting for Barnes to get out of detention, right? You want to sit with me?"

Steve shifted his feet.

Alice swallowed and her eyes darted away for a moment. Steve realized she was nervous. His eyes widened, and before he knew what he was doing he found himself sitting on the bench beside her.

He nodded at her book again. "So why were you just staring at your box of stuff?"

She pulled out the loop of thin rope. "I've been practicing tying knots. Want to try?"

Steve found himself smiling – at the shock of the strange book or at the idea of practicing knot tying in the middle of New York City, he wasn't sure. Either way, the smile made him realize that this was a hundred times better than sneaking glances back at Alice in homeroom without talking to her.

He took the loop of rope. "Sure."

When she looked back years later, alone and lonely, Alice always pinpointed that wintry afternoon as the day she and Steve became friends.

~ Joy is fleeting.
Song is immortal. ~

Chapter Text

Letters Across the Ocean (2)

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe:  Letters are among the most significant memorial a person can leave behind them.

March 17th, 1936
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

Thanks for the birthday wishes! Being nineteen feels no different to being eighteen, as you'll surely find out next year. My sisters are fine, thanks for asking.

Well, you were right. Steve is moping. I know you told me to keep an eye out for him being 'down in the dumps,' but there's no other word for this than moping. He doesn't talk much (less than usual) and he's always drawing something or other in his notebook. He's not sick like you thought – just moping. He's been like this ever since you left.

Don't worry though, I've been trying to cheer him up. Took him to Coney Island, but he puked on the Cyclone. I've stuck to safer things since then like soda fountains and the pictures. Even tried taking him to the museum. The museum, Alice! Didn't work, but never let it be said that I didn't try. Of course whenever he suspects that I'm trying to make him feel better he finds it highly offensive.

Why do I stick with this punk anyway?

He'll be alright, though. I still miss the hell outta you, and we didn't have whatever it is you and Steve have got going on. Anyway, enough about us being a pair of mooks. How are you doing? Steve read me your descriptions of Vienna and your life there, and I gotta say I can easily picture you as a snooty rich girl swanning about from one party to another. Suits you. Do you own a pair of those tiny opera glasses? I bet you do.

Yours in crime,
Bucky

March 20th, 1936
Vienna
Dearest James Buchanan,

Thank you for letting me know about Steve, he's seemed down in his letters but you know he's the last to admit when he's not doing well. I'm glad he's not sick. Keep on trying to cheer him up – try taking him to a gallery, you know he always likes that.

You stick with him because he yelled at you for defending him in a fistfight five years ago and you've never had a closer friend since.

It feels strange writing letters to you both. I realized yesterday that I've never been farther than a few blocks from you both for five years now, and now I'm thousands of miles away.

Thanks for your flattering description of me – I'll choose to feel complimented instead of offended, because half the time I feel like the people around me are so fancy and high-born that I'm a fraud. For your information I do  not  own a pair of opera glasses. (We rent them at the theater).

I just tried to picture you and Steve here in Vienna, and while it was a funny image at first it mostly made me homesick. I'd love to show you both around here. Steve especially would love it.

Truthfully though, I can't imagine you anywhere else but in Brooklyn, charming a young woman who will inevitably end up slapping you across the face the next week. Perhaps it's for the best that you don't come to Austria! The women here have strong arms.

Cordially,
Alice

May 6th, 1936
Vienna
Dear Steve,

Yes, the music here is very different from back home. Jazz and swing are popular among the people my age but there's much more resistance to it here. Jazz was banned in Germany last year, as well as anything by a Jewish artist. The ban doesn't apply in Austria but its effects are felt.

I have a phonograph in my room (there are three in the house). My uncle only has classical German music and operas, but I've already bought a few jazz records in secret (there are some places in town still selling them). Having Duke Ellington, Glenn Miller, and Bessie Smith once more in my bedroom is like a taste of home.

Last week while my uncle was out of town, Jil í brought me to a music club downtown. To my complete surprise the music there was just like what I'm used to hearing at a dance hall back in Brooklyn! I walked in to the sounds of Earl Hines, and I'm not too proud to admit I teared up. It reminded me so much of dancing and singing with Matthias around our living room like a pair of idiots.

Apparently there's a group of people in Vienna – most of them younger than me – who are crazy about American music and dancing.

I was happy to just sit with  Jil í but word got out that I'd lived in America (and was related to an actual musician), and soon I ended up talking about my life back in Brooklyn to this crowd of enthralled teenagers. I ended the evening by singing for them.

I think the singing is what sunk me. Word got out, my uncle found out that I'd been to the club, and he punished me by having the phonograph moved out of my room (thank god I'd hidden my records). He was spitting mad too, going on and on about my singing "degenerate" music. So now I'm forbidden from going back to the club.

I'll be more careful not to get caught next time.

Yours,
Alice

Excerpt from article 'What were the Germans listening to?' by Sadie Brunnheim (2008):

Despite the push away from "degenerate music" there was a section of the younger middle-class German populace who enjoyed the more American music trends of swing and jazz. This manifested in 1939 when a collection of Hamburg youths formed the "Swingjugend" ('Swing Youth') as a direct opposition to the increasingly nationalist and anti-American Nazi Youth. Meeting in clubs and cafes, they mimicked American and British ways of life, spoke English instead of German, and greeted each other with the cheery cry of "Swing Heil!"

June 10th, 1936
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

I've asked Bucky to stop dobbing me in, but he's made no promises. Yes, I did get in a fight. No, you don't need to worry about me. Aside from a black eye I'm fine – and we both know I've had enough of those to know how to look after myself. Bucky's started training me in boxing again (I think he wants to try to physically knock some sense into me).

The last day of high school fast approaches – can't come soon enough for me. I'm not really looking forward to the graduation ceremony, though mom is. I always thought I'd be graduating with you. As for work,  Mr Wells at the advertising firm said that my sketches were good enough to get me a commission each month, but he said if I got sick again he'd have to "review our arrangement".

I finished reading the Steinbeck novel, let me know when you finish so we can talk about it.

Did your uncle ever talk to you about that mysterious letter, by the way? Was it a letter from home?

Yours,
Steve

June 13th, 1936
Vienna
Dear Steve,

The letter wasn't from home! It was from the Austrian Imperial Academy of Music and the Performing Arts! I didn't even know that my uncle had submitted an application on my behalf, but the letter we got in reply was about my admission!

I'm to start tutoring with a few instructors right away, and join properly next semester. I don't think I've been so excited since before I left New York – I'll be learning opera, the classics, composition, piano, and so much more. I never thought I'd be able to study music and now I'm going to attend one of the top institutions in the world!

To repay my uncle for his kindness I've been going to more of his social functions and rubbing elbows with all his high and mighty friends. I don't particularly enjoy it, but he seems to enjoy showing me off (and exhibiting my performances). It's a big change from the choir in that freezing little Fulton street church.

Haven't finished the novel. Hurray for graduating soon! Mr Wells can suck an egg.

Jil í says to stop getting into fights.

x Alice

Chapter Text

1931

At lunchtime the next day Alice collected her tray and looked briefly around the food hall before making a beeline for the end of one of the long dining tables, where Steve and Bucky sat across from each other. Bucky's chin was propped on his hand as he waved his fork in the air, and Steve leaned back laughing.

Alice waited for his laughter to subside before she approached the end of the table. "Hi Steve," she said with a smile. "Enjoying Shakespeare?" They'd just had a double English Literature period.

"Hey," Steve said warmly, glancing up at her. She'd expected his usual shyness, so the easy manner he'd welcomed her almost made her eyes widen. It was as if yesterday while tying knots together, a knot had unraveled within Steve. Across from him, Bucky looked between Steve and Alice with a furrowed brow. Steve cleared his throat. "Well, I don't mind poetry so much. And there's funny parts if you look close enough."

"Right, you've just got to decipher it."

Steve shifted and touched the bench beside him. "Want to sit?"

Alice saw Bucky's eyes widen. "Thanks." She sat, very conscious of the other boy watching her closely. When she'd set her food tray down she met his eyes.

"Moser," Bucky acknowledged.

"Barnes," she replied politely. Steve glanced between them before opting to dig into his lunch.

"Where's your friend?" Bucky asked. "E… Eden?"

"Edith is sitting with Catherine and Sarah Applewood today."

Bucky glanced across the hall to where Alice's friend sat with the red-haired sisters, and then back to Alice. There was a clear question in his eyes: why aren't you over there?

"They don't like me."

"I wonder why," Bucky said dryly.

"Bucky," Steve frowned, his mouth full of food. Bucky glanced back at his friend and gave him a half-shrug as if to ask what?

Alice, meanwhile, eyed Bucky. The reason the Applewood sisters didn't like her was that they lived a block away from her, and therefore knew about her stepfather and brother. "I don't know," she said eventually. She took a forkful of mashed potatoes from her tray and swallowed it. "Any ideas?"

Bucky's eyes widened, sensing the trap she'd laid for him. His mouth opened and closed a few times. Finally, he just shook his head. "None at all." He dug back into his lunch. "So you two actually like Shakespeare?"

"We can't all be reading Buck Rogers comics all the time, Bucky," Steve shot back wryly.

Bucky narrowed his eyes and pointed his fork at Steve. "You little… I read books."

"Name a single book you've read this year," Steve replied.

"I read that Agatha Christie book!"

"You guys read Buck Rogers?" Alice cut in, her eyebrows raised. Then she waved a hand. "Of course you do, it's practically your names combined."

"That ain't why we read it," Steve laughed.

"But it is pretty swell," Bucky winked. "Wait, you read Buck Rogers?"

"When I can. We can't afford to buy them. But I did get one of the comics for Christmas, the one where he fights Killer Kane in Philadelphia."

"You own a copy?" Bucky echoed, wide eyed, and Alice instantly knew that his family was no better off than her own. He scratched the side of his face. "Could you… d'you think you could bring it to school tomorrow?"

Alice looked from him to Steve, who had an identical look of hope on his face. She smiled. "Sure thing."

Smithsonian Museum Display (2014):

When Bucky Barnes first met Steve Rogers on the playgrounds of Brooklyn, little did he know he was forging a bond that would take him to the battlefields of Europe and beyond.

Born in 1917, Barnes grew up the oldest child of four. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom…

Not many people noticed that Alice had befriended Steve and Bucky because not much changed. She sat with them at lunch (with Edith and Finn as well, sometimes), sometimes sat near Steve in class, and at church she crept away from her mother after the service to stand at the back of the church with Steve and trade stories about their weekend. Alice also joined Bucky and Steve on their after-school adventures. Mostly that involved tooling around the streets of Brooklyn, though when they had enough money they pooled their resources to buy a Coca Cola at the local soda fountain, or a brown paper bag of candy.

Steve liked to draw, so when he had paper and a pencil to spare he'd sketch the world around them: the view of Brooklyn Bridge from below when they crept onto the shoreline beneath it one afternoon, a pack of pigeons harassing Bucky for his hard-earned hotdog, Alice pinching her nose as she leaned into a trash can to retrieve Steve's shoes which a bully had tossed in. Steve's drawings were shaky and more often than not he scrunched them up and threw them away, but Alice could tell he was getting better. He didn't like people knowing that he drew (probably because they'd tease him for it), so she felt lucky to be in on the secret.

Alice liked the dynamic the two boys had: teasing, easy, and yet utterly loyal. They never made fun of her accent or treated her differently for being a girl. They thought her ability to mimic accents and voices was hilarious, instead of creepy. They shared her taste for adventure, whether they found it in the pages of a comic book or while standing on a jetty at the Red Hook docks with the salty air blowing into their faces. Alice didn't invite them over to her house, nor did they invite her to theirs – Steve's mom worked hard and needed her rest, and Bucky's place was apparently a madhouse. So they kept to the streets or to public places like the library.

Alice liked the way Steve and Bucky stuck up for each other; when one was in trouble the other was sure to follow. Alice was no brawler but she found other ways of sticking up for them.

As the weeks passed Steve realized that if he got into a fight with someone at school, he usually found that by the time he'd gotten out of detention something had happened to the person he'd fought with. The older kid who'd tossed his books out of a third floor window ended up with gum in his shoes. The one who'd shoved Steve to the ground after Steve called him out for stealing lunches, well, he went home that day with itching powder on the inside of his collar. Another time, Alice walked right up to the guy who'd tripped Steve over in the hallways and called him out in front of his sweetheart. Word got back one week that one of the school bullies had been scolded by both his mother and his priest after word of his misdeeds somehow made it to them.

Every time, Steve would approach Alice at the end of school and shoot her a look.

She always confessed. "Too far?" she'd ask.

Steve always shook his head. Because Alice never went after people who didn't deserve it – she was never the bully. She went after the strong people who used their strength to be cruel.

"You need to be more patient," Alice told him one afternoon, poking his stomach and making him cringe. David Chansor had gut-punched him in the restroom during lunchtime. "Stop charging in headfirst and fistfirst, that only ever ends up with you getting punched."

Steve spread his hands. "But sometimes you do have to do something right away! What if I'd just stood by and watched when Billy Russel threw your book in the puddle?"

She arched her fine, blonde eyebrow. "Then you wouldn't have gotten pushed in the puddle as well, and Bucky wouldn't have gotten punched, and my plan would have gone perfectly."

Steve laughed. "Fine. Then make sure you tell me your plans in advance, so I don't mess them up."

Alice put one hand solemnly over her heart. "I promise – I'll always tell you my plans."

Bucky approached at that, his book strap slung over one shoulder and his stride as confident as ever. "How's the stomach, Steve?"

"Sore."

"I keep telling you, you gotta-"

"Save the lecture," Steve sighed and rolled his eyes.

Alice and Bucky traded a look, then Bucky shrugged. "Alright then. Did you get your revenge, troublemaker?"

Alice narrowed her eyes at the nickname, but Bucky only had curiosity on his face, no malice. She shrugged one shoulder. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

She'd put the salted fish from lunch in David Chansor's coat pockets.

Bucky clapped a hand on Steve's shoulder. "That's a yes," he said in a confiding tone. "Alright, it's too cold to be outside today, how about we see if we can sneak into a movie theater?"

"Sounds good to me," Steve said, still bleakly rubbing his stomach.

"I've always wanted to see what being kicked out of a movie theater would be like," Alice said dryly. But she followed them all the same.

In March, on his fourteenth birthday, Bucky got a book of codes and ciphers from his uncle in the Army. His sisters had started embroidery lessons on Sundays, so after church Alice and Steve rushed the five blocks to Bucky's family's apartment to play board games and pore over the book.

More often than not Bucky and Steve would end up arguing good-naturedly over a game of checkers while Alice curled up in front of the fireplace glued to Codes, Keys, and Ciphers: Cracking Secrets. She'd never seen anything like it before except for puzzles in the newspaper. The book described the basics one learned in the Army like Morse code and the international flag system, and delved into more advanced measures such as ciphers used by the Roman Army, a coding device called Alberti's disk, and cipher squares. It was mostly math, and Alice thrived on it.

Three weeks later, Bucky handed the book to Alice. "You keep it." He cracked a smile at her wide-eyed expression. "I don't read it at all unless you guys are here, and it's clear you like it more than me. Just, uh… don't tell my uncle."

After another fifteen minutes of convincing, Alice took Codes, Keys, and Ciphers home. It replaced Nancy Drew on the crate beside her bed. A week later, she knew it back to front. But ciphers were no fun by herself, so she started to teach the simpler stuff to Bucky and Steve so she could try out her skills.

They started with Morse code. Alice wrote out long chains of dashes and dots and waited for the snort or groan from the boys when they decoded the joke she'd written. Once Steve got the hang of it, they started tapping messages to each other in class.

.- -. ... .- . .-. / - - / ...- ..-.. [answer to 3?] Steve tapped on the top of his desk during their history exam. To anyone else it sounded like he was drumming out the beat to a song, but the rhythm made Alice roll her eyes as she looked down at her paper. When he finished, she ducked her head and looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

He shot her a sheepish grin.

Alice rolled her eyes and tapped her pencil against her desk. .- -.. -... -. [1879]. Steve made an ah sound and started scribbling. A moment later, she continued. - .- -.- -... . [maybe].

After class, Alice and Steve laughed their way to the lunch hall. "Okay, but you can't do that in the math exam," she protested. "I'm pretty sure Mr Letkin knows Morse code."

"Then we'll have to use a better code," Steve said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Alice laughed at him. "You are such a cheater."

"It ain't cheating, it's… teamwork," he said with an easy smile. "Plus, I'm learning something."

"I don't think learning Morse code to cheat on your history tests counts as learning."

"We'll see."

Excerpt from 'The Rebirth of Captain America' by Elspeth Willow (1995), p. 23:

… at Camp Lehigh in New Jersey, the United States Army taught Steve Rogers everything he knew. He would later use these skills in order to fight the war against the Nazis and HYDRA.

Alice taught new codes to Steve, and to Bucky when he paid attention. Steve didn't have the passion for it that she did but he was smart and eager to learn. They passed notes in class when they could get away with it, strings of gibberish that the other would have to figure out. It certainly made their more mind-numbing lessons interesting. They developed a set of hand signals for church: a clenched fist on the right knee meant let's go to Bucky's afterwards, crossed fingers meant meet me in the courtyard after the service (it had a small pond they could skip pebbles across), and a scratched ear meant look at Mr Bilkins, he's fallen asleep again.

When they taught the hand signals to Bucky he added some more – sweeping the left shoulder to indicate Steve's about to get punched, time to intervene (Steve was not a fan, but Alice found she used that signal more often than she liked), some others to do with escaping boring conversations, and his favorite: "See this one you don't have to worry about forgetting," he said cheerily as he held up his middle finger in Steve and Alice's faces.

On the first day of May, one thing dominated the front page of every newspaper in the city. Alice read the headlines on her way home from school, heard her newsie friends rave about it, and when she let herself into the apartment a copy of the Post blared the news at her from the kitchen table:

PRESIDENT AND SMITH OPEN EMPIRE STATE, MIGHTIEST BUILDING.

Alice sighed and flipped the paper over. They'd been building that thing for over a year after knocking down the old Waldorf-Astoria hotel. She'd seen it a few times when she went into the city with her mom; a great hulking thing with spiky scaffolding stretching upward. She supposed they'd quit talking about the 'Race Into The Sky', now that the Empire State Building had beaten the previous world record by a whole 400 feet.

At that moment, Alice's mom walked into the room with Tom propped on her hip. "Alice!" she exclaimed. "Hast du gesehen? Sie haben es endlich fertig-" [Did you see? They have finally finished-].

"Das reicht!" [That's enough!] Alice cried, covering her ears and dashing to the radio to stop her mom gushing. But when she swtiched to her favorite station she was met with:

"And now we will play the songs performed today at the Empire State opening ceremony-"

"Ach!" she threw up her hands and retreated into her room to bury her head in a book.

The next weekend, Alice found herself climbing up the subway stairs of Penn Station into the bright morning sunlight beside Steve and Bucky. They reached the last step, turned to their right, and stopped in their tracks.

Two blocks away the Empire State Building towered into the sky, shining in the sun as its tall spire seemed to brush the clouds. It was a giant standing amidst the smaller buildings in the city, so large that it boggled the mind. Alice had never seen something so tall in her life – no one had. She'd seen it from across the river, of course, seen it stretching over the rest of the skyline, but this was different.

She realized her mouth had dropped open, and she snapped it closed with a click.

"Holy cow," Steve breathed. Other New Yorkers streamed around them where they stood on the pavement, already used to the giant skyscraper in their midst.

Alice wiped away her astonishment and sniffed. "You know, five people died building that."

Steve and Bucky both glanced sideways at her.

"I'm surprised it was only five," Bucky said. "Now come on, let's go give them our money."

Bucky and Steve rushed ahead, and after a beleaguered sigh Alice hastened to follow them.

They'd been saving for a few weeks for something – maybe an extravagant trip to the soda fountain, maybe even Coney Island, but this last week at school Steve and Bucky set their hearts on visiting the tallest building in the world. Alice tried to talk them out of it using every trick of persuasion she knew, but they would not be moved. So here she stood at the foot of the Empire State Building, with a dollar in her pocket.

The ground floor of the building was absolutely packed with people. Alice and Bucky instinctively stepped in close to either side of Steve to act as buffers, and as a pack they inched their way across the shiny marble floors. Alice caught glimpses of the interior, and she was sure it was beautiful, but all she really saw was the throngs of people pressing her in. The room was loud with excited chatter and high-pitched laughter, and it was sweltering.

They paid their dollar each for an observation deck ticket and then hustled back through the thicket of people toward the line for the elevator.

"It's like a damn carnival," Bucky muttered as a lady wielding a closed umbrella nearly poked his eye out.

"I told you it was stupid to come," Alice muttered back. Between them, Steve rolled his eyes.

After a twenty minute wait they were ushered into a shiny, wood-lined elevator manned by an operator in a smart maroon suit and a hat. They just managed to squish in with about ten cramped-looking adults.

The operator smiled down at them. "What floor, kids? He asked with a wink.

Alice fought not to roll her eyes.

"I'll give ya one guess, pal," Bucky said, somehow making his smart mouth charming enough to not be offensive.

The operator tipped his hat and hit the button at the top of the chrome panel. "Up we go, folks!"

The lift started moving with barely a judder, and Alice's stomach swooped. 102 floors. Steve's elbow knocked against hers and she glanced across at him. Her growth spurt was kicking in, putting her a couple inches taller than him. His cheeks were pink from the heat in the elevator, and his perpetual frown hung on his brow. Sensing her gaze, he met her eye.

"You okay?" she mouthed. She'd just realized that being around so many people in a cramped space probably wasn't a good idea for someone so prone to getting sick. In the time she'd known him he'd come down with two head colds, a crop-up of hayfever, and had to miss a few days of school because of heart palpitations.

Steve rolled his eyes at her. "I'm fine," he mouthed back. Alice shook her head at him, then her eyes snapped wide open as her ears fizzed and popped. Steve cocked his head at her only for a similar expression to appear on his face a moment later.

"Don't worry about your ears popping, folks," the operator said with a smile. "It's just your body adjusting to the height. If it hurts, just swallow and your ears should clear."

Alice swallowed and her eyes widened again when the pressure in her ears cleared. She met Steve's eye again and they exchanged a glance.

Finally they reached the top and the doors slid open to reveal another wall of people. Alice, Steve, and Bucky squeezed through the crowds, slipping between pointy elbows and fancy-looking types in expensive hats. The sun beat down on all of them. They slid past a food and drink vendor, scoffed at the prices, and kept pushing blindly through the thicket of people.

After what felt like years of squeezing through close-pressed bodies, Alice's fingers hit stone. "This way!" she urged. She shouldered her way through a gap between two middle-aged women in paisley dresses, closely followed by Steve and Bucky.

She made sure Bucky and Steve made it through to the stone barrier she'd reached, then turned around to have her breath stolen by a blast of cold wind and the view laid out before her.

For a few moments, Alice couldn't catch her breath. Her fingers went white gripping the stone barrier and her eyes stung from staring.

She'd never seen New York like this, never seen anything like this. The city below looked like matchbox buildings, everything laid small beneath her feet. Alice could see 5th Avenue arrowing away toward the end of Manhattan Island, toward where Brooklyn Bridge arced up into the sun. The glittering Hudson and East River curved around to each side like cradling arms around the city, and the wide blue sky hung over it all. If Alice squinted she could see the Statue of Liberty standing on her island miles away.

The wind blew strong up here, gusting in Alice's face and making her eyes water. There was nothing between her and New York City but a stomach-high stone barrier. Her hands curled over the edge.

"Holy cow," Bucky muttered, the first of them to speak. He stood on Steve's other side and all three of them stared out at the tiny city below them with their hands on the stone barrier. The noise of the crowd had faded into the background.

"I've lived in New York almost six years," Alice breathed. Her eyes roved across the textured tapestry of the city below. "I never imagined it could look like this."

"It's a hell of a view," Steve agreed.

Alice tore her eyes away from the city to look at him. She could see him memorizing the lines of the city, and she knew he'd draw this later. She could have kicked herself for not bringing up some paper for him. It'd be a better drawing first hand than from memory.

Steve eventually glanced away to meet Alice's eyes. "You don't talk much about when you moved here. You moved from Austria, right?"

Alice fought the initial instinct to freeze up and deflect. It was easier here, with the world laid out beneath her and the wind flying fresh in her face. Beside Steve, Bucky looked over curiously.

"I moved here with my mom and dad," she began, her voice soft. "My dad got a business opportunity here. But he, uh… he died not too long after that. Heart attack." She heard Bucky and Steve open their mouths. "I was only seven," she cut in before they could say anything. "I don't really remember him."

"I don't remember my dad either," Steve said in a rush, as if trying to get it out. Alice met his gaze with wide eyes. He'd never mentioned his father before. Steve shrugged one shoulder. The wind blew his hair into his face. "He was in the war."

"I'm sorry," Alice said. It felt sour in her accent. Her father never fought, since he worked for the government, but it could easily have been one of her relatives that killed Steve's father.

As if sensing where her mind had gone, Steve shook his head vigorously. "No, I'm not saying it to…" he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them. "I just mean, I get it. Sometimes I wish I could meet my dad to see what he was like. See if I'm like him."

Bucky, leaning against the stone barrier without a care for the hundreds and hundreds of feet of open air below, nudged Steve gently. "He went to protect his country and his family," he said. "Sounds a lot like something you'd do."

Steve smiled at his friend before turning back to Alice. "So you and your mom… didn't go back to Austria?"

Alice took a breath. "No, Mom decided to make the best of it here. She got a translation job, met my stepfather, and now we're here for good."

"Do you ever wish you could go back?" Bucky's face was uncharacteristically serious as he propped his elbow on the barrier. Steve's dark blue eyes were on Alice.

She bit her lip. "I don't really remember Austria. I remember my family a little – singing to them, mostly, and I remember the street where we used to live. I still remember the language, but that's only because mom uses it all the time so I don't forget."

"You know German?" Steve's eyebrows flew upward.

"Ja," she replied with a hint of a smile. "But do I want to go back…?" She gestured to Manhattan stretching away beneath them. "I grew up here. My family's here, my school is here, my…" she nodded at Bucky and Steve. "You guys are here. I couldn't go back."

"Can't get a view like this in Austria," Steve said with a note of relief in his voice, as he echoed her gesture to the city.

"Can't get a view like this anywhere else in the world," Alice added.

They stood there for a few more minutes staring out at New York City from above, until they got shuffled off by the crowds. On the elevator back down Alice put her hands to her stinging cheeks and let out a long breath.

For so long she'd still felt like a new arrival in this city, an outsider. But as she stood with Steve and Bucky in a cramped elevator, her stomach growling and her ears popping, she knew: this was her home.

Excerpt from article 'What to listen to this long weekend', by Michael Harmon (2015):

7. Ongoing podcast series: 'The tragedy of artists who die young'. In this episode, your host Kathleen Morrison discusses seven artists who died in mysterious circumstances, beginning with the strange case of a country musician's airplane tragedy.

School broke off in June. Alice split her time between helping out her mom and stepfather (usually playing with Tom in the apartment and teaching him inappropriate words), and mucking around outside with Steve and Bucky. But as the streets got hotter they had to retreat inside more often, either to Bucky's raucous house or to the Brooklyn Library, which had just installed air conditioning.

Steve turned thirteen on July 4th, and after his mom took him to a restaurant as a treat for his birthday he joined Alice and Bucky on the shore near the Brooklyn Bridge to watch fireworks fly up across the city. Bucky gave him a brand new set of pencils, which he must have been saving all year for, and Alice gave him the only thing she'd been able to: a warm pair of socks from the tailor shop. He assured her it was a very thoughtful present and slid them onto his feet right there on the edge of the East River.

The next week, after another day of trudging along the sweltering streets from one place to another trying to find somewhere they could sit in peace without being told off for being too loud, Alice stopped in her tracks and said: "Forget this. Follow me."

She brought them to the tailor shop, hushing their increasingly-concerned questions when she swung the door open, making the tiny bell overhead tinkle. "I'm allowed in here," she told them. "Trust me."

They didn't even trade the skeptical glance she was so used to, they just shrugged and followed her in.

The tailor shop was cool after the beating sun outside. It was a narrow, long shop, with only slightly creaky wooden floors, and shelves and racks of neatly-tailored clothes lining the walls. The plaster walls had spidery cracks in the corners. The entire back wall was taken up by hat and shoe boxes. The shop was packed from wall to wall with clothes and displays and tailoring tools, but it was tidy. A single customer, an elderly black lady, perused a rack of ribbons near the front corner. At the far end of the room stood the service desk, behind which sat Matthias, leaning over a humming sewing machine with pins held between his lips.

He looked up as the door tinkled and took in the sight of Alice standing between the tall, dark haired Bucky Barnes and the shorter, blonde and flustered Steve Rogers. His brows furrowed. He turned off the sewing machine and pulled the pins out of his mouth. "Allie, everything alright?"

She shot him a small smile, ignoring Bucky and Steve's curious glances. She did see Steve mouth Allie? silently. "I'm fine. Can we sit in the back room a while?"

His eyebrows rose but he nodded. "As long as you can vouch for these gentlemen, of course."

"I can vouch for them," Alice smiled back. Matthias's dark brown eyes warmed and he flicked the machine back on. She turned to Bucky and Steve. "Come on."

She led them past the perusing customer, who barely glanced at them, past the desk where Matthias had already turned back to the dark trousers on his sewing machine, and through a narrow door in the back corner. This opened onto the tenement hallway with the stairs that led up to her apartment, but she turned away from the stairs and opened another narrow door into the cramped, cool back room of the shop.

Alice ushered Steve and Bucky in, watching them as they glanced around the small space with its half-finished commissions, cloth scraps, and old, clunky machines. She knew this space well, since she'd been visiting the shop ever since her mom started dating Matthias. She liked the way the room always had something new and surprising in it, and had fond memories of Matthias teaching her his trade in here while the tinny radio on the workbench crooned out the latest jazz from Harlem. She knew her way around each of the strange-looking machines, and the boxes of needles and pins. She leaned over to turn on the old, dusty fan and sighed as cool air blew against her skin.

"What is this place?" asked Steve over the rattle of the fan. He lowered himself onto one of the stools set out, looking around. Bucky paced the circumference of the room and peered at the commission tags for each item of unfinished clothing.

"It's a tailor shop," Alice said. "And it's quiet back here." To prevent any further questions she delved into a box on a high shelf and pulled out a deck of cards. "What do you want to play?"

The three of them started using the back room of the tailor shop as a kind of retreat during the sweltering days of the summer break. They'd tramp into the shop, say hi to Matthias, and then retreat into the back room. They played cards and board games and listened to the radio, elbowing each other to get better access to the cool air from the fan.

Alice never explicitly told Steve and Bucky why she was allowed in the shop. She knew they assumed that Matthias was another one of her many acquaintances, and she did nothing to correct them. They were friendly enough with Matthias, but never usually exchanged more than a greeting with him. Matthias knew about Steve and Bucky, of course, and over dinner each day he'd ask Alice what they got up to. She thought maybe Matthias knew that she was keeping her exact relationship with him a secret. It made her feel… strange.

Until one slow, hot afternoon. Bucky leafed through an adventure story in the corner while Alice watched Steve sketch a comic strip about the three of them as soldiers, when Matthias slipped into the back room.

"Afternoon, kids. Still alive back here?"

"Just about," Bucky replied. "Thanks again."

Matthias leaned against the door jamb and waved a hand, the other smoothing down his vest over his neatly pressed white shirt. "It ain't no problem." He often came to the back room for supplies, but he usually never stayed longer than it took to give them a friendly nod. "Hey, Allie?"

Alice looked up from where she'd been peering over Steve's shoulder and raised her eyebrows. Her cheeks were pink from the residual heat in the back room and her rumpled blouse was untucked from her skirt.

"Need your help," Matthias said, tapping the side of his head. "I can't remember the name of that new song – the one from the movie?" He looked upward, as if searching for the answer, then shook his head frustratedly. Steve looked over his shoulder. "Was thinking about it just now, the shop's so quiet. You know the one-" Matthias hummed a few bars, making both Bucky and Steve look up with raised eyebrows.

Alice cocked her head. This was something she and Matthias did often, humming half-remembered songs and snatches of lyrics until they had the song. For a moment she hesitated at Steve and Bucky's presence, but then shook away her fears. She'd invited them here, she trusted them – and she wasn't going to pretend Matthias wasn't the closest thing she had to a father. So she focused on Matthias's low humming.

The tune was slow and lilting, a little jazzy, and soon she joined in with the lyrics. "You came to me," she sang with a smile growing on her face, "from out of nowhere." Matthias clapped his hands, eyes alight, and kept humming. "You took my heart, and found it free." Alice drew in a steady breath, her voice clear in the cramped room. "Wonderful dreams, wonderful schemes, from nowhere. Made every hour sweet as a flower to me…" she trailed off with a grin. "Bing Crosby," she added, and Matthias clapped his hands again.

"That's the one!" he exclaimed. He turned to Bucky and Steve, who had been staring at Alice and who now turned to stare at him as he pointed at Alice. "Better than a record label for remember this stuff, I swear." He leaned over to ruffle Alice's hair, laughing when she swatted him away, then called: "Dinner at six, Allie!"

A moment later he was gone again, pulling the back room door shut behind him. His laugh echoed in the hallways beyond.

A short silence fell in the small room.

Bucky spoke first. "Who… is that?"

Alice met his eyes. "Matthias," she said, as if he was stupid. Despite her trust in Bucky and Steve, her heart hammered against her chest.

"And he's your…?"

The way that Bucky asked, with no malice or suspicion, made Alice's hackles lower. Both boys looked at her with furrows in their brows, but she saw no disgust at the familiar way she'd spoken with Matthias. She let out a breath. "He's my stepfather."

Both pairs of eyes widened. But unlike most people who found out, they didn't react with side-eyes or cool distancing.

"Huh," said Bucky.

After another moment Steve said: "You're lucky, he's a really interesting guy." Then he went back to his drawing, his tongue between his teeth as he shaded Alice's helmet.

Alice adored them.

"So Steve said you could sing," Bucky said, "but I didn't know you could sing sing."

She frowned. "What does that mean?"

"You're… y'know, good at it."

She glanced over at Steve, who was still looking at his drawing but whose cheeks had gone pink. "Thanks for the glowing recommendation, Steve," she said wryly.

His head jerked up. "I said you were good! No, I'm pretty sure I said you were better than good."

"Let's have an encore then," Bucky announced. He swiveled to the boxy radio on the workbench, turned it on, and the fast-paced voice of a news anchor met their ears. Bucky muttered under his breath and started turning the dials.

"Hang on," Alice protested, "I'm not going to perform-"

"Then we'll sing with ya! My sisters do it all the time, c'mon. You're in, right, Steve?"

"I'm not sure I have a choice," Steve sighed. He scratched the back of his neck and shared a glance with Alice.

Bucky had finally found a new station, and his eyes lit up when the first few bars of On The Sunny Side of the Street crooned out. Alice sighed.

Bucky whirled around on his stool, casting a mischievous glance at Alice and Steve on the other side of the room. "Grab your coat, and get your hat!" he sang in time with the singer, miming the actions. Steve put a hand over his eyes. "Leave your worries on the do-orstep." The radio singer was really hamming up the lyrics, and as if taking it as a challenge Bucky threw his arms open and started bouncing his shoulders to the music. Alice found herself laughing. "And just direct your feet," Bucky sang, louder now, "on the sunny side of the street. Steve!"

Steve joined in for the next line, peeling his hand away from his eyes and casting a disgruntled look at Bucky. "Can't you hear that pitter-pat?" His voice was quiet and thin, but Alice had never heard him sing before and she found she quite liked the earnest way he delivered the words and the concentrated furrow in his brow.

Bucky drew her attention away by gesturing at her from across the room, his eyebrows raised as he warbled over one of the low notes. He beckoned. Alice shook her head at him. But then Steve looked over at her as well, smiling despite himself, and he and Bucky both sang: "Life can be so sweet…"

"On the sunny side of the street!" Alice joined in. She shook her head at the both of them despite the smile pulling at her lips, and laughed over the start of the next line as Bucky crowed in jubilation and Steve's mouth curved up on one side.

Laughing at themselves and the showy radio performer, the three of them sang along for the rest of that song and the next one, outdoing each other in volume and in ridiculousness until Alice's mom came down into the back room and told them to hush, because Tom was asleep. They apologized and went back out onto the street outside, still singing, and as they strolled up the street a rainbow shone in the mist. Alice laughed while she sang, her voice clearer and stronger than it had ever been in the stiff, dusty churchroom.

~ Sing for me ~

Chapter Text

Nick Bantock:  Letter writing is an excellent way of slowing down this lunatic helter-skelter universe long enough to gather one's thoughts.

August 3rd, 1936
Berlin
Dear Steve,

I remember listening to the last Olympic games on the radio, sitting in the back room of Matthias's tailor shop with you and Bucky. Los Angeles seemed so far away then.

Little did I know then that I'd be at the opening ceremony of the very next games!

My uncle took us to Berlin last week, and we underwent a whirlwind of sightseeing and parties. If I'd thought things were getting very strange in Austria, it's nothing to Berlin – you can hardly turn around without seeing an enormous red Nazi party flag, and everybody greets each other with a one-armed salute. It's weird. Even the parties with high-flying government men and socialites are strange; everyone enjoys themselves as much as they can, but even I can see there are tensions. Tight smiles and tense handshakes. I've more than once been described as an 'Aryan beauty', which I can't hear without knowing that the speaker would take one look at my brother and turn up his nose.

And there's none of the criticism for the government here that there is in Austria – everything I've read in Austria (and in New York) about assassinations and people being dragged out of their homes has been forgotten here. Still, it's possible they're just putting on a united front for the Olympics.

Anyway, Olympics. We ended up in the enormous stadium with hundreds of thousands of people. I got to see the Hindenburg fly past, flying the Olympic flag behind it – Steve, seeing something that large in the sky that isn't a cloud is staggering. The rest of the ceremony was suitably spectacular, and the games were formally opened by none other than Mr Hitler himself. I really saw him, Steve, though from a distance. Before he appeared the crowd was crying out for him like they'd die if he didn't, and when he arrived the noise was so loud I had to cover my ears. They absolutely adore him, and hang on to his every word. My uncle joined everyone else in the crowd in giving the Nazi salute. He saw that I didn't and scolded me, but… I don't know how to feel, Steve.

The atmosphere at the ceremony was all celebration and excitement, but I couldn't join in. I enjoyed seeing the countries parade through with their flags, and seeing the Hindenburg, but I think I know too much. I know that initially all Jewish and black people were banned from participating, and Jil í told me that some of her Romani cousins in Berlin had been arrested in the leadup to the event. And yet no one else I've spoken to seems to see anything wrong in this. My uncle says it's a good thing, that Germany and Austria can show off their strong, Christian young men.

Thinking about home, about you, helps remind me of what my real feelings are. I so easily slip into pretending – pretending I fit in, pretending I'm my uncle's perfect niece, that the views expressed around me just… slide off me. I'm very used to being silent. But then I think about the things the German F ü hrer says, and I think that if you and I were to hear him say those things on the streets of Brooklyn, I'd have to hold you back from trying to punch him in the face.

I think I've not been really myself since I came here. I've never struggled with something like this before. There's just so many people around me and so little time to myself, I don't know who I am here. But even if I'm right, and this is wrong… what can I do about it? I'm a seventeen year old girl relying on the kindness of her uncle to make her way in the world. Who would listen to me?

Please tell me I'm not going crazy.

Yours,
Alice

PS: In the nations parade, every country lowered their flag as they passed the F ü hrer. Except for the United States. My cheering felt a little more genuine at that moment.

Excerpt from The History Place: 'The Triumph of Hitler: The Berlin Olympics'

…  Tourists entered a squeaky clean Berlin where all undesirable persons had been swept off the streets by police and sent to a special detention camp outside the city… The omnipresent 'Jews Not Welcome' signs normally seen throughout Germany were removed from hotels, restaurants and public places for the duration of the Olympics. Nazi storm troopers were also ordered to refrain from any actions against Jews…

Interestingly, visitors wanting to talk to Jews in Berlin about their daily experiences or investigate Jewish life in Nazi Germany were required to contact the Gestapo first, after which they would be closely watched until they departed.

August 7th, 1936
Brooklyn
Alice,

You are not going crazy.

The papers here aren't so in love with Germany as Germany is with itself, and I promise you we're hearing about how the Nazis stray farther from democracy every day, about the arrests of political enemies, Jewish people, and others with no one to speak for them.

I wouldn't trust anyone who tells you to cheer for them while they kick the defenseless.

(Let me tell you now that if Hitler was goosestepping around Brooklyn, there'd be no one who could stop me punching him in the face).

I gotta admit I was surprised to read that you rely on me to know what's right – all this time I've been relying on you. I think you see things clearer than me sometimes. I let my anger get in my way and I inevitably end up in a fight, but you see and think and figure out what to do. Trust yourself, Alice. Trust your instincts.

I'm glad to hear you enjoyed the ceremony aside from that. Looks like the US isn't doing too bad for itself in the games, from what the radio tells me, though annoyingly it looks like Germany might beat us in medal count. Oh well. At least we'll beat you pesky Austrians.

Thinking of you,
Steve.

September 27th, 1936
Vienna
Dear Steve,

I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to reply. I want to say that it's the Academy that's keeping me busy, which is partly true, but I think the past year has just… caught up with me. I feel tired. I'm alone in my sadness here – everyone who knows my parents is either gone or only mentions them in regards to my appearance. I've known that I've been sad these past few months, but in the same way that I know the moon goes around the earth – it doesn't occupy my every waking thought, and it feels very far away.

I don't feel in control of my sadness. I don't feel in control of much of anything. Whenever my uncle senses that I'm in a low mood his constant refrain is "come, sing, it will make you feel better". It does, in a way. He's started holding concerts. When I sing my feelings have a direction to go, some kind of release. But then my uncle says "come now, cheer up a little for this song. It's patriotic!" So I have to paste on a smile.

My instructors at the Academy have no complaints, though they're grueling and demanding. I'm learning better technical control. There it is again – control! My music is, I think, the one aspect of my life I still have control over. My efforts must be paying off, because I'm rising the ranks.

A piece of wisdom from my teacher Ms Muller, poorly translated: "You can't fake opera, darling. Feel first, and then sing."

Feeling has never been the problem for me, Steve. It's showing. I've gotten so used to bottling everything up so tight that I don't know how to let it out.

Sorry this has been such a strange, sad letter. Hope everyone's well.

Yours,
Alice

September 30th, 1936
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

I've said it before, but I wish I could be in Vienna. Or you in Brooklyn. Either one, so I could look at you myself to see how you're doing, so I could tell you a joke and make you smile. I don't have much time to write (ma's sick, she's down with a fever and a cough – my turn to play nurse) and I'm sorry my reply will be short, but I want you to know that you are not alone in your grief. You might be on the other side of the world, but there are people who love you and understand how you feel.

As for letting out your feelings, it seems to me that you let them out when you sing. You've always been good at keeping secrets, Alice. But you're always telling the truth when you're singing.

Don't worry about what your teacher tells you to feel. Just feel what you want, and put that to a song.

Love,
Steve

October 6th, 1936
Vienna
Dear Steve,

Listened to the Yankees win the World Series on the radio today. I used to be so bored by baseball – it's amazing it can make me feel so homesick now. (Shame about the Dodgers by the way – but we all knew they weren't going to make it anywhere near the finals).

Uncle got back to me, one of his connections in the music industry here has asked me to perform a few covers of operettas in his studio. I'm nervous about it.

Please update me on how your mom is doing when you can – what does the doctor say? I looked back through your letters and you said she was working in the TB ward. It couldn't be that, could it?

Love,
Alice

Chapter Text

The day after Alice turned thirteen school started up again, and Alice and Steve sat next to each other in every class they shared. In English class they both commiserated over the impossible slog of reading Ulysses, thanks to their sadistic English teacher. A month later they had the school field day. Steve was allowed to come but not to participate, out of fear he'd blow a lung or something. Bucky won the 100 yard dash and the high jump. Alice came in third in the dash and her team came first in the relay race. Steve cheered their victories, but Alice could see that it burned him to not be able to even try. That afternoon she treated the boys to a paper bag of candy from the money she'd earned helping out at the tailor shop over the summer.

In the middle of October, as cold started to bite at the evening air, Alice dug a broken radio out of the dumpster behind the radio store in the neighborhood. Steve and Bucky made faces at her as she emerged victorious out of the dumpster, but at least helped her carry it back to the tailor shop. She sat it on the workbench in the back room, dusted it off, and got to work.

With the help of a book from the library Alice pulled apart the dinged up radio. It was a Dewald, actually only a couple of years old, with a crack in the wooden paneling and a missing dial. It was about the size of a briefcase. Steve and Bucky checked in on her progress over the weeks. Bucky tuned out when the discussion got too technical, but Steve listened to Alice's clunky explanations with a silent seriousness – granted she still didn't know much about the electrical side of things, but she knew enough not to start a fire.

She'd really only brought the radio home to see what the insides of one looked like (because her mom and Matthias would never let her pull apart the home radio), but after a week and a half she realized the only reason the thing didn't work was because one of the wires was misaligned from its tube. She fixed it and put it all back together with bated breath, and just about fell off her chair when she was met with the wondrous sounds of radio static.

Her mom and Matthias let her keep her new-found radio in her room as long she kept to her bedtime and didn't play it too loud. But her new hobby didn't end there – she read a few more books at the library, and kept dragging Steve and Bucky back to the dumpsters behind the radio store. Mostly she only got garbage, but she began to gather a collection of wires, capacitors, and resistors. An older friend of hers who hawked second-hand goods gave her a pair of telegraph keys as a late birthday gift.

Another week passed, and Alice had figured out how to send Morse code messages through the radio waves. It was simple, really – she'd had to cannibalize her radio set a little to connect it to the telegraph key and did some reading on continuous waves and frequencies.

Now she had the capability to send messages and a spare telegraph key, but no one to send messages to.

She gave the key to Steve the next day along with a handwritten page of instructions for how to set it up. He'd been playing around with the radio at his house, inspired by Alice's tinkering, and luckily his mom didn't mind too much. She'd been taking a lot of night shifts at the hospital lately, so anything that kept Steve entertained was alright in her book.

That evening Alice lay in bed staring at her cracked, scuffed radio as it crackled soft static from an unused frequency. Her room had a tiny sliver of a window, from which shone orange streetlight that slanted across her tan bedsheets. The city outside wasn't quiet, it never was, but the soft static from the radio seemed to swallow up all other noises. Alice's eyes drifted shut.

Then a beep cut through the static. Alice jerked upright in bed, wide-eyed, then shook herself and focused on the incoming disruptions over the crackly radio frequency. She no longer needed to write down the dots and dashes.

..-/.-../-.-/.../..././...[ULYSSES].

A grin broke out across her face. The Joyce novel's title had become somewhat of an in joke between them, and she'd designated it as their code word for the lonely radio frequency. Still grinning, Alice scrambled for her telegraph key and tapped out an echoing reply.

She pictured Steve, alone in his house just a few blocks away, grinning to himself as he heard her dots and dashes over the radio in his living room. She wasn't sure why the mental picture made her feel so warm.

They tapped messages back and forth well into the night, until Alice fell asleep with the telegraph key in her hand.

Excerpt from 'The Golden Age of Radio' by H. F. Lister (2004), p. 8:

…  at the end of the 1930s more than 28 million American households owned a radio. This was the first form of mass unity, a precursor to the internet. It seeped into every part of life – music, theater, politics, religion, war, news: all of it moved to the radio. President Roosevelt held 'fireside chats' over the radio. Every household had their favorite programs; from news broadcasts to radio dramas and comedies.

It was the technology that revolutionized the era.

It was also the technology that would fuel the highs and lows of the war to come.

Their night-time code messages became a regular occurrence – time consuming and often plagued by poorly-maintained technology, but a routine they both enjoyed. They developed their own shorthand. Steve found a way to communicate his dry, startlingly clever sense of humor through Morse code that sometimes had Alice laughing in the staticky silence of her bedroom.

There was something about being able to speak to her friend through sound waves ricocheting through the air that made Alice feel as if they were performing magic.

Until one night, when at their usual radio time Alice was met with nothing but silence over the radio waves. She tapped out ULYSSES about ten times until she realized Steve wasn't going to answer. Maybe his radio's not working. Maybe he went to sleep. She shrugged, pulled her sheets up and went to sleep.

The next morning at school, Alice sat next to an empty desk through homeroom. Then in French. Then in History. When lunch came around, she made a beeline for where Bucky sat by himself at the end of one of the long tables.

"Where's Steve?" she said by way of greeting.

"He's home sick," Bucky replied. Then he caught the look of concern on Alice's face. "He's been sick before, Alice, what's the worry for?"

"He… missed the radio check in last night."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Right, the radio."

Alice's worry for Steve paused for a moment and she cocked her head. "Bucky, are you jealous?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm jealous?"

She spread her hands. "You're welcome to join in on the radio calls, you just need-"

"Believe it or not, Alice," he said, his eyebrows still raised, "I talk to you and Steve enough. I don't need to spend my evenings figuring out how to talk to you more using a complicated code over the radio."

Alice's shoulders dropped. "Oh. Well, it's fun."

"I'll take your word for it." Bucky's eyes glinted with amusement.

"So what's Steve sick with?"

"Dunno. It's getting round to 'flu season though – I keep telling him to ease up on himself but it's like trying to ask a bull to not chase a red flag."

Alice's mouth curved up at the comparison, but she couldn't help the worry flickering in her chest. "You're probably right," she murmured. She sank down across from him and the two of them chatted about the movie they'd all seen on the weekend. Towards the end of lunch Edith and Finn joined them. Alice was surrounded by friends, but she couldn't put aside the off sensation of not having a short, heavy-browed blonde boy by her side.

Steve wasn't at school the next day either. He'd also missed last night's radio check in again. At lunch Bucky still didn't know anything, and he shared her frown.

The day after that, Bucky informed Alice that Steve's mom had called his folks and told them that Steve was out with a fever, and had asked Bucky to pick up Steve's homework for him. Alice went back to her classes feeling… a little lost. After talking to Steve every day suddenly he'd been completely cut out of her life. And with Steve's already poor health the idea of him with a fever made her very nervous.

For a whole week Alice sat beside empty desks and transmitted ULYSSES into the silence at night.

After another week of no Steve, she reached her limit. After the last bell at school she knocked on the office doors of each of Steve's teachers and offered to take his homework home for him. They told her that Bucky had already collected it all. So Alice thought for a few minutes, then sneaked a page of homework for another grade off one teacher's stack and folded it between two of the books in her leather strap. She had an excuse now.

Bucky had plans to go see Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde with Nancy Bell from his class, so Alice found herself walking alone through the streets towards Steve's house. She knew where to go because they'd walked home together a few times.

Alice stared up at the brick tenement with its rattly metal staircase for a few moments before she took a deep breath and walked up to the second floor. A family with three toddlers thundered down the stairs as she ascended.

At the wooden door she straightened her uniform, tucked her hair behind her ears, then reached out and knocked.

For a few moments she thought that no one would answer. But then there were quiet steps from behind the door, the handle jiggled, and it swung open.

A lady with shoulder-length blonde hair and curious blue eyes wearing a paisley house dress stood in the doorway. At first her gaze was directed up, where an adult's head would be, but then she looked down and met the eyes of the schoolgirl standing on her stoop.

"Hello Mrs Rogers," Alice said politely. "My name's Alice Moser, I go to school with Steve. He hasn't been in a couple of weeks, and Mr Backley said that he forgot to give this piece of homework to Bucky Barnes to bring for Steve?" She pried out the sheet of paper and looked up hopefully into Mrs Rogers' face.

The older woman smiled. "Of course, you're the Alice Moser who sings so beautifully at church. Come in, Alice."

Alice followed Steve's mom into the apartment and shut the door behind her.

The Rogers's apartment was small, but comfortable. Just from a glance around the living room, with its threadbare couch and the stack of food coupons on the counter, Alice could see that they were struggling a little with money. Who isn't, she thought dryly as Mrs Rogers invited her to take a seat. But despite the signs of struggle, Alice could tell there was a lot of love in this place. Steve's drawings were displayed prominently, there were daisies that looked like they'd been picked from beside the sidewalk in a jug on the coffee table, and the air felt warm. It was clear they couldn't afford much in the way of decorations, but on the far wall hung a ornately-framed photograph of a strong-jawed man in military fatigues. Steve's dad. Alice fought the instinct to get up and ogle the photo.

The house radio sat on a bench in the corner, with a couple wires snaking out the back of it and connecting to a dusty telegraph key. A lump rose in Alice's throat.

Mrs Rogers set Alice up with a steaming cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. Alice had never been invited into a home like this before and treated like a guest. She liked it. Mrs Rogers asked her a few polite questions about school before Alice asked after Steve.

Mrs Rogers had an open, kind face, but her mouth tightened for a half second before she gave Alice a reassuring smile. "He's just resting now. He's a trooper, that boy – got no quit in him. He'll be alright. He's come through the worst of it already."

"The worst of it?" Alice frowned. "The worst of what?"

"Rheumatic fever."

Alice's stomach bottomed out. The horror she felt must have shown on her face because Mrs Rogers leaned over and set a steady hand on her shoulder.

"Oh, Alice-" Mrs Rogers shook her head. "I promise you, I know these illnesses and I know Steve, and if there were cause to be afraid I would be afraid." She met Alice's eyes firmly. "Steve will be alright."

Alice let out a pent up, shaky breath. "Are you sure?" She'd heard of people dying from rheumatic fever before. Or never being the same again. She looked down the hallway to where Steve's room must be. She pictured him lying still and silent in his bed with his eyes closed.

"I'm sure," Mrs Rogers said firmly. "He'll have to be more careful about his heart in the future, but he's safe now."

"So what… what happened to him?" Alice kicked herself for not coming sooner, for not doing something. Steve had been here, suffering, while she'd gone about her usual life as if he didn't matter.

She listened carefully as Steve's mom explained the details of rheumatic fever to her, and asked questions about how it could have happened and how he would get better. After her fifth question, Mrs Rogers smiled again.

"You're remarkably bright, Alice. Have you ever thought about becoming a nurse?"

Alice thought about it. "Maybe. I think I'd like to help people."

"I can see why you and Steve get along then. Sometimes he wants to help people a little too much," she sighed fondly.

"Oh I know," Alice said a little too quickly, then took a sip of her tea to cover it up.

A clock on the mantelpiece chimed and she looked up. "Oops, I've got to head home now. I have to help put my baby brother to bed. Thank you for the tea, Mrs Rogers!"

"You're very welcome." Steve's mom followed her to the door. "I know young Bucky is Steve's shadow, but it's good to see Steve has other friends who want to make sure he's okay."

Alice smiled thinly. She had been… slow to share her life with Steve and Bucky, which meant they had been slow to share in return. No wonder Steve's mom didn't know a lot about her.

She shook away the thoughts and readjusted her book strap on her way out. At the doorstep she paused and turned around. "Is there anything… that Steve needs? I can get things."

Mrs Rogers smiled. "All he needs now is medicine, hot tea, and sleep, and we have plenty of that to go around. Thank you, Alice. I'll see you at church."

"Of course. Bye!"

At church that Sunday, after the choir recital and the service was over, Alice found Mrs Rogers amongst the congregation. She'd been disappointed to see that Steve wasn't with her – he must still be resting.

After a polite greeting, Alice handed Mrs Rogers a small package of tea. The other woman looked from the package to Alice with raised eyebrows.

"It's a lemon herb tea," Alice explained seriously. "One of my relatives recommended it for fevers. They said it 'soothes and regulates temperature'. I thought it might help Steve get better."

Mrs Rogers looked again from Alice to the tea. "Oh my…" she said in a softer voice. "Wherever did you get it?"

"Harlem." Matthias's sister had recommended the tea for Tom when he had a fever last year, so yesterday Alice had caught a train into Harlem to ask for another package. But Alice knew very well what most folks round these parts thought of Harlem.

Alice tipped up her chin and eyed Mrs Rogers in silence, waiting to see if she'd get the usual widened eyes, half a step back, followed by an upturned nose and a no, thank you very much.

But Mrs Rogers' eyes just softened at Alice's defiant stance and her other hand came to rest over the tea package. "Thank you for being so thoughtful," she murmured. "I'm sure Steve will appreciate it."

"Oh you don't have to say it's from me," Alice said quickly.

"Nonsense, he should know who his friends are."

"Hm. Alright."

That night at eight o'clock, Alice's radio came to life.

ULYSSES.

Her heart leapt and her fingers fumbled over the telegraph key until she was able to respond in kind. She held her breath waiting for the next reply.

-.. .. -.. / -.- - ..- / ...- .. ... .. - / - -.- / ... - ..- ... . ..-.. [DID YOU VISIT MY HOUSE?].

Alice tapped back a reply as quickly as her fingers were capable. -.- . ... .-.-.- / .- .-. . / -.- - ..- / - -.- .- -.- ..-.. [YES. ARE YOU OKAY?].

- .. .-. . -.. .-.-.- / - ... .- -. -.- ... / ..-. - .-. / - . .- [TIRED. THANKS FOR TEA.].

Alice let out a deep, relieved sigh. The force of it took her by surprise, as did the sensation of a weight falling off her shoulders. She thought about it as she composed her reply to Steve. She didn't realize how anxious she'd felt with literal radio silence from Steve and rumors about his health flying around school. Hearing his words, if not his voice, meant more to her than she'd realized.

She finished her message relaying her relief that he was okay, then added a few final dots and dashes:

- .. ... ... . -.. / -.- - ..- [MISSED YOU].

Excerpt from 'Captain America: Origins' by P Barker (2000), p. 36.

Few records remain of Steve Rogers's mother Sarah. We know that she married her husband Joseph in 1914 on the cusp of World War II, and gave birth to their only son a few months after Joseph died of a mustard gas attack.

Sarah supported the small family by herself on her nurse's income, raising her son with the upright sense of justice that would see him through his adult years. She died of tuberculosis, contracted at the ward she worked in, in 1936.

Beyond these facts, Sarah's legacy is defined only by what her son would become and accomplish.

Steve walked into the school yard one morning a week later, wearing three jackets and a scarf so thick he could barely move his neck. His mom had wanted him to wait another week to go back to school, but Steve had finally managed to bring her around. If he had to stare up at his bedroom ceiling for another day he was liable to start screaming.

He made it about ten steps onto the school yard before he saw a blur of blonde hair out of the corner of his eye and was suddenly bundled into a tight hug by none other than Alice Moser.

"Steve!"

He blinked, teetering a little from the suddenness of her hug, and registered the feeling of her arms wrapped surprisingly tightly around him and her warmth seeping through his layers. He only just thought to hug her back before she pulled away again.

He saw her face for a moment – pink-cheeked and grinning – before Bucky appeared beside him and drew him into an even tighter hug.

"It's good to see ya, pal."

Bucky's hug was familiar – Bucky had always been physically affectionate, always throwing an arm over his shoulder or slapping him on the back. So that didn't explain why Steve felt rooted to the spot, not capable of much beyond blinking and standing stiffly with his arms by his sides.

He thought about it and realized that beyond fleeting brushes, he and Alice had never really touched before. They'd never hugged. As Bucky pulled away Steve realized he could smell Alice, as if she'd left traces of herself behind when she hugged him: she smelled like warm wool, the lingering smoke from a faulty heater, and soap. Her hair had brushed the side of his cheek when she pulled away and her tight grip around him had warmed him up from the inside.

Cool it, pal, he told himself. He'd started noticing girls in the last year (not that they ever noticed him back), but he refused to do that with Alice. He was still figuring things out, but he knew that noticing her like that would… change things. Before he got sick he was there when Beth McKintosh slapped Bucky in the lunch hall. He remembered how after the startlingly loud crack Beth had turned away and burst into tears.

He never wanted that to happen with him and Alice.

So he shook away the things he'd noticed. It helped that Alice wasn't even looking at him any more; her green eyes darted around the yard, always watching. Watching everyone, but not him. Weirdly, that thought made him smile. He knew Alice well enough by now to know that she only watched the people she didn't know, didn't trust, so she could see them coming. She didn't need to keep an eye on Steve.

Bucky was talking, and Steve really tried to listen, but he knew he was still watching Alice. She'd cut her hair over the summer, leaving her almost translucent blonde hair brushing her shoulders, and her white and grey school uniform was just as clean and tidy as usual – as if she never wanted to stand out by having a turned collar or a wrinkle in her shirt. It was a far cry from Steve, who always appeared rumpled no matter how hard he tried not to.

He still remembered how he'd initially distrusted her last year – her friendly, open façade with that wall of secrets behind it. But back then he'd thought she was hiding something bad; malice, maybe. Now he knew that she was just afraid to expose herself. She saw her accent and her background and her family as things she could be kicked down for, so she hid them. She hid herself away. Steve could understand that, but he also saw that the only thing she hid was her simple, generous kindness.

His ma always said to keep the kind people close to you.

That wasn't the only reason he wanted to keep Alice close (she smells nice and she's warm and has very pretty green eyes and – no). He liked her dry, subtle sense of humor and how she got so passionate about the things she was interested in. He liked competing with her to be the best in their classes, while neither of them acknowledged the competition. He liked how she saw a problem, like the radio, and sat down and worked until she'd figured it out.

He liked how she took codes that were once used to disguise war secrets and used them to speak to him in the dead of night about nothing more serious than what she'd had for dinner.

Alice finally sensed Steve's eyes on her and looked back at him. Her head cocked. "Steve? Are you okay?" Her hand drifted towards him and he watched it come closer until her fingers pressed against his too-warm neck. Bucky had stopped talking. "Do you need to go home again?"

Steve shook his head and swallowed. His ears popped, but the movement helped clear his head. "I'm fine," he said rustily. He looked between his two friends, who looked back at him with identical looks of concern. A smile lifted his lips. "It's good to be back."

A month later the three of them traveled into Manhattan once more. They had no real purpose in mind, but they had a few cents for the train and a hankering to see clean, bright lights. They peered into the shopfront windows with their dazzling Christmas displays, told each other what they'd buy if they were millionaires, and finally came to stand in front of a twenty-foot fir tree that had, bizarrely, been erected outside Rockefeller Center. It had been decorated with a veritable hailstorm of paper streams, cranberries, and even had a few tin cans tied to the branches.

Bucky and Steve's families had never had enough money to get a tree for Christmas, not even before the Depression, and Alice had only vague memories of the sharp tang of pine leaves, and decorating spiky branches. So this strange tree in the center of Manhattan's glass and concrete forest felt like a strange gift. As if whoever had put it there knew that Alice, Steve, and Bucky needed it. As if the rest of the city, cold and hungry and half of them sleeping without a roof over their heads, needed the tree.

For a few long moments the three of them stood in front of the fir tree, as if it had frozen them in place in their exploration of the city.

When they turned to go, Alice quietly pulled her ribbon out of her hair and tied it to the lowest branch.

Rockefeller Center Press Release, December 2011

Today we celebrate the eightieth (unofficial) anniversary of the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree tradition. On this day in 1931, in the depths of the Depression, workers at the Rockefeller Center construction site pooled their money to erect a 20 foot Christmas tree. In a tradition that has since attracted millions of visitors, we continue this history by…

1932

The next year, Alice turned her attention to her study of languages. She knew German and English already, of course, but with her friend Edith's help she brushed up her French (she tried to help Steve and Bucky with their French as well, to limited success). Yet she wanted to try out other languages. Their school didn't offer much, so Alice turned to her neighborhood. Brooklyn was a veritable Tower of Babel – one could walk down the street and hear conversations in six different languages.

A Spanish family lived down the street from Alice, and she began exchanging niceties whenever she came across them. There were five children of Italian immigrants in her homeroom class alone, who she'd already befriended, and after hearing high, unfamiliar music floating through their apartment building Alice traced it to a Japanese couple who'd just moved in, and started learning the songs. Alice sometimes helped the local baker (a Jewish man from Poland) with his crosswords, and started picking up a few words of his home language here and there.

Steve and Bucky seemed amused by her pursuits when they weren't busy with their own; Bucky had discovered that his lopsided smile and easy charm were good for more than getting out of trouble, and seemed to be taking out a new girl every other weekend. Steve stuck to his hobbies of drawing everything he saw that he liked, and punching everything that he didn't. Alice had her reservations about both of the boys' pastimes, and often found herself running interference to either prevent Bucky from making a complete ass of himself or prevent Steve from getting too badly beaten up. It felt like a full time job sometimes.

Alice still sang in the church choir and with Matthias at home, but she found herself singing alone more often – sometimes she sat up on the roof of their apartment building and watched a hazy sunset as she sang to herself; songs she knew, songs she wasn't sure she'd ever heard before. She played with words and with her voice, exploring the highs and lows contained within herself. Sometimes she felt as if there were someone standing right behind her – a prickle of awareness – but when she looked over her shoulder she saw nothing but empty air. She never told anyone about that, or the singing.

Matthias's band was doing well, and sometimes Alice went to go see them perform. She left every performance grinning from ear to ear, prickling all over from the swinging, dizzying music and the sheer life in the audience. As for Matthias and her mom, the neighborhood had mostly gotten used to their presence aside from the occasional dirty look and the general sense that they were being talked about behind their backs. In March, their upstairs neighbor who occasionally cast nasty barbs at Alice's mom found that all her loads of laundry had been turned orange. She came meekly to Matthias for help, and he sorted her out in no time.

It took Alice a few days to get the traces of orange dye off her fingers.

"Alice, can you grab that – yes, the can of peas. Danke, Liebling."

Alice put the can in her basket at the same time as she cast her eyes cautiously about the store – her mom had been told off by a stranger for speaking German once when Alice was eight, and she'd never forgotten it. But no one had noticed the endearment.

It was busy at the store today, the small amount of floor space between the shelves of cans and bags occupied by what seemed like every woman in the neighborhood. Heels clicked on the concrete floor and skirts rustled as women squeezed past each other. The radio in the back corner crooned out a slow, wordless melody that made Alice want to put words to it.

Alice's mom wore her usual ankle-length, clean cut dress; elegant without standing out. She had Tom on one hip – he was a little too old for that now at four years old, but he'd almost had a meltdown when they walked in the store. Alice carried their basket.

Alice's mom grabbed a small packet of flour and put it in the basket, and then finally they walked to the clerk's counter. A woman at the counter was arguing over the price of potatoes so there was a short line behind her. Alice set down her basket and let out a heavy sigh.

In front of them, a tall woman with a finely-made coat and pearl earrings glanced over her shoulder at the sound of Alice's basket and then flicked her eyes over the small family. Alice barely noticed her attention at first, but then sensed the woman looking from Tom, to her mom, and then back to Tom.

Alice's mom glanced up from where she'd bouncing Tom on her hip and met the woman's eyes. She smiled politely and looked away. Tom wiggled his legs until she put him down, then dashed to Alice's side and tapped her knees. Alice poked his nose.

"Where'd you pick him up?"

Alice didn't look up at the woman when she spoke, but every fiber of her being suddenly attuned to her – the tone of the woman's voice, her stance as she looked at Alice's mom, the heavy silence that followed. The woman's eyes glinted as she looked from Tom and back to Alice's mom. Alice glanced out of the corner of her eye and saw that her mom's face had gone very still.

Her mom smiled thinly. "He's mine."

"Oh." The woman's eyebrows rose and she looked from the slight, blonde woman behind her to the dark-skinned child at her feet. Then she looked from Tom to Alice. Alice had stopped playing with Tom, and he started to huff in complaint.

The woman's lip curled. "Well, the apple does fall far from the tree, doesn't it?" She laughed then, quiet and self-pleased. Her arm crossed over her body as if warding them away.

Alice had not moved since the woman first spoke, but her careful inattention had become an outright glare. She couldn't help it: her stomach roiled furiously as if she were about to be sick, her skin prickled, and her ears were flaming red. She faintly heard Tom calling her name.

The tall lady with the pearl earrings and the sharp eyes looked from Tom to Alice, and another flicker of amusement played across her lips. Alice's fingers curled.

"Marie!"

Alice flinched and looked over her shoulder at the sound of her mom's name, and instantly her curled hands fell loose.

Out from behind a shelving display of pickle jars walked a smiling blonde woman in a white nurse uniform, closely followed by a slim, serious-eyed boy with an all-too familiar look of indignation on his face.

"Sarah," breathed Alice's mom, sounding surprised and relieved all at once. She shifted a little to make room for Sarah and Steve Rogers in line behind them, and returned Sarah's greeting smile. "Wonderful to see you, how are you?"

"Oh, busy as ever!" Mrs Rogers adjusted her peaked cap and then set her basket on the ground. Her tone was light, but Alice had known Mrs Rogers for a while now and noticed the tight lines around her eyes – she had clearly heard what the other woman had said. "It's good to see you too. And you, Alice." Alice managed to wipe her glare away with great effort to offer Mrs Rogers a genuine smile, then watched as she crouched down until she was level with Tom. "It's excellent to see you too, young man. Are you treating your mother well?"

Tom touched her outstretched hand almost curiously, then exclaimed: "We're buying dinner!" as if it was a glorious adventure. Alice almost wanted to roll her eyes – so far the store had just made him cry. Half a step behind his mom, Steve met Alice's eyes. He looked like he had that time he'd found her standing in a puddle with a soaking book: torn between concern and indignation. Alice shook her head minutely.

Sarah Rogers got back to her feet with a smile, then set her hand gently on Alice's mom's arm and looked up at the woman standing in front of them in line. "And who is this lovely woman?"

Four pairs of eyes turned to the woman, who had been watching the exchange with widening eyes. Tom pulled the can of peas out of Alice's basket and started rolling it on the floor.

The woman ahead of them glanced at the now small group, folded her arms across her body, then made an embarrassed sort of grumble and turned around. Alice let out a long, slow breath.

"How is Matthias?" Mrs Rogers asked Alice's mom, nudging her basket forward when the line moved up. The tight lines around her eyes faded as she offered a warm smile.

"Oh, you know, trying to do everything at once as per usual. The band's been booked three weekends this month, and…"

The two moms began chatting, leaving Alice and Steve standing a few paces apart. Alice's fingers were shaking.

Steve took shuffling steps around his mom until he was by Alice's side, and ducked his head so he could see her face. "Hi," he murmured softly.

"Hi." Alice couldn't look at him so she looked down at Tom instead. He sat on the ground by their mom's feet, still rolling the can of peas and perfectly oblivious to the complicated things happening around him. Alice felt a bit jealous.

Steve shuffled a step closer, casting a glance at the turned back of the woman in front. Then he followed Alice's gaze to Tom. "That's your brother, right?" He wanted to ask if Alice was okay, but he knew that asking would only make her clam up. He knew that Alice couldn't bear showing when things hurt her, not even to Steve most of the time – you had to come at the problem sideways.

Alice nodded. "Yeah. You'd have seen him at church." She kept her green eyes averted.

"Right, of course. What's it like having a little brother?" The line moved up and they shuffled forward.

"Noisy," Alice replied. "And annoying."

Steve laughed, and the sound made Alice's shoulders relax a little. "Maybe I should be glad I don't have any siblings then."

"I don't know, Bucky seems close enough to being your brother these days."

Steve smiled, then looked into Alice's face. She was still very tense, very focused on the people around them, but her lips were no longer white from being pressed together and he couldn't sense any more anger swirling around her. "I guess so," he agreed. He nudged her toe with his and she met his eye. Her expression was guarded, as if she knew what he was going to ask. Are you okay?

So he didn't ask. Because she'd say she was fine, even though she wasn't, but he knew she would be. So he swallowed and said: "Menschen… Menschen sind dumm," [People are stupid], in clanky German.

Alice let out a burst of surprised laughter. Steve grinned at the sight of her head tossed back and her eyes squeezed shut. When she looked back at him, it was with a fond smile.

"They sure are," she agreed, with a darting glance at the woman in front of them who had reached the counter and was paying for her things. Steve could see her calculating payback in the back of her mind, but then she glanced back at him and it fell away. "They sure are," she echoed, a little resigned but mostly indifferent. She nudged his toe with hers. "Not all of them, though."

Chapter Text

Phyllis Grissim-Theroux:  To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere, without moving anything but your heart.

October 17^th, 1936
Vienna
Dear Steve,

Bucky wrote to me.

I don’t know what to say. But I’m not there, I can only write to you, so I’ll try my best. I am so, so, incredibly sorry. I can’t imagine

I know how

Your mom was one of the best people I knew. She was kind, and generous, and she loved you so much. She must’ve had things just as hard as the rest of us these past years but I never heard her complain even once. She always had a kind word for me, and she taught me that one of the greatest things a person can do is to help the people around them. She taught you never to give up and never to compromise on what’s right, and that’s why I  that’s one of the most wonderful things about you.

I’m so sorry, Steve. I know you must have been with her until the end, and I can’t imagine how difficult that would have been. Bucky says you’re going to stay at the house by yourself, which I can’t say I’m surprised by, but if I can ask you a favor: please don’t hesitate to lean on the people around you for support. Let Bucky take care of you a little. It’ll make him feel better.

I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to come to the funeral. I would have if my uncle

I know that nothing anyone says or does can make you feel better. It might get worse with time, rather than better, and any words of comfort are always clichéd.

So I’ll repeat another cliché now: I’m here for you, Steve.

Always yours,
Alice

October 22nd, 1936
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

Thank you. I'm doing okay, really. You know I'd never lie to you.

I miss her. It's so strange to be sitting by myself at the kitchen table, feeling like I'm waiting for something, only to remember that she's not on her way home from work. That she's not going to come through the door again.

Some days I'm fine, lots are rough. But I promise I'll be okay.

The house is quiet, but Bucky keeps me outside and doing things, and when he's not around I've got the radio.

As I was reading your letter just now, I remembered something that I'd forgotten for almost five years. You remember when I had rheumatic fever and missed a few weeks of school? Ma walked into my room one of those days, looking all thoughtful.

"That Alice Moser," she said, "she's a wonderful girl, Steve. You'd do good to keep her close."

I haven't let go of your letter since it arrived. My mom was a smart woman, and I'm not about to start ignoring what she told me now.

Yours,
Steve.

November 3 rd , 1936
Vienna
Dear Tom,

Happy birthday, little brother! I can hardly believe that you're eight years old, I still remember holding you tucked into one arm, smiling down at your little dark eyes. Of course, then you threw up on me.

I hope your party with your school friends went well. Molly tells me you were hoping to get a new set of marbles – did you get them? What colors are they?

Your present from me should arrive with this letter. It's a record your dad really loved, and I hope you'll enjoy it as well. He always said that he'd never heard an improvised trumpet solo like this one.

Write back soon, and please try to be more careful with your writing! I could barely read the last letter.

Lots of love,
Alice

February 21 st , 1937
Vienna
Dear Steve,

I feel as if I blinked and have suddenly become a different person. Today I performed an operetta at Brahms Hall in front of a full audience of people who paid to see me. These people saw the name Alice Moser and actually spent money on a ticket to listen to me sing. Insane.

I wore a shockingly heavy snow-white gown, more ornate than anything I used to peer at through the shop windows in Manhattan, with a tiara of all things on my head. I don't know what I've become.

And I really think people liked it. I know you'll laugh at me for sounding unsure, because you're biased and think I'm the best singer in the world, but as I was singing I felt like the whole world around me was silent and every eye was on me (a terrifying sensation, but gratifying for a performer). My uncle's read a few of the preliminary reviews, and he says they're all ecstatic.

I don't even know how this happened. One minute I was singing at parties with my uncle's friends, then I was performing operetta covers in a studio, then I was singing songs that had been newly written for me to sing, and now this. I suppose it must be my uncle's connections in the music industry, and my improvement thanks to the Academy.

This is everything I ever wanted, but I feel strangely like the bird in the story, who is put in a cage and told to sing. I am plied with jewelry, dresses, cosmetics, perfumes, and am taken to all the social functions and gallery openings I should choose to attend (and many that I choose not to).

When I object to anything – the overly adorned dresses or the invitation to yet another party, my uncle says "we care for one another, don't we?" I suppose my success as a singer is my version of caring for him. And he does take very good care of me. I'm sorry Steve, I must sound like I'm always finding something to complain about!

I find I'm keeping more and more secrets from my uncle. The letters to you, my few real friends in Vienna (Jil í says hello – when she's not off with her man), my secret collection of jazz records. A friend of mine from the swing club recommended a singer named Billie Holliday, and if you haven't already you should listen to her right away!

These forbidden voices remind me of home. Of Tom, and Matthias, and my mother. Of your mother. Of you and Bucky. I dance to them sometimes, by myself in my gilded room.

Yours,
Alice

[Translated] Excerpt from The Vienna Chronicle, February 28th 1939 (p. 3)

…  also new to the music scene in Vienna this month is Alice Moser, who has been thrilling music hall audiences with what has been described as an 'otherworldly', 'enrapturing', 'sublime' voice. This paper looks forward to hearing more from the young songbird.

April 4 th , 1937
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

Congratulations on yet another sold-out show. I'm just jealous I can't be there to hear you – though from the sounds of things I might be able to buy one of your records in Brooklyn in no time. I'm real proud of you, Alice. I knew the minute I first heard you sing that you'd be famous for it one day, and it's good to see that day now it's here.

How are you doing though, really? I know how you sound when you're happy, and I can tell the difference between real happy and pretend when it comes to you. I'm not so sure I've heard a lot of the real from you lately. Have another night out on the town with Jil í, that always seems to cheer you up. Or is she still running after that dark haired fella?

I lost the job with Mr Wells. Caught a fever, had to take a few days, and that was it for him. Don't worry about me though, and if you send me money I'll send it back. I've still got a few commissions from the paper, dad's army pension, and something else will crop up soon. We're on our way out of the Depression.

I've enclosed a drawing of how I imagine your performances to look like – golden chandelier and all. Let me know if it's close.

Yours,
Steve

Chapter Text

"But before the straits of Scylla and Charybdis, where do Odysseus and his men pass through? Mr Neri?"

"The, uh, the island of the s-sirens," Finn lisped, after his head jerked up from where he'd been falling asleep on his open book.

"Thank you," replied Mrs Rosewood, their sophomore English teacher. She'd already dragged them through Shakespeare and Ulysses, and had chosen the Odyssey as her next method of torture. "Can anyone tell me what sirens are? Mr Rogers?"

Steve had been paying more attention, but he still had to glance back at the yellowing pages of his book for a moment before replying: "Um… half birds, half…" he cleared his throat, and at the desk beside him Alice hid her smile. The translated text read virgins. "… Women," he eventually said.

"And what do they do?"

Mrs Rosewood's eyes were still on Steve so he answered her again. "They, uh, sing to trick sailors into smashing their ships on the rocks, or drowning themselves. You've gotta put beeswax in your ears or get tied to the mast to be able to get past."

"Precisely!" Mrs Rosewood said with a rare smile. She turned to address the class. "The sirens are the lovely, dangerous seductresses of the legend, a representation of the temptations that can be the undoing of men. They represent evil."

Alice put up her hand, and Mrs Rosewood nodded her permission to speak. "Why are they evil?"

Mrs Rosewood shot her a quizzical look. "What do you mean?"

"Why are the sirens evil? Why are they different from the storms, and the cyclops, and the gods who slow down the journey?"

Mrs Rosewood smiled. "I see your confusion. In literature, you must ask yourself what each character or struggle represents. The storms represent the fickle winds of fate that blow through legends like the Odyssey, the cyclops and his blindness represent the balance between truth and deception, and each of the gods come with a symbolism of their own. But the Sirens here are representative of those kinds of women who seek to bring righteous men to downfall – a warning to both men and women alike. Men are taught to be deaf to their seductive songs, and women must learn not to become like them. Do you see?"

Alice frowned, but it wouldn't be the first time she hadn't understood something in English class. "I guess so."

Behind her, a boy named Jack Callaghan whispered to his friend: "I dunno how seductive they can be, being half bird."

Mrs Rosewood didn't hear the whispered comment or the smothered laughter that followed it. "Great. Let's read the passage at the bottom of page 184, where the Sirens sing-" Alice flipped her page to the passage, and listened as Ms Rosewood read aloud:

"Come this way, honored Odysseus, great glory of the Achaians, and stay your ship, so that you can listen here to our singing; for no one else has ever sailed past this place in his black ship until he has listened to the honey-sweet voice that issues from our lips; then goes on, well-pleased, knowing more than ever he did; for we know everything that the Argives and Trojans did and suffered in wide Troy through the gods' despite. Over all the generous earth we know everything that happens."

They moved on soon after that, but Alice kept her book open to the same page for the rest of the class. Something about it intrigued her – she wondered what a siren song sounded like. Would a woman be able to resist it? Did the sailors fall in love with the singer, or the song? And why did Mrs Rosewood keep talking about evil physical seductions when, as far as Alice could tell, the only thing that the Sirens promised was knowledge?

After school, Steve tracked Alice down around the side of the school building, leaning against the brick wall and softly singing to herself. He approached quietly, so that she wouldn't notice him and stop singing.

She looked down at her entwined hands as she sang, her voice rolling out in a wordless, lilting melody. It sounded almost like some of the choir songs at church, save for a more haunting quality. Her voice rolled high and strange before sinking to an eerie depth. After the bustle and chatter of the school halls, the soft song undulating out here felt like being brought into another world.

After a few more moments Steve smiled to himself. "Trying to come up with a siren song?"

Alice's mouth snapped shut and she looked up at him, wide eyed. A moment later a grin lifted her lips. "Is it working? Are you going to throw yourself on the rocks to hear me better?" She gestured to the gravel between them.

Steve rolled his eyes at her. "I dunno if you're there yet."

Her grin only widened as he crunched across the gravel and leaned against the wall beside her. "Hey, you know what the Roman name for Odysseus is? I looked it up after class."

Steve shrugged. Despite what he'd said, he could still hear an echo of her song resounding in his ears – he always liked hearing her sing, and he liked the openness it brought to her face.

Alice grinned. "Ulysses."

He met her eyes. "You're joking."

"I'm not! In the Roman version of the legend, his name is Ulysses. We definitely have to keep it as our code word now."

Steve laughed and rubbed his jaw. "You know what, weird coincidence, I've also been reading Ulysses S Grant's memoirs this week."

Alice quirked a brow. "Why?"

"He used some interesting battle tactics in the civil war, and I wanted to read about them."

Alice smiled fondly at him. "Of course you did." There was a long pause as they both dug their toes into the gravel and squinted in the sunlight. "You know," she eventually said, "if they let girls into the army, I'd join with you." She'd known about Steve's longing to be a soldier like his father almost as known as she'd known him.

Steve didn't laugh at her, which made Alice so relieved she felt dizzy. He just looked at her seriously, weighting her words and the look in her eyes. "You'd be a good soldier," he said eventually. He looked away. "Probably better than me."

"Of the two of us, who has read Ulysses S Grant's battle tactics?" That made him smile and he met her eye. "You want this, and you want it because you want to help people. Don't give up on that."

He shrugged and half-smiled. "I dunno, it's not like we're going to have a war any time soon. Need to look at other jobs."

"You could try something to do with art?"

"I only draw as a hobby, Alice-"

"You could do it for money, too," she interrupted. He looked disbelieving, so she nodded across the road at an advertisement for baked beans on the side of a building. It had been well-drawn and well-colored, making the model's cheeks glow and the can look bright and appealing. Steve followed her gaze and laughed under his breath.

"Selling beans?"

"It's a start. Hell," Alice finished, spreading her hands wide. "You could end up drawing for Buck Rogers one day!"

"And you could end up with your own Alice Moser Hour on the radio, and perform for the president."

"Or sitting on a rock tempting sailors to drown themselves," she added thoughtfully. "It's difficult to choose."

That finally made Steve burst out laughing, and that was how Bucky found them a few moments later: doubled over against the side of the wall as their laughter echoed across the teacher's parking lot.

At the end of March the baseball major leagues started up again, and suddenly Steve and Bucky could talk of little else. They spoke about Dodgers players as if they knew them personally, and Bucky once again brought out the prized ball he'd caught at one of the games two years ago.

Last year Alice had tuned out their obsession with the game, but they'd grown closer since and it was all she could do not to tear her hair out now. She was used to Matthias listening to games on the radio, but he preferred to share his enthusiasm with his friends rather than his family (two of whom had no interest in the sport, and the other who was too young to do much more than roll a baseball across the floor of their apartment).

Finally, at one lunch where Alice sat between Steve and Bucky as they talked non stop about games and managers and statistics, she let out a sigh and asked what an innings was.

They both stopped dead and stared at her. "You don't know what an innings is?" Bucky asked, incredulous.

Alice shrugged. "I don't know any of the rules."

Steve's eyes widened. "Alice, have you ever seen a game of baseball?"

Sighing internally, Alice shook her head. Then Steve and Bucky exchanged a look, and her fate was sealed.

Excerpt from 'Baseball's Golden Age' by Murray Goldwyn (1982), p. 124:

The name 'Dodgers' came from the longer nickname 'the Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers' in 1895.

The 1930s were not a good decade for the Brooklyn Dodgers. Despite vast local support and the affectionate nickname of 'Dem Bums' from noted cartoonist Willard Mullin, they did not achieve much real success. In 1934, the manager of rival team the Manhattan Giants joked "is Brooklyn still in the league?"

After almost a month of the two boys making it their mission to teach Alice the ins and outs of baseball, the three of them scrounged enough money to buy tickets for a weekend game against the Yankees.

Alice had walked past Ebbets Field before, with its vaulting walls and its crowd of perpetually chatting old men out front, but she'd never been able to show her ticket and push through the turnstiles into the raucous, excited atmosphere within. She let Steve and Bucky's enthusiastic chatter wash over her as she cast her eyes over the rows and rows of brightly-colored fans in the stadium, over the broad green pitch and took in the smells of hot dogs and freshly cut grass. Bright music washed over the crowd, making the noise of a hundred conversations double in volume.

"I can see why people like this," she said to Bucky and Steve as they took their seats. The hotdog vendor walked past them and Alice's stomach growled, but she'd spent all her money on the ticket.

"There's no better place to be in the world!" Bucky announced with a sweeping gesture at the stadium. Steve laughed quietly beside him, and Alice opened her mouth to argue, but then the Brooklyn Dodgers walked out onto the pitch and the entire crowd went absolutely insane.

An hour later, after much cheering and excited talk from the boys, Alice announced that she was going to root for the Yankees.

Bucky and Steve tore their eyes away from the game for the first time with identical looks of outrage. Alice hid her smile behind a calm façade.

"You can't cheer for the Yankees," Steve said in a louder volume than she was used to from him. He said the name of the away team with the same disgust he reserved for spiders and the bad guys in the radio adventure stories.

"Why not?" Alice said with a curious tilt of her head. "I live in New York."

"You live in Brooklyn, Alice," he said, aghast. Bucky seemed speechless.

"I used to live in the Bronx, isn't that where they're from?"

"You just… you can't cheer for the Yankees."

Alice gestured at the scoreboard. "The Yankees are winning."

"You can't just cheer for a team because it's winning!" Bucky protested.

"Hm, no, the Yankees are my favorite now." It was all she could do not to burst out laughing at the horrified looks on Steve and Bucky's faces and their continued efforts to bring her to reason. She cheered for the Yankees whenever they scored a run (though not too loudly – she was very aware that she sat in the middle of a very enthusiastic pack of Dodgers supporters) and teased Bucky and Steve whenever they cheered.

But at the end of the game, when the Dodgers had been thoroughly beaten, Alice joined the boys and the rest of Ebbets Field in cheering the Dodgers players off the pitch.

After that game Alice more or less understood the rules of baseball, so she was able to join in Bucky and Steve's enthusiastic discussions. But rather than pledging her heart and soul to the Dodgers, to Bucky and Steve she pretended to root for teams from all over the place, because "I like their colors" or "one of their supporters was nice to me at the turnstiles".

Steve and Bucky remained fondly irritated.

At the end of June, Bucky finished his final year of middle school. None of them were all too worried about no longer being at the same school – Brooklyn Senior High was just a few blocks away, and they knew they'd still spend as much time together after school and on the weekends as they usually did.

The first week back proved that to be true. That weekend, a few days after Alice's fourteenth birthday, Bucky announced that he had something special up his sleeve.

On Saturday evening, while their parents thought they were all at home in bed, Alice, Steve, and Bucky walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and into the Lower East Side. Bucky's only instructions had been to dress up as nice as they possibly could, so Steve wore the only suit he owned (charcoal grey and a size too large – he'd only ever worn it to church before), and Alice wore a teal blue dress she'd been given for her birthday, had pinned up her hair, and put on a touch of blush and lipstick she'd 'borrowed' from her mother's dressing table. Bucky wore a dark suit and had slicked his hair back.

It was a busy night in the city, with shiny black cars driving up and down the streets and what seemed like every light ablaze. Steve and Alice asked Bucky over and over what he had planned – Alice suspected he was bringing them to a dance hall – but he refused to answer their questions.

Finally they came to a standstill on the pavement of Delancey street, in front of a darkened shop between a bank and a record store. Alice eyed the sign over the shop, which read Ratners, then peered through the windows to make out stacked wooden chairs and a covered countertop.

"You brought us to a closed deli," Steve said flatly, eyeing Bucky's reflection in the dark glass window.

Bucky's reflection grinned back at him. "It's actually a kosher dairy. And yep, it's closed."

Alice's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Bucky jerked his head. "Let's go 'round here."

Steve and Alice stepped closer together as they followed Bucky off the main street into the darker Norfolk street. Steve seemed inclined to keep a respectful distance, but something clattered at the end of the street and Alice pressed so close that her bare arm slid against his suit jacket. He wasn't sure whether she was seeking protection or offering it, but he didn't think he minded all that much.

A third of the way down the street, Bucky approached a dark door set into a brick wall and knocked five times. He turned to wink at Alice and Steve.

"What is this place?" Alice asked as she looked around at the darkened street and the unremarkable door he'd knocked.

"A surprise," he repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. He took in their apprehensive expressions. "You don't have to look so terrified," he added. "It's like you think I've brought you to be executed."

"Your surprises never end well," Steve said gloomily.

"That's not true!" Bucky protested. "What about that time-" he was interrupted by the door, which cracked open just far enough to reveal the face of a boy maybe a year or so older than themselves, peering out into the street suspiciously. Alice's eyes widened at the music which poured out onto the street from the partially-opened door – a cheerful, brassy noise with a man's low voice in accompaniment.

The boy who'd opened the door glanced up and down the street before finally looking at Bucky. "Hey, pal," he said in a murmur, then jerked his head at Steve and Alice. "Who're they?"

"Friends," Bucky said with a reassuring nod. "That offer still on the table?"

The boy eyed Alice and Steve for a moment longer before shrugging. "Just don't tell anyone I let you in, and don't cause any trouble." With that he creaked the door open a little further, letting the music ring out more clearly, and shot them an impatient look.

Bucky hastened in through the door, thanking his friend, and after a wary glance at each other Alice and Steve followed him. They found themselves at the bottom of a carpeted set of stairs lit by surprisingly fancy crystal electric lights. The boy who'd opened the door disappeared down a side passage without another word.

The music was louder here – it now sounded like a trumpet solo. Alice wondered that they hadn't heard it on the street. The sounds of conversation and laughter echoed down the stairs, with the higher melody of clinking glasses. The smoky air seemed hazy.

"Bucky," Alice said, one hand curled around the bottom of the wooden banister. "This is a speakeasy."

It was more a statement than a question, but the gleam in Bucky's eye erased any of her remaining doubts. Her mouth dropped open speechlessly and by her side Steve's head fell back, leaving him staring up at the ceiling with a long-suffering look on his face.

"Oh come on," Bucky said as he took a few slow steps up the carpeted staircase. The warm light gleamed in his dark hair. "Everyone knows they're going to end Prohibition soon anyway, it's not like the place is going to get raided. And Danny said we could come by whenever so long as we don't make a scene." He raised his eyebrows enticingly and drummed his fingers along the wooden banister.

Alice felt herself waver at the bottom of the stairs. The part of her that spoke in her mother's voice said be safe, go home. She knew Bucky too well to think that he could have thought through every possible consequence, and knew that if she were to get caught at a speakeasy of all places she'd never be allowed out with Steve and Bucky again.

But there was another part of her that made her take a deep breath of the smoky, perfumed air, that had her fingers twitching to the beat of the music rolling down the stairs and made her want to run her hands up the wooden banisters. Her cheeks warmed.

Alice turned to Steve to see him looking contemplatively up the stairs. His head tilted and he met her eyes.

"I dunno," he said to Bucky, though he didn't take his eyes off Alice. His words were hesitant, but she could see that he felt the same temptation she did – that part of him that sketched out forms and shapes in pencil wanted to see what waited at the top of the stairs.

"Don't you at least want to see what it's like?" Bucky prompted with a laugh in his voice. He knew he had them.

As one, Steve and Alice sighed and stepped onto the stairs. Bucky let out a low whoop of victory and led them upward.

Their footsteps made no noise on the red and gold-thread carpet up the stairs, so no one looked over when the three teenagers finally reached the room at the top, leaving them to stare around with open mouths.

They'd reached a long, low-ceilinged room absolutely bustling with people. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light over the finely-dressed people below, who laughed and chatted and sipped from frosted glasses as a band played somewhere up the back.

Alice didn't know where to look first: the dazzling lights pouring forth from all over the space, the fine wooden furniture and plush red lounges, the expensive dresses of the ladies or the immaculate suits of the men. She could hear the band but couldn't see them – the speakeasy was split into two levels, and the bar itself and the band must have been on the slightly higher one just out of sight. As Alice stared, a woman in a backless gown let out a bright peal of laughter, making her dark drink splash in her glass, before leaning in to plant a bright red kiss against her male companion's cheek. The room smelled like perfume and cigarettes and some earthy, tangy scent that Alice suspected belonged to the drinks the speakeasy patrons sipped from.

"Welcome to the back of Ratner's," Bucky said, a slight hint of surprise coloring his usually confident tone.

Alice swallowed. "What do we do?"

"I guess we find a seat," Bucky replied.

They stepped forth into the color and dazzle of the scene before them, instinctively huddling close together while also trying to appear older than they were. Alice sensed Steve straightening his posture beside her, and attempted to copy him. Her eyes slid over glinting drinks and flashing white teeth, and before she knew it she was sinking onto a red cushioned settee beside a ornamental table. Bucky and Steve sat around the table as well, their eyes round and their cheeks pink from the warmth in the bar.

"So," Bucky, once he was settled and had propped his arm against the wooden paneling on the wall. A portrait of a woman in a blue gown hung over his head, and a few feet away a fireplace crackled. "Bad surprise?"

"Definitely a surprise," Alice said as two men walked past arm in arm. Bucky laughed at the look on her face and she glanced back at him. "But not bad. Steve?"

Steve hadn't said a single word since they entered the room, so when Alice turned to him she was surprised to see him looking at her with a strange look on his face. It quickly cleared, and he turned to Bucky. "Not bad," he agreed. The light from the chandeliers made his hair glow like spun gold, and with his pretend-adult posture it almost appeared as if he fit his suit. "How'd you find out about this place?"

"I met Danny in the actual Ratner's, he's a server during the day. Ma likes their cheese blintzes. Once we were friends, Danny told me about his other job at night, and offered to let me in some time." He gestured around. "I thought it might be a nice birthday present."

"Well you were right," Alice said with a smile. The band changed songs into something a little more upbeat, which made a few women in the bar crowd clap their hands in delight. Alice had read about speakeasies in the paper, had even heard the preacher at church decry their immorality and sin. But just like the sirens in the Odyssey, Alice just couldn't see evil here. "Thank you."

"That's just my half of the present though," Bucky said. "Go on, Steve!"

Alice stopped gawking at the rich room and turned to Steve, who shot an exasperated look at Bucky before turning to her. "Bucky didn't tell me what he was planning," he explained, "but he said you'd need this." He reached into his trousers pocket and pulled up a folded wad of cash – a very thin wad to be sure, but more money than Alice had been able to put together in a long time.

"Steve-"

He shook his head at her hesitant tone and handed the money over. "Nope, it's yours. I wouldn't have been able to save this money in the first place if it wasn't for you." She and Bucky both frowned, and Steve took a breath. "You told me I oughta' try getting paid to draw things, so I sent a few letters around to the papers and to advertisement agencies, and one of them wrote back asking me to draw some sketches of machine parts for a flyer. It's not much, but it means I get a few dollars here and there. I didn't tell 'em how old I am though," he finished wryly.

Alice almost dropped the money out of excitement. "Steve," she exclaimed, "that's amazing! Congratulations!" She darted out of her seat to throw her arms around him, and a second later Bucky leaned over to pat an overwhelmed-looking Steve on the back as well.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Bucky asked.

Steve shrugged, pink-cheeked. "Wasn't sure if anything would happen, and then I didn't see much reason to get excited over machine parts. Just wanted to reassure you I didn't steal the money or anything."

"That's the last thing I'd accuse you of," Alice laughed. "And I demand that you show us this machine parts flyer as soon as possible."

"Seconded," Bucky said formally.

Steve's embarrassment gave way to laughter, and he finally gestured to the money in Alice's hand. "So go on Bucky, explain why I needed to give Alice money for her birthday."

Bucky's smile widened into a wicked grin. "Shouldn't think I needed to explain, but alright." He gestured once more around the room, and then to the partial view they had of the dark wood bar with its well-dressed bartenders. "We're in a speakeasy. We'd better buy a drink."

Steve once more cast a long-suffering look at the ceiling, but Alice just grinned back at Bucky. She'd suspected that's what the money was for. "And I suppose I have to buy drinks for you two as well?" She put on an affronted expression. "With my own birthday money?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Well I figure you look the oldest out of the three of us, so it's probably best if you try."

Alice raised an eyebrow. Bucky was actually the oldest, but he still very much looked like a boy; his face was rounded and youthful, and his suit didn't fit him much better than Steve's did, though he had the confidence to pull it off. Steve… well. Steve always looked a few years younger than he actually was. Alice had not really considered her own looks, but she supposed Bucky was right – she'd lost her baby weight over the last few years, either from growing up or from missing a meal here and there thanks to the Depression, and people always assumed she was older than she was when she wasn't in her school uniform. Her mom always said it was because Alice always looked so serious.

"Alice," Steve said, drawing her out of her consideration. His brow was creased in concern. "You don't have to, we can just sit here. If you don't want to-"

"I want to," she said, smiling to soften the interruption. The lights, the music, the haze of smoke in the air… it made her want to be a part of this world, even for a few moments. She might not have gotten in trouble for rule-breaking in many years now, but that did not mean she never broke a rule. It just meant she was good at never getting caught.

Steve, also no stranger to rule-breaking but not as good at the not-getting-caught, cracked a smile. "Alright then."

Bucky saluted Alice. "Good luck, soldier."

With a laugh, Alice got to her feet and strode across the speakeasy toward the bar. People made way for her without giving her a second glance, and she climbed the short flight of stairs to the second level with a concealed smile. She'd always been good at blending in, and it appeared the speakeasy was no different.

The bar was long and well-populated, so Alice found a clear spot and rested her folded hands on the dark wood with an expectant air. She stood tall, with straight shoulders, and forced herself to exude confidence despite not totally feeling it. She watched the adults at the bar around her laugh and talk and clink their drinks together. A few glanced her way and smiled, and with a polite smile in return she broke eye contact. The last thing she needed was some man thinking she was there in search of a partner.

Her eyes drifted to the back of the room, where she finally spotted the band. There were five of them – drums, piano, trumpet, trombone, and a vocalist; all men. They wore sharp tuxedos and flashed smiles at their delighted audience as they played their way through an upbeat jazz number, tapping their toes and adding twists and flairs to the song that made Alice smile. She watched as the singer set one hand against his microphone stand and flung the other out as he sang the final line about his love for the uptown train line. The music reminded her of Matthias, and she could easily see him in a place like this; charming the room with his sure voice and his steady smile.

"What'll you have, darlin'?"

Alice very determinedly did not flinch at the voice across from her, but instead turned back with a distracted half-smile to meet the unoccupied bartender's eyes. He was balding, with a pleasant smile and a dark grey vest and purple tie. He cocked an eyebrow at her, though not impatiently.

Alice cleared her throat. "Three Paris Sidecars," she said, because she'd heard someone else at the bar order that and the drinks menu was utter gibberish to her.

"Sure thing. That'll be a dollar fifty."

Struggling not to let her eyes widen at the price (how can people afford to be addicted to this stuff? she wondered), Alice handed over the money and pocketed the rest. She watched curiously as the bartender whirled away, fetched three shallow, long-stemmed glasses and began fetching bottles and small containers and a large metal canister.

He poured various liquids – cognac, Alice read on one of the bottles – into the canister without seemingly needing to measure them, added ice and a squeeze of lemon, then closed up the canister and began shaking it. He noticed Alice watching and flipped it behind his shoulder once or twice, eyes glinting. Her abject curiosity turned into bemusement when he dusted the rim of each of the glasses with what looked like pure sugar and then filled them nearly to the brim with the orange-yellow concoction from the canister. He set the glasses on a tray and slid it over.

"Et voilà, mademoiselle."

Alice carefully picked up the tray, making sure she was balanced before she met the bartender's eye again. "Merci," she smiled.

With that, Alice turned and made her way triumphantly back through the packed speakeasy. She was no longer surprised at the place being so full despite Prohibition – this was fun.

She came back to the boys' table to see them looking around the room.

"Look, that's Jean Early," Bucky said to Steve, his eyes glinting as he nodded at a red-lipped, fashionable looking lady in a mink coat across the room. But as he kept looking around, his features fell in disappointment. "We must've got here on a slow night, this place is supposed to be filled with actresses."

"Well we got a future singer right here," Steve said as he spotted Alice weaving their way back through the crowd toward them.

She grinned at them both and set down the tray with a flourish she'd copied from the bartender. "Here you are, sirs!" she dropped down onto her settee. "I have no real idea what these are."

Bucky eyed the orange, sugar-crusted drinks suspiciously. "You got fancy drinks."

Alice rolled her eyes. "Well excuse me, next time you can try. That menu made no sense, it was all things like brut and Swedish Punch and Silver Fizz. If it's a code, I couldn't make it out. These," she gestured to the waiting drinks as a drop of condensation rolled down the side of one of them. "Are Paris Sidecars."

"I'm game," Steve said. He reached out and took one of the drinks with slender fingers. Alice and Bucky reached in to pick up the remainders, and they glanced at each other. Steve raised his glass. "To Alice!"

"To Alice!" Bucky echoed, clinking his glass to Steve's. The orange liquid sloshed slightly.

Alice clinked her glass to theirs. "To orange, fancy drinks!"

"Bottoms up," Bucky finished, and as one they brought their cocktail glasses to their lips with a laugh.

Alice had seen alcohol before – New York had never really stopped drinking, even in the height of Prohibition. But she was used to seeing a bottle in a brown paper bag, or a sneaky flask, or the bottle of rubbing alcohol in her mom's cabinet. But as she took her first sip of the Paris Sidecar she realized that this was a drink made to be enjoyed. It exploded in her mouth with orange and lemon bursts, followed by the sweetness of the sugar, and when she swallowed she tasted a strong, heavy aftertaste that rushed right to her head.

Alice spluttered despite herself at the unfamiliar taste, and looked up with round eyes at Bucky and Steve to see similar expressions of surprise on their faces. Steve's ears had gone red.

After a moment of consideration, Bucky raised his glass in another toast. "Well, here's to fancy orange drinks."

Alice laughed as she took her next sip and the drink went up her nose, only making her laugh harder. Music floated in the air, she felt warm, and when she looked up she saw sugar on the tip of Steve's nose.

She thought then that she'd never had such a good birthday present.

Excerpt from the Brooklyn  Daily Eagle , November 27 1932:

Before we had been on the warpath for copy very long we learned one thing we thought you'd like to know, and hasten to tell you. Here goes!

The speakeasy, which was here in one form or another long before rational prohibition made it profitable and fashionable, is here to stay, and you can take it or leave it!

…  Then there is a large class which has taken to drinking because it's "smart" – a class composed largely of giggly (but frightfully thirsty) young women and bare-headed young men.

… They'd rather sit at the bar of some blind-pig and toss away helping after helping of cocktails, gin-rickeys or what'll you have. For them, as for the establishments they patronize, repeal [of Prohibition] doesn't mean a thing. For them we predict the locked door and the tiny peep-hole will be retained even if an unimaginative legalism has been conferred upon their functions.

Alice, Steve, and Bucky were able to consume two more rounds (one a small glass of port, the next a heavy, dark cocktail called a Jamaica Rum Daisy) before one of the speakeasy regulars noticed the laughing trio in the corner.

A shadow fell over them and they looked up to see a tall, tuxedoed man with a genial smile looking down at them.

"Hello… sir," Alice said carefully, fighting off the slight slur the drinks had given her. Bucky and Steve sat up straight and put on serious expressions.

The tall man cocked an eyebrow at them. "Now how old might you three be?"

"I'm nineteen," Alice enunciated, arching her own eyebrow back at him.

The man smiled. "I might have believed you, miss, if it weren't for the fact that your friend there couldn't be older than twelve."

Steve bristled. "I'm fourteen," he said indignantly.

Alice sighed and Bucky put a hand to his face.

The tall man laughed, but not unkindly. "I think you've had your fun, kids," he said. "It's time to head home."

He'd drawn the attention of a few more customers, and soon there was a small crowd looking at the three young people sitting around the small table. Alice felt disappointment rise in her chest. She'd been having fun, and now they'd been found out.

The look must have shown on her face and on Steve and Bucky's because the tall man laughed. "Come back in a few more years, kids." Then in a louder voice: "They can't shut this place down!"

To Alice's surprise the whole place let out a cheer. In the next moment she was being ushered out of her seat, and then she was hurrying, red-cheeked, through the crowd of laughing, cheering speakeasy patrons until she thundered down the stairs behind Steve and Bucky.

They spilled out onto the street, gasping at the cooler air, and met each other's eyes.

After a few moments of sudden, shocking silence, Bucky burst out laughing. Alice and Steve were quick to join him, their skin flushed and their eyes just slightly unfocused.

Bucky slung one arm over Steve's shoulder, then slung the other over Alice's and pulled them both in close. Alice laughed at the unbalanced sensation and closed her eyes at the feeling of warmth and closeness and laughing with her friends.

Bucky squeezed them both. "Let's go home."

They ran back home under the street lights of the Lower East Side and then over the Brooklyn Bridge, while the stars shone on the water below.

Excerpt from 'Captain America: The Man With A Plan' (1978) by E. M. Parton:

The Captain was well worthy of becoming a national icon, for surely there could not be found another man so determined to uphold the laws and constitution of the United States of America, so pure of deed and intention. Indeed, it quickly became circulated on his USO circuit that the man had never broken a single U.S. law.
For this, and for his wartime efforts, Captain America came to be known as the embodiment of freedom.

Chapter Text

Eunjin Jang:  Life is bearable when you have someone to write, and someone who writes you back. Even if it's just one person.

June 26th, 1937
Vienna
Dear Steve,

Well, as you'll see from the enclosed review clipping, they've given me a name. Apparently plain old 'Alice Moser' isn't good enough, so from now on I'll be known as 'Die Sirene'. Can you guess the translation?

I'm not sure whose idea it was – my uncle, the production company, or some eager journalist, and honestly I'm not sure whether I'm flattered or not. I'm sure they mean it as a compliment, but I seem to remember mean old Mrs Rosewood describing the Sirens as the 'embodiment of evil'. Well. I hope Homer won't feel too put out by my borrowing the name.

I've been auditioning for operas at my uncle's request. It's not my favorite kind of music, but I do love the stories and the songs are difficult enough to make me work for it. There's certainly no room for jazz singers in Austria right now. For now I'm on the concert scene and recording songs. I've even covered some songs in English, which is a nice change.

After my last concert I had people asking for my autograph. My autograph, Steve! I still remember when we came up with our autographs in middle school. Mine's not nearly grand enough.

I have more news, which secretly makes me much happier than my renaming: Jil í is getting married! Turns out that 'dark haired fella' as you always refer to him has been in love with her for months, and she's been seeing him secretly. His name is Franz Kreisky, and after meeting him properly a few times I think they're going to be very happy together. He doesn't quite have her sharp mind, but he's warm and open and good to her.

I don't mind their secrecy –  Jil í told me as soon as she knew she was serious about him, and neither of them are all that popular in society at the moment (what with Franz being Jewish). I'm sneaking out to join them at the swing club this evening, so I have to go!

Yours,
Alice

~ They name you for a monster. ~

June 30th, 1937
Brooklyn
Dear Ms Celebrity,

A fan of yours from all the way across the Atlantic is humbly requesting a signed picture. I'd be extra humbled if you could convince my bonehead friend to just enjoy a trip to the dance hall for once instead of moping around, neglecting his date, or getting in fights with drunk idiots. But alas, miracles are out of reach for even for the great singers of Europe.

Humble, admiring regards,
Bucky

PS: Saw Tom on the weekend. He's doing real well at school, reckons he's got three girlfriends. I told him that in my experience, it's not worth the effort.

July 4th, 1937
Vienna
Dear Steve,

Happy Birthday! This will reach you after your birthday, but I hope you had a great time – I've been thinking about you all day. I can't believe this is your second birthday that I've missed – last time we were together, we were seventeen.

So what did you do on your birthday? Or rather, what did Bucky make you do?

I've included my present, a set of Viennese brushes – I'm told they're the very best in the country. I know you don't paint as much as you draw, but you mentioned a few months ago that you'd like to try it out more. Now you have to!

Sorry to bring this up in your birthday letter, but I wanted to ask – have you read Mein Kampf, Steve? I'm sure there must be English translations.

I ask because I finally read it. I can barely get through a conversation here nowadays without someone talking about Adolf Hitler, so I wanted to hear what he had to say to understand him better.

It's a terrifying book. The more I read, the more scared I got. I'd say that the  Führer is crazy, but in doing that I believe I'm putting too much faith in sanity; sane men do and say terrible things every day. I am very afraid of Herr Hitler's sanity.

I remember my mother laughing at him when he first appeared in the news. I took that as my attitude – never truly believing what he said, laughing at his extravagances and wild assertions.

I think it's time for me to stop laughing, and treat him seriously. He is a serious man.

Sorry, sorry. Ignore me, enjoy your birthday!

Yours,
Alice

[Translated] Poster, headline: See THE SIREN as Floria Tosca in Puccini's "Tosca" this Thursday at the Vienna State Opera, one night only! (Image: a stylized illustration of Alice Moser as Tosca, holding a candle as she stands over the body of the villainous Scarpia)

October 21st, 1937
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

Congratulations on getting the part! I might not know a lot about opera, but even if it is 'just a student opera' you got the main part and they clearly thought it was good enough to show at the State Opera for a night! I couldn't be prouder. Die Sirene will have to make way for Tosca, for now.

I did some reading on the opera itself, and it ain't exactly a happy story what with everybody dying and your character leaping off a building at the end, but I suppose that's opera for you. I know you said you're nervous, but I've never heard a voice stronger than yours, and you're stubborn enough to never make a single mistake. Though I've got no idea how you remember all the lines, especially in Italian. Send the reviews when you get them (but please translate them, my German's still nowhere near good enough).

You mentioned in your last letter that you'd like to play Brünnhilde from Wagner's 'Die Walküre' one day. I'll admit that I'd never heard of it, but I did some reading on it too and apparently it's one of the hardest roles to play ever and most sopranos can never get there. 

I look forward to seeing you on stage as Brünnhilde one day.

Pass on my congratulations to Jil í and Franz at their wedding tomorrow (and I hope your uncle doesn't notice you leaving the house).

Bucky's sisters are throwing a Halloween party soon, and they're insisting on making me a costume. I've got to go over there to try it on now, but I'll write again soon.

Yours,
Steve

PS: The drawing on the back is my costume. I only had a pencil so you'll have to imagine the vibrant shade of orange.

December 27th, 1937
Paris
Dear Steve,

Paris is still freezing as all hell, but Christmas was nice. Thanks for your letter (the postcards from home were very welcome), and the drawing of Tom. He's getting so big!

I'm going to keep this letter brief, because you asked me to translate that last review and I'm very embarrassed about it. Here goes:

" The Siren's concert (this being her first since the closing night of her student performance as Tosca in the opera of the same name), is one of those performances that you know, the moment you hear it, you will never forget.

The Siren (Alice Moser) walks out onto the stage; a hearty, fine-featured girl of nineteen, in a dazzling gold gown and her eyes almost wide in the bright lights of the concert hall. She is pretty, but not the kind of stunning beauty that stops one in his tracks in the street.

But then the music begins, and she opens her mouth to sing.

Words cannot do justice. The Siren is enthralling. You feel as if she's giving you a blessing, and she drowns you in it. When the song is over, you realize you've fallen in love and had your heart broken all at once."

- Alice

January 10th, 1938
Vienna
Dear Steve,

So. I wrote a song. I've been writing it for a while, on and off while my uncle's been away or in my off hours at the Academy. It's called Wertvolle Wörter, which means 'precious words', and before I showed it to my uncle I made sure it was just high-brow enough to be good enough for the elites here – I mean because I didn't take my inspiration from the music I've been singing here at all.

It's a love song, sort of, and when I wrote it I had home in mind. The jazz and blues on the radio back in Brooklyn, the clubs Matthias played in, the songs I used to sing along to. It's a little richer than anything else I've sung here, more playful. I've written a German and an English version, but the English version will remain a secret (I've attached the lyrics to the back of this letter).

I want to explain what this song means to me. It means my mom and Matthias, it means the distant memories of my father, it means my brother. It means Bucky. It means you. This song is about cherishing the words I had with you all, the words I hold in my memory like buried gems. It means the words I hold back every day, even when I want to scream them. It means the words I write to you every week, and the ones I get in return. This song means  home.

It's a happy song, mostly, with soft lulls of melancholy that rise up to soaring notes – my favorite kind of range. It's a joy to perform.

My uncle liked it when I finally sang it to him, and now we're working with the production company. Though he just told me yesterday that he's going to be credited for writing and producing it. He says people don't like to listen to songs by women, so this is the better marketing choice. I'll admit I'm frustrated, but he's probably not wrong. Besides, I just want to sing it.

My uncle thinks the song might hit international charts, so I'm hopeful you might be able to hear it. Keep your ear to the ground (or to the radio, as it were).

I hope the winter's treating you well – keep warm and try to eat as well as you can. And I hope the new illustration job is going well!

Yours,
Alice.

February 12th, 1938
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

Bucky broke up with Dot yesterday. It was ugly. She didn't slap him, but she did cry an awful lot - and though he'll say he didn't, Bucky shed a few tears too. We went out to a dance hall so he could drown his sorrows, and he cheered up in no time once he'd danced a dame or two around the room. Highly surprisingly I did not end up dancing, though I did have a Parisian Side Car (for old times sake) and got laughed at by a whole gang of ladies.

By the way, Wertvolle Wörter's been on the radio twice this week! Hardly anyone who listens to it in Brooklyn knows it's you, what with you being called the Siren now, but I've heard nothing but positive reviews. As for me, I love it – I knew I would, so you might call me biased, but I really mean it. I might not understand it, but it's the first time I've heard your voice in a long time and that hit me in a way I didn't expect. Brings me back to those cold mornings in church (though this time the song's much better).

But now for the main part of your last letter. I didn't realize things were getting so bad in Austria. I didn't realize things were so bad for Jil í and Franz, and I'm sorry they're not accepting the help from you that you want to give – and that there are so many others like them in Austria in a bad spot. As for Austria, do you really think Germany will try to take over? That seems crazy, even for them.

I think I'm in the same boat as you – if this were our old middle school classroom we'd know what to do. You'd know how to push and pull in just the right way to make sure the right thing is done. But you're right – this is about entire countries now. You shouldn't have to feel helpless though – hell, reading those books about German politics like you've been doing is a big step toward making a difference.

You asked what I'd do, but I dunno if what I'd do is the right move here. You know me, I'd probably punch someone in the face and then get myself beaten up. I'm  really  not advocating that here though – please don't punch anyone in the face. Stay safe.

Though even as I wrote that… I know you and I have never been able to just 'stay safe' when we see a situation turning south. I don't have all the answers, but I'd say… protect who you can. And take every opportunity to do the right thing. But not at the cost of your safety.

Please. For me.

Yours,
Steve.

Chapter Text

Nietzsche:  In revenge and in love, woman is more barbaric than man.

The remainder of Steve and Alice's time at Brooklyn Junior High passed in relative peace. Alice ended up top of their math and French classes, but Steve bested her in art and history – an equal end to their three years of competition. Still, neither of them admitted the competition out loud.

That year, Alice got hired for her first singing gig. It was only a ladies luncheon in Flatbush, sure, and she was pretty sure the lady who'd asked her to sing for an hour for a few pennies had been prompted by her mom, but it was something. She got a few more small offers like that throughout the year – dinner parties, social functions, even once as a guest singer with her stepfather's band at a dance hall. Bucky and Steve snuck into the venue to cheer her on.

For Bucky's birthday in March, the three of them went to see the newest film that had come out: King Kong. Steve spent the next day drawing creatures climbing up New York buildings, and Bucky started slicking his hair back like Robert Armstrong. The papers proclaimed the mysterious burning of the German Reichstag, then the first concentration camp opened in Germany. Alice and Steve walked together to school in the mornings past headlines about the Chancellor of Germany gaining dictatorial powers. In the evenings over steaming cups of tea Alice's mom talked about the tumult, and Alice tried to understand.

That May, on their way to their final exams, Alice and Steve walked past a paper stand displaying pictures of a crowd of uniformed people standing around a pile of burning books, their right arms raised in an odd kind of salute. The headline explained that students in Berlin had gathered and burned 'un-German books'.

For a few moments Steve and Alice stood in silence in the bright spring weather, eyeing the photograph.

Alice reached out to touch the black and white photograph of burning books. The paper seller narrowed his eyes at her from a distance. "Well that's one way of getting noticed."

Steve put his hands in his pockets. "Are you alright? I know this is… you grew up near there."

Alice shrugged. "I'm not happy about it. But New York is my home, and we're not burning books. Yet," she added with a small smirk. "This is just men in power… posturing. It'll settle down soon." She drew her fingers away from the burning books and the two of them continued on through the sunshine.

In June Steve and Alice graduated from Brooklyn Junior High, spent the summer listening to the radio and taking trips down to Coney Island beach with Bucky, and in September ended up a few blocks away from their old school at Brooklyn Senior High.

Many of their other friends had dropped out after middle school to start work. The Depression was still hitting hard. Alice's mom and stepdad wouldn't hear of her leaving school, though, and Steve's mom assured him she was perfectly able to keep them both fed and warm. There wasn't even much work available anyway, especially not for a foreign girl and a perpetually sick trouble magnet.

Bucky welcomed them at the gates of Brooklyn Senior High with open arms and a grin, as if he owned the place.

"They let you two in here?" he called when they approached.

Steve rolled his eyes and said "Apparently the place went downhill after you showed up," and Bucky crowed with laughter.

Alice smiled at them, then turned her eyes to the imposing building before her. It looked much like their middle school: a large, square, grey-bricked building with a flagpole and dusty windows. Clouds loomed overhead, threatening rain. The building looked familiar, but the students walking through the gates and gathering in groups like flocking birds were taller. Alice was neither short nor tall, but back at Brooklyn Junior High she'd felt taller, older. Here she felt tiny. It reminded her of that first terrifying day at middle school. She remembered being bounced off the corridor walls like a loose ping pong ball and sighed at the thought of undergoing that again.

But today didn't feel terrifying. She wasn't alone, she had a bickering Steve and Bucky by her side, and she recognized other students milling in the courtyard. She knew the neighborhood – had a map of its streets living inside her head. The smells of car fumes, trash on the breeze, and the faint tang of cooking bread from the bakery across the street were familiar. This morning, her mom and Matthias had kissed her on the head as if it was any other normal day of school.

She followed Steve and Bucky into the schoolyard and hitched her book strap over her shoulder (the old blue textbook with the hole cut out of the center of it banged against her ribs).

"Hey Alice!" came a call. She turned to see Edith Brodeur, her first friend in Brooklyn, waving from a group of sophomores a few yards away. "Come do your voice trick!"

Alice nodded to Steve and Bucky, went over to Edith and her new friends and demonstrated her trick of perfect mimicry – imitating one of their voices and making them all laugh uproariously. Edith smiled, pink cheeked, and out of the corner of her eye Alice spotted Steve squaring up to tell off a jerk yanking on girls' book straps.

Ah, yes. High school wasn't different at all. It felt like coming home.

Steve thrived in the high school's art and history classes, and excelled expectations in all the others – he'd always had a logical mind, good for solving problems. Bucky remained the sportsman out of the three of them, and Alice and Steve found themselves getting picked out for torment less because of their proximity to him. Brooklyn Senior High had more language classes, which Alice gravitated towards, and a school choir which she joined on the first day. Her math teacher moved her up a grade.

After a few weeks to adjust to the new school, Alice joined the debating club after a recommendation from her new homeroom teacher. At first she didn't understand; they were just supposed to… argue with each other?

And then all of a sudden, she found herself loving it. She liked the challenge of taking on an opinion she didn't agree with and arguing for it wholeheartedly. Her teammates were hardworking and refreshingly smart, and didn't make fun of her accent. At their first competition her hands shook at the prospect of standing up in front of a crowd and speaking instead of singing, but her voice stayed strong.

Later in the year, Steve caved in to Alice's pressure and joined the club as well. It'll be good practice for using your words instead of your fists, she said, and though he gave her a sour look he did as she said. He usually did.

Alice also joined the typewriting class on Wednesday afternoons. It was mostly girls interested in going to secretary school, which Alice wasn't sure about, but Edith had convinced her to join (Edith had the fastest fingers out of all of them). It was the first time she'd ever touched a typewriter before – the large, clunky machine felt like a mystery at first, but after a few weeks she knew the heavy press of the keys and the slick slide of the carriage return. It reminded her of the plinky piano at church, which she'd been learning on and off when the choir conductor was available.

In October, the news came that Germany had left the League of Nations. Alice was unimpressed, but school was getting busy, and it didn't mean much in her eyes. Other countries had left before.

She was more unimpressed by the fact that she now had to wear a brassiere, an awful constricting thing that her mom assured her she would get used to. Plucking at her sides and wincing when she bent over, Alice wasn't convinced.

Highschool became a comfortable rhythm, and though Alice was once again the smallest and youngest, she fit in. There were always jerks, and always Steve fighting someone, but she was used to that by now. She and Steve kept up their nighttime morse code correspondence, trying out new codes to thwart their non-existent eavesdroppers.

Once morning Alice was navigating the busy school corridor between classes, dodging burly jocks and towering senior girls, when she heard a bright voice.

"Salut, Alice!" Edith Brodeur exclaimed as she drew level with Alice. Her dark hair rested in tight curls like Shirley Temple. "Quoi de neuf?" [What's up?]

They had to part for a moment to make way for a gaggle of freshmen, but when they drew back together Alice smiled at her friend. "Pas tant que ça," [Not much,] she replied. But as they passed the library, she noticed that despite Edith's bright tone there was a furrow in her brow as she looked at Alice. "Is something wrong?"

Edith tucked a dark curl behind her ear as she looked around. "I want to ask you something." With that, she took Alice's arm and led her into the nearest girl's bathroom.

As Edith checked to make sure the stalls were unoccupied, Alice set her book strap on the bathroom counter with a frown. "Edith, what's the matter? Is it your family?" For a moment she thought this might have had something to do with Bucky – she'd already had a few girls come to her to ask after the charming dark-haired high school boy, and had caught Edith casting an admiring eye his way once or twice, but this wasn't Edith's boy face. This was serious.

Edith finally turned to look at Alice. Her eyes flicked over Alice's face and then her arms and uniform as if searching for something. "I just wanted to ask… are you…" she shifted slightly, her face pained. "Are you alright?"

Alice blinked. "Yes?" The word echoed in the tile bathroom.

Edith closed the distance between them and put her hands on Alice's arms. "You can be honest with me, mon amie." Her brow was furrowed and her dark eyes so earnest and entreating that Alice took a moment to make sure nothing had happened to her that could warrant this. But she'd had a relatively normal few months since the summer break – her brother Tom had been sick, but that was weeks ago, and the only other questionable thing she'd done had been sneaking up onto the tenement roof at night to sing and watch the stars.

But none of that explained the almost tearful look in Edith's eyes. Alice shook her head. "Edith, I promise you I'm not hiding anything. What on earth is wrong?"

A crinkle of confusion appeared in Edith's brow. "I… I had heard that your… that you might have been hurt."

"How?"

Edith took a half step back, her brow furrowing further. "I heard that you were hurt by your stepfather."

Alice always had a ball of cool, hard, calm resting in the pit of her stomach, keeping her steady when she sang or carried out her schemes. But at Edith's words the ball seemed to dissolve like dry ice, freezing her insides and catching her breath.

Edith took in the look on Alice's face and her eyes widened.

One.

Two.

Three.

When Alice was sure her voice wouldn't shake, she took a long breath through her nose and then carefully straightened out her blouse, looking down. "Where did you hear that?" she asked.

Edith swallowed. She was still confused, but she felt a prickle on the back of her neck as if sensing an oncoming storm. "I heard it from Mary Beth, but she said she heard it yesterday at lunch from Ed Miller."

Ed Miller. The same Ed Miller who'd just started going to the same church as Alice and Steve. The same Ed Miller whose eyes had flashed when Alice said no, thank you, I don't want to go to the soda fountain with you. The same Ed Miller who had seen Matthias meet Alice, Tom, and her Mom a block away from the church and walk them home. The same Ed Miller whose dark eyes Alice had noted, and stored away in her memory.

The cold mist billowing within Alice condensed again, forming hard and sharp.

"Oh," she said. She picked up her book strap with cold fingers and walked out of the bathroom.

"Steve!"

Steve's head jerked up from where he stood alone in the lunch line, dwarfed by two baseball players on either side of him. The growth spurt his mom kept promising was still yet to occur.

"Steve!" Bucky's voice, but Steve couldn't see him yet. The cafeteria was packed, the collective noise bouncing off the ceilings and filling the air like a physical presence.

"Steve!" Bucky finally squeezed through a knot of freshmen and ran up to Steve. His normally well-combed hair was mussed and his eyes were wide. "Steve, you gotta come right away – Alice is mad and I just know she's gonna do something crazy."

"What?"

But Bucky had already seized his arm and dragged him out of line. Bucky didn't usually manhandle him – knew Steve would probably punch him for it – so it must be serious. Steve fell into step beside him.

"Where is she?"

"I dunno, that's what we've got to figure out," Bucky said. They swept out of the busy lunchroom. "Her friend Edith came and warned me, said she thinks Alice is going to do something bad."

"What? Why?" Steve was breathless as he speed-walked. His shoes squeaked on the floor.

"Apparently Ed Miller's been going around telling anyone who'll listen that Alice's stepfather is a you-know-what, that he kidnapped Alice's mom and that he does awful things to Alice in their house."

Steve saw red. "What?"

"I know, I know, but Alice knows now and I'm worried she might actually murder him. Poison him, or drop a piano on his head, or…"

Bucky continued to theorize, more panicked than he'd been in a long time, as they hunted the halls for Alice. For Bucky, Steve was a frustrating but predictable menace – he'd see something he didn't like, and he'd hit it, then get himself hit. Alice on the other hand was trouble. She didn't strike blindly; she plotted and planned and wreaked ruthless revenge. It was hard to figure out what she would do until it was done. She was better than Steve at not getting caught, but now, when she was no doubt furious… he was sure whatever she did would lead straight back to her.

He was so preoccupied with thoughts of Alice that he didn't realize Steve had gone very, very quiet.

They found her in Ed Miller's abandoned homeroom.

She'd heard oncoming footsteps and gone to the front of the class, as if leaving something on the teacher's desk, but when the door opened to reveal a breathless Steve and Bucky her face clouded over again and she went back to what she'd been doing: rifling through the coat rack. The room was dark and quiet, making the sound of her breathing very loud.

"Alice," Bucky said tersely.

She ignored him, her fingers riffling through coats until she found the one with the name Ed Miller stencilled on the inside of the collar. Her eyes gleamed and she reached into her skirt pocket.

"Alice," Bucky repeated. "What are you doing?"

"None of your business." She pulled an envelope out of her pocket with gentle fingers and slid it into Ed's right hand pocket.

"What's that?" Bucky and Steve strode down the empty desks towards her.

"A spider."

"A spider?" Bucky's eyes bugged and he raced the rest of the length of the classroom to pull her away from the coat. "Where did you get a spider from?"

"Behind the bike shed."

Bucky eyed her face. It was blank, smooth, as if this were any ordinary day. But she couldn't quite hide the outrage in her eyes – at Ed Miller and at Bucky for keeping her from her revenge. She stood very still, staring him down.

"Alice," he began, "I know what that Miller kid's been saying, but if you do anything to him he'll know it was you–"

"I don't care," Alice said smoothly. She tried to jerk away from him but he held her tight. Her eyes flashed.

"Miller's smart, Alice, he'll get his own revenge on you. His dad is the head of the school board – he could get you expelled. Just think for a moment!"

He could see in Alice's mutinous eyes that she wasn't listening, and with another jerk she broke free. Bucky looked over his shoulder. "You going to give me a hand here, Steve?"

Alice's eyes flicked to Steve, and for a moment she and Bucky just looked at him.

Steve stood with his hands bunched by his sides and his jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling from the brisk walk to the homeroom. His pale blue eyes moved from Bucky to Alice.

He took a breath. "How can I help?"

Bucky's mouth dropped at the betrayal. Alice's eyes gleamed.

"Hold the other pocket open for me," she said. Bucky could only watch in shock as the two of them rushed to Miller's coat. Steve had that sparking, clench-jawed energy about him which Bucky usually only saw when he was about to hit something, but he was only carefully unbuttoning the brown coat pocket with steady fingers. Alice, all cool stone to Steve's hot anger, pulled something out of her other skirt pocket.

"Where'd you get that?" Steve asked curiously as Alice primed the mouse trap in her hands and carefully slid it into Miller's other pocket. Steve closed it, and when no spring could be heard they stepped away from the coat.

"The caretaker's cupboard." Alice's eyes swept around the room as if searching for more opportunities for sabotage. "He leaves the key in his top desk drawer."

"What's next?" Steve asked, like a traitor. He looked at Alice like she was inventing the engine or travelling to the moon instead of planning malicious pranks.

"I'm going to build a trap at his house later."

"A trap?" Bucky exclaimed, galvanized into movement. "What are you, a big game hunter?"

"I am now," she replied with a bite of fury in her voice. "I was thinking Vaseline on his doorstep, or thumbtacks in his bed–"

"Stop." Bucky planted his feet and crossed his arms, to make his voice extra authoritative.

Alice and Steve did not stop. She'd pulled another mousetrap out of her pocket and Steve was suggesting ideas for where to put it.

Desperate, Bucky clapped his hands together. The sound was a loud shock in the quiet classroom, making Alice and Steve jump and turn to face him. "Just listen to me, for one minute!"

It worked. Kind of. They were quiet, and still, and watching him – one pair of blue eyes, one of green. Like a pair of evil twins.

Bucky pressed his advantage. "Believe me," he began. "I'm furious with Miller. I want to grab him around the ankles, hold him upside down and shake until his ribs fall out. But this" – he gestured at the mousetrap, at the coat on the wall – "is not the right move. I'm not saying this because he doesn't deserve it, or because you don't deserve to make this right, but this isn't the way to do it."

Alice's hand curled into a fist. "I can't just let him-"

"I know!" Bucky said quellingly. Steve's chin was jutted out. A worrying sign. "But if you do this, Miller will know it was you, and he will make your next three years miserable. Trust me. He'll torment you, and he'll torment Steve because Steve'll stick up for you." That made Alice hesitate so he pressed on. "This right here? This is only going to make things worse. You have to be smart, Alice."

Her shoulders went loose. "I don't know what to do."

"You should wait," he said, his voice kinder. "You're good at that. Wait, stick up for yourself where you can, and if you see an opportunity to make things right then take it. But this isn't that opportunity."

Steve's sharp-inhaled breath preceded his protest of: "But-"

"Don't you go and punch him either," Bucky said warningly as he rounded on his shorter friend. Steve's eyes flashed mutinously, but he didn't argue. Bucky held up his hands and looked between them. "I tell you what we're going to do. We're going to get rid of the traps in here, then we're going to go down to the cafeteria and have lunch. We're going to ignore Miller, and if anyone comes asking about those rumors we'll laugh them off. Because that's the best way of killing them." He paused, then added just to be sure: "And we're not going to build any more traps."

A few moments of silence followed that speech.

Alice breathed hard, as if she'd run a race, but Bucky could see the cold fury seeping out of her. Steve angled toward her, magnetized.

"Fine," she eventually said. Bucky let out a breath. "Can we leave the spider though? Without the envelope? No way he'll think that was me."

Bucky held her eyes for a few long moments. "The spider stays." He turned to Steve. "Now go give her a hug."

"Why me?" Steve said, suddenly wide-eyed. Bucky wanted to roll his eyes at him but resisted.

"Because I'm going to go tip that spider out of its envelope and try not to get caught in a mouse trap."

And he went and did exactly that. Bucky watched out of the corner of his eye as Steve walked stiffly toward Alice, who was still as stone once again, and then wrapped his arms around her. The classroom fell silent.

For a few moments they just stood like that, his bird-thin arms at a strange angle around her, the two of them barely touching. Then Alice's arms rose around his skinny torso and her eyes closed, and it turned into a real hug.

Bucky plucked out the envelope, tipped out the spider – jesus, it's huge – and buttoned the pocket again. Then he eased out the mousetrap, dismantled it, and turned around again. Steve and Alice still stood in the middle of the classroom, hugging.

Bucky wanted to make fun of them, but that'd just scare them away from each other and that was the opposite of what he wanted. So he just paced over and threw his arm around the two small blonde kids. They grunted in protest, and eventually Steve wriggled out, but they were both smiling.

Alice elbowed Bucky in the ribs to get free of his bear hug, then swept her hair away from her face and fell still. They all felt the moment her smile slipped.

"The rumors won't go away," she murmured. The words slithered around the classroom. Bucky and Steve went still. "They could… they could change everything."

"People in this neighborhood know Matthias," Steve said, instantly earnest and righteous. "They won't believe it."

"That's if the rumors even get out of the school," Bucky said encouragingly.

Alice's fingers slid beneath her eyes, and that was the first Bucky realized that she'd begun crying. He'd only ever seen her cry twice. "I've never been so angry," she said frankly. Her voice didn't wobble due to her tears – it was as if her face were merely leaking. "He went for my family. I wanted to… I couldn't think of how to hurt him most. Nothing seemed good enough."

"Nothing is good enough," Bucky said. He was still afraid Alice would try to murder Miller.

Steve stepped toward Alice. "He went after your family, which means he went after ours too." She shed another tear. "We stick together, Alice."

"Okay," came her whisper.

"You gotta know when to fight," Bucky said to both of them. They both nodded, as if that was obvious, but he knew he'd have to repeat himself before the day was out. He sighed. "Alright. Let's head down to the cafeteria."

Alice frowned. "I thought you said you wanted to fix everything in here."

Bucky held up the dismantled mousetrap. "I did?"

Her eyes cleared. "Oh. No, there's more."

Beside her, out of her eyesight, Steve's lips curled into a smile.

Bucky slapped a hand to his face. "Of course there is. Tell me?"

"There's a note in Ed's handwriting under the teacher's composition book" – Steve went to collect that, and snorted when he read what Alice had forged – "another mousetrap in his desk" – Bucky went to collect that one as well with a sigh – "and I also took the bolts out of his chair."

Bucky toed the chair, which creaked ominously. Between the three of them it took only a minute to screw the bolts back in, then they took their mousetraps and their forged note and crept out of the room, leaving only a very confused spider behind them.

Steve and Bucky kept close to Alice's sides as they walked back through the empty corridors. She appreciated it – she felt fragile, hollowed out, as if her sudden burst of chilling anger had sapped all her energy. She felt more thankful than ever for the two different and yet equally loyal boys on either side of her.

Once, the side of Steve's hand brushed against her own.

They finally reached the cafeteria doors, and Bucky let out a breath of relief that they hadn't been discovered. He pushed open the doors and flinched.

The cafeteria was in uproar. Ten times louder than when he and Steve had left, a positive roar of people talking poured out the open door. Inside, people milled around and gathered in groups, talking animatedly. Food trays lay half eaten and abandoned on the dining tables.

Bucky, Steve, and Alice pushed inside.

They got the story in snippets: There was a fight.

Then: Ed Miller's nose is broken!

Alice looked between Steve and Bucky, confused. They shrugged and shook their heads.

Then Edith appeared before them, bright eyed and flustered. "Mon dieu! Alice!" she seized Alice's hands as if to seek her calm. "Ed Miller was telling more people those horrible things over lunch, but then Finn – Finn Neri – he overheard and went over. I tried to stop him, but he's so big, and he stood over Ed and demanded that he apologize to you for spreading lies." Alice blinked, her hands being shaken by Edith, trying to absorb this.

Edith continued: "Ed just laughed, so Finn picked him up out of his seat and shook him!" Edith's voice was a high squeak.

"Finn?" Alice's mouth dropped open. Finn had been her good friend since she first gave him that butterscotch candy back in first year homeroom, and he'd slowly come out of his shell since then. But he was the sweetest, gentlest person she knew. He was also the largest person in their year, but his size had never registered as dangerous to her before. She felt Bucky and Steve share a glance beside her.

Edith squeezed Alice's hands. "Ed got all scared and took it all back, but when Finn put him down Ed punched him! And then Finn broke his nose!" She finished on a high, breathless note, and for a moment Alice worried that she'd pass out.

"Where is he?" Alice breathed. "Finn."

"He and Ed got pulled out by their ears, I guess they're in the principal's office by now."

A group of girls walked past and Alice heard a snatch of their conversation: "- said he's going to be expelled!"

Her stomach dropped. Edith was still shaking her hands, eyes wild, but Alice turned to Steve and Bucky. Their eyes were wide.

She shook her head. "I-"

But at that moment the school caretaker rang the giant bell outside his office, signaling the end of lunch, and the hubbub in the cafeteria suddenly swept out of the room like the tide going out. Edith let go of Alice's hands, and Alice followed the tide back to her English class with Steve.

Alice sat numbly in her seat, exhausted in the wake of surprise, fury, shock, fear. Class began. She and Steve tapped out messages on their desks with their fingertips, deaf to their teacher's explanation of polynomials.

After the first afternoon period ended, Alice and Steve made a beeline for the school office. Bucky met them in the hallway on the way there.

"Finnigan Neri," he said by way of bewildered greeting. He'd clearly been able to think of nothing else in his class either. "Didn't think he could hurt a fly."

"Don't think he would hurt a fly," Steve corrected. "Just Ed Miller."

Bucky smirked.

They reached the school office corridor just as the glass-paned door at the other end opened and two people walked out. The first was a tall, angular-faced man in a dark suit, looking cross. He was closely followed by Ed Miller. He was in the year above, tall and dark-haired and reasonably handsome, though his looks were undercut today by the tissuepaper wadded around his bloody nose.

Steve, Bucky, and Alice stopped dead and pressed against the wall, as if that might hide them from view.

The dark suited man, no doubt Mr Miller, turned to his son. "Go get your coat and books, we're leaving." With that, the man strode down the side corridor toward the carpark.

Ed's shoulders slumped as he adjusted the wad of tissues in the hand pressed to his nose, and then sloped down the corridor toward Alice and the others. He didn't notice them at first, so they got to see his downcast eyes and the way his feet scuffed dejectedly along the ground. Bucky's arm rose to block Steve (or rather to prevent him from moving).

But then Ed got near the end of the corridor, saw three pairs of feet, and glanced up with wide eyes. When he spotted them he didn't stop walking. His eyes met Alice's and darted away before coming back to rest on her.

"Sorry," he gritted out as he passed.

Then he was gone, before Alice could think to respond.

She blinked, the wall cool at her back. She reflected on how she felt: not quite satisfied. More surprised.

Bucky slowly drew his arm away from Steve.

Then the school office door opened again, this time silhouetting a bulky figure in the room beyond. Finn. Behind him, Alice spotted their old Principal Neri at the office desk, signing a paper.

Finn stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Alice, Steve, and Bucky walked down to meet him.

Finn had grown into a gentle giant – almost twice Steve's size with beefy arms, soft eyes, and curly brown hair. A bruise was forming at the corner of his jaw.

"Hi Alice," Finn said sheepishly when he turned to see her.

She eyed him. "You're not expelled, are you?"

He shook his head. "Just suspended for two days. So's Ed." He made a face, then added: "Sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry!" Alice said, stricken. She stepped forward, reached up on her tip toes, and kissed the tall boy's cheek. "Thank you."

When she pulled away, Finn had gone bright red. Steve shifted behind Alice.

Finn looked over to Steve. "Sorry if I beat you to it," he said with a small smile. That made Steve go red and Bucky laugh. Finn turned back to Alice. "Just couldn't let Ed keep on… well."

"I know," Alice said, then repeated: "Thank you."

"I owed you one," he replied with a shrug. "See you at choir practice?"

"Alright," she smiled. Then Principal Neri emerged from the office, spotted the three students talking to his son, apparently couldn't decide whether to nod hello or to frown, then steered his son out of the corridor by the shoulder.

"Well," Alice said, deflated.

Bucky didn't speak for fear he'd spark another bout of revenge.

Steve, though, said: "How are you?"

Alice blew out a breath. Her eyes were fixed on the blank office door. "Not so angry anymore, I don't think."

"I'm glad," Steve said. Then: "He's probably found his coat by now. And it's cold out."

A slow grin crept across Alice's face.

The next day at school all anyone could talk about was the fight (completely forgetting what had caused it in the first place), and how Ed Miller had squealed like a broken radio when a spider crawled out of his pocket and up his arm.

Excerpt from Smithsonian Museum Newsletter (2014), p. 2

Among the new collection are never-before-seen artefacts from Steve Rogers's childhood home in Brooklyn, which he shared with his mother Sarah Rogers. These items were recovered from a packing box in the possession of the Barnes family, kindly donated in 2011. The items are in a remarkably well-kept condition, save for the work of some paper mites.

The preserved items include:

- A 1920s-era radio which appears to have been hand-modified. This suggests Rogers' early mechanical genius, which no doubt served him well in the battle of technology against HYDRA.

- Ticket stubs to movies and baseball games. Rogers appears to have had a penchant for adventure stories and sci-fi, and unsurprisingly rooted for the Brooklyn Dodgers.

- Records from his life: school transcripts, military identification for his father, his mother's employment contract with the hospital. Sheaves of medical records for himself (see p.3 re Rogers's pre-Rebirth chronic illnesses).

- Drawings. Rogers was a noted amateur artist, with many reporting that he carried a sketchbook with him even on the front. These early drawings offer an insight into his childhood. We can see the landscapes of Brooklyn, the insides of classrooms, and several sketches of a girl, perhaps in her mid teens, in various settings. Perhaps an early sweetheart, though contemporaries are quick to joke about his inexperience with women. Perhaps an imagined woman. Perhaps a childhood friend. Either way, her identity is lost to time.

Visit the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum's new installation on Captain America to take a look at these historic artefacts in the flesh.

A week after Thanksgiving, the entire country celebrated at the announcement that Prohibition had been repealed. New Yorkers flocked to the speakeasies which had thrown open their doors, and a dozen bars opened up in Brooklyn within a few weeks of the repeal.

Alice, still only fifteen, celebrated by procuring a half bottle of whisky from a friend of hers and sharing it with Steve and Bucky in the back of Matthias's tailor shop.

"It's no Paris Side Car," Bucky said with the all the air of a connoisseur, and Alice and Steve threw skeins of wool at him.

When Christmastime came, Alice, Steve, and Bucky's families all went into Manhattan, along with plenty of other families and tourists. The occasion, as had been advertised for weeks in the papers, was the lighting of a Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. Apparently the owners had seen the tree that Steve, Bucky, and Alice had come across two years ago and liked the concept.

But this was no small tree decorated with paper garlands and tin cans. When the evening came Alice and her family squeezed through the thronging crowds in thick jackets and gloves to see a fifty foot tree looming at the far end of the Center, competing with the skyscrapers on either side for dominance. Christmas wreaths and garlands hung all about the center, and Alice could see hundreds of unlit electric lights hanging from the tree itself.

"Would you look at that," Matthias exclaimed. He hoisted Tom higher on his shoulder to give him a good view.

"I want to climb it!" Tom cried. Alice smiled.

"Maybe when you're older," her mom promised.

They found a good spot in the square, but after a few minutes Alice started shifting about restlessly, her feet shuffling and her head twisting around.

Her mom met her eye and sighed. "Alright, go on." Alice was gone in the next breath, barely hearing her mom's call of: "be careful!"

Alice squeezed through the New Yorkers pressed into the square. Her breath had been fogging on the way here, but the warm bodies all around her were making the back of her neck sweat. After a minute or two, she realized she was making no headway. So she looked around, glimpsing the center through gaps between adults' shoulders, then headed toward the adjacent building's craning windows. Once there, she climbed onto the stone ledge below and pulled herself up, putting herself above the level of the hot, noisy crowd.

She looked out. Rockefeller Center was packed, a mass of heavy-coated people in hats and scarves pointed towards the huge, dark tree. The sky had dimmed, making the skyscraper lights shine ever brighter.

Suddenly, she spotted conspicuous movement a few yards away.

"Steve! Bucky!"

The boys, who'd found each other a few minutes earlier and were pushing forward in search of where Alice had said her family planned to be, stopped in their tracks and looked around.

"Up here!"

Their heads swiveled towards the voice and then they both broke out in smiles.

Alice stood silhouetted in the golden light of one of the Rockefeller Center building's windows, her pale hair shining in the light as she waved madly at them. She looked like a Christmas ornament.

Steve and Bucky changed directions and pushed through the crowd towards her, finally pulling themselves up onto the sandstone ledge.

"Are we allowed up here?" Bucky asked as he dusted his hands off and turned to face the square.

Alice shrugged and helped pull Steve up. He tumbled into her and almost put her through the window. "Don't know. Haven't been yelled at yet." She patted Steve down. "Where's your mom?"

"She's with Bucky's family, don't worry. She likes his sisters."

"Can't see why," Bucky added cheerfully. He looked out at the mass of people. "Gotta say, I don't see what all the fuss is over this tree."

Alice thought about the first tree they'd seen two years ago and the way it had stopped the three of them dead in their tracks, and stayed silent.

A microphone squealed out across the bustling square and everyone fell still. A spokesperson in a flashy suit shone a grin. Alice thought he might be a radio presenter. She knew NBC was broadcasting the ceremony.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Rockefeller Center."

Alice, Bucky, and Steve leaned back against the gleaming window and listened as the speaker talked about Christmas, and hope, and community. Steve coughed, and Alice and Bucky looked over with alarm before he waved them off.

It was fully dark by the time the speaker drew to a close. Alice yawned.

"And with that, ladies and gentlemen, let's turn on the lights!"

For a second nothing happened, and Alice held in a hiccup of laughter at the idea that they'd all shown up just to see another prime example of New York's electricity system.

But then the tall, dark tree blazed into a light so bright that spots danced in Alice's eyes and she had to look away for a moment. Bucky let out a startled laugh beside her, and she heard Steve breathe a soft gasp. When she looked back the Christmas tree was alive with light: every branch glittered with golden orbs, turning it into a glowing monument. The crowd gasped and oohed and burst into applause as a choir beside the tree suddenly burst into song.

Alice realized a few seconds later that she was grinning. She and Bucky stood on either side of Steve on a window ledge they probably weren't supposed to be on, shivering in the dark as their eyes glowed in the light from an immense blazing Christmas tree.

She widened her eyes as if to take it all in and told herself to remember. She gathered in the moment, pressed it tight and stored it away. She might need it one day.

To her left, Bucky slung his arm over Steve's shoulder. She shuffled in closer and mirrored the movement, so the three of them stood in a half-hug as golden light poured out all around them.

That night Alice dreamed of a glowing golden tree, and song.

Chapter Text

Agnes Repplier: Real letter writing… is founded on a need as old and as young as humanity itself, the need that one human being has of another.

[Translated] Hitler's Declaration to the Reichstag, May 1935:

"Germany neither intends nor wishes to interfere in the internal affairs of Austria, to annex Austria or to conclude an Anschluss."

March 17th, 1938
Vienna
Dear Steve,

I'm sorry I didn't write sooner, I promise I'm okay! I didn't realize how worried all this would make you until I got your letter just now. Honestly, there's been so much going on that I haven't had time to write you.

Yes, Austria has 'united' with Germany. It took me by surprise, but it shouldn't have – people have been talking about this for months, and Germany has made its wishes pretty clear. There was even talk of invasion – when the Chancellor (now ex-Chancellor) said he wanted to hold a referendum, Hitler mobilized troops. So the Chancellor took it back what he said about a referendum, and then ended up resigning. His replacement, very clearly a Nazi sympathizer, announced the Anschluss. It sort of means 'joining' in English.

I watched all this unfold in the newspapers and in the gossip channels, sitting in my uncle's drawing room as he rolled his eyes at the old Austrian Chancellor and openly welcomed the idea of German rule. I felt sick.

Five days ago, thousands of German soldiers and police officers crossed into Austria and came to Vienna. I was out with  Jilí when they arrived, and the two of us just stood on the stoop of our favorite bakery and stared as the sheer mass of them marched down the street. I thought all my old novels were fanciful, but the sound of thousands of feet marching in time on cobblestones really does sound like thunder.

Jil í took my hand at one point, holding it so tight my skin went white. Everyone around us cheered.

So. Herr Himmler's now in charge of the Austrian police. I thought my uncle would be upset, given that the old police commissioner was his friend, but he just seems determined to befriend Himmler. The Austrian government passed the law reunifying our country with Germany and now, within the space of two days, I live in a German province.

On the day of the Anschluss I wanted to stay with Jil í and Franz and their friends to make sure they were okay, but my uncle sent for me. As he walked me down the street, we came across a group of men forcing three men and a woman to get on their hands and knees to scrub the pavement clean – there was anti-Anschluss graffiti on the road. The men and the woman were Jewish, and as we approached one of the tormentors stepped on the woman's hand.

I stepped forward, Steve, about to break my promise to you that I wouldn't punch anyone in the face. But my uncle dug his fingers into my arm and dragged me away before I could say a word. He dragged me all the way back to his house with a look of fury on his face, and yelled at me about conspiring for a whole half hour.

My arm has bruises in the shape of his fingerprints.

That day did something to me, Steve. And I've had barely a quiet moment since. As soon as the Anschluss was announced the city went wild – half of them celebrating, the other half, it seems, being arrested. Politicians and intellektuelles, and also Jews. The Jewish bank down the street's been closed down. I've seen cars and investments confiscated. Franz has avoided arrest so far, but he got fired from his porter's job. Apparently his boss apologized to him when he did it.

Others haven't been so lucky, but  Jilí and I have been busy. Not with anything illegal, don't worry, but we've been helping people sort of… fade out of the public eye. Quietly closing down businesses, selling things, procuring food, redirecting ire against them. That's been more my role – if a set of neighbors are angry at having a Jewish or politically active (read: not pro-Nazi) neighbor, I find something else for them to be angry about – how the new German police officers in the neighborhood are using too many resources, or how the upheaval in government has affected their taxes.

At the moment we're just trying to keep people safe, but it seems pretty clear what the end result must be – the people in danger need to leave.  Lots of people don't want to, but it's pretty clear that's where this is headed. Some famous Austrian Jews have already left, some weeks before the Anschluss.

They've been arresting and deporting people in Germany for months now, and now we are Germany. It might be giving in to what the Nazi party wants, but it's just safer elsewhere. I asked  Jilí about her and Franz's plans, but she doesn't want to leave until she's gotten everyone she can out.

Our plans are still in early stages, and it's difficult with my uncle watching me closer than ever, but I won't be idle another second longer. Not punching anyone in the face, but getting people out and safe before they're in a position to be forced onto their hands and knees on the street and made to scrub until their fingers bleed. If this is what I can do, I'll do it.

Obviously, don't share this letter with anyone. Even in Brooklyn, it could be dangerous. I shouldn't even be writing this down – they're cracking down on 'political conspirators' in Vienna even as I write this letter. But I trust you. And I needed to tell you this.

I can hardly believe it, but I forgot to tell you: I saw Hitler again, Steve. Only this time he stood in Vienna, at the Heldenplatz (the square outside the Hofburg palace), after his three-day triumphal tour through Austria. I didn't want to go, but my uncle made me. The crowd was almost in tears from how eagerly they cheered his arrival.

Hitler called the union of Austria and Germany his 'greatest accomplishment'. I don't remember much of the speech, because I felt strangely numb and motionless (and very cold) as I stood in the square, but I remember that. Austria's his homeland, you know. He sees this as a homecoming. And when I stood in that square, surrounded by tens of thousands of cheering Austrians, I couldn't have told him he was wrong.

Yours,
Alice

PS: The night of Hitler's speech, my uncle brought me to another party and had me sing. Only this time the guests included German generals and officers, and pro-Nazi Austrian officials. If I'd known, I wouldn't have gone. But I stood there and I sang for them, and when they all stood up to applaud me all I could hear was the overwhelmed, adoring cheers from the Heldenplatz.

March 19th, 1938
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

Getting your letter was a big relief – we've been reading about the Anschluss here in Brooklyn, about all the arrests and turmoil, so radio silence on your end had me pretty jumpy. I knew you were probably safe, what with your uncle's connections, but I also know you – you don't get into trouble very often, but you're always helping people who need it.

Turns out I was right – please be careful, whatever you do. I agree that helping  Jilí and whoever else you can is the right call, but be careful. I read today that they've opened a new concentration camp just outside Vienna – you're much better off helping the people you can, rather than going away for hard labor.

I've been sitting here for half an hour trying to think of a way to convince you to come back to Brooklyn. You're nineteen now, you could do it. But every time I think of a good argument, I know it won't work. I know you'll stay in Vienna. Because you have friends there now – not just  Jilí and Franz, but all the people you've met at the music club and that teahouse you like, and your friends in the music industry. And I know many of those people have got to be people that the German government have decided they don't like. So I know you'll stay to help them, however you can.

If they're looking to get out, tell them to be careful about coming to America – for some godawful reason congress is opposing immigration from Europe, specifically Jews. If I had a way of sneaking them in I would, but I don't have the pull here that you do in Vienna. So just tell them to think about other options.

I'm real sorry your home's been invaded. I know that's not what they're calling this, but that's what it sounds like. I know you came to like Vienna and made a place for yourself there, and I can't imagine what it's like to have German boots marching down the streets of your home. And I'm sorry you feel alone in not celebrating their arrival. I'm sure you're not alone. But sounds like it's dangerous to speak out right now.

On that note, are you going to keep singing? I know there was talk about you putting out an album soon – obviously your priority is keeping people safe, but what has your uncle said about all this? I know Alice Moser's going to help people, but what will the Siren do?

I don't really know what to write, to be honest. I'm terrified for you. Bucky's worried too, I can tell, but he keeps telling me that countries merge and split apart all the time, that things will settle down soon. I think he's just trying to make me feel better, because I see him poring over each news report as soon as they come out. Keep us in the loop, Alice. And if you need any help, reach out. I might be able to scrape together enough money for a ticket to Vienna.

I'm really glad you're safe. Keep it that way.

Yours,
Steve.

April 11th, 1938
Vienna
Dear Steve,

Yesterday Austria held a plebiscite. I told you about all the propaganda in the past few weeks – seems there's not been a single day where there hasn't been a Nazi on the radio or at some public appearance or another. Sometimes they play one of my songs, followed by a public message of support for the Anschluss. I feel so trapped – how did this happen? I don't want any part of this.

Anyway, the plebiscite. To make things seem 'fair', the Nazi government has kindly asked Austria to vote on their support for the Anschluss and the change of government. So yesterday I went to the voting booth for the first time as an Austrian citizen. It was bizarre – the officials were just taking the ballot papers from people, instead of putting them in a box, and I saw more than one of them looking at how people had voted.

My uncle went first, and the booths were very busy so I had a minute to think, by myself, standing alone at the front of the line. At least a few people in the room recognised me (one asked me for my autograph afterwards). Finally I got a voting slip and went to a booth.

Steve. The plebiscite question was, essentially, 'do you agree with the reunification and do you vote for the party headed by our leader Adolf Hitler?' Underneath the question was a large circle with a large "Ja" over it. Then in the corner of the paper was a circle half its size, labelled "nein". I don't know how long I stared down at that paper, but I could feel my heart sinking. Because up until that moment I still had some hope that this could be temporary. But looking at that tiny circle in the corner of the paper, I knew that my nein meant nothing.

Still, I put my cross in the smaller circle and handed it to the polling official. He didn't even look at it. I think part of me wanted him to.

Jil í and Franz were excluded from voting, as was every other Jew and everyone arrested for racial or political reasons.

Results came in today. 99.73% of the country voted 'Ja'.

Yours,
Alice

PS: I'm sorry I haven't asked after you for a while. I've been… heartsore. And scared. But please let me know how everyone back home is doing. I think it might help to remind me that the whole world hasn't gone crazy.

Excerpt from article  'Siren Song: a snapshot of one of Europe's most prominent musicians'  by Roger Howe, 1982

Reporting on the Siren before the war began is sparse, with the occasional article or poster preserved about one of her performances. Our understanding of her pre-war character is gathered from those who knew or met her in Vienna at the time.

Olga Brunnheim recalls her prominence in Vienna's society scene: "I went to a party with the Siren once – before the war, this was. She and her uncle went to plenty of parties with the newly arrived Germans."

When asked about Herr Huber, the Siren's uncle, Mrs Brunnheim flaps a hand: "he was a social climber like the rest of us. They were always together, but I never remember much fondness between the two of them." She pauses for a moment. "She was a pretty thing, but didn't get much into dating. At least not that I heard of, and I heard of mostly everything those days. To be honest, she seemed quite… well, she didn't stick out for gossip much. She wasn't very outspoken. But she was a presence."

"How do you mean?" I ask.

"She had this way about her… like she was somebody. It came out more when she was singing, like that's when she really let her true self out. I rarely spoke with her, but it was always striking when I did. She was always fair. Listened to people more than she spoke. She made you feel good when you spoke to her." Mrs Brunnheim smiles and leans back. "I guess that's how she got so famous."

May 5th, 1938
Vienna
Dear Steve,

I'm still perfectly fine. Things have settled slightly here, but the Germans are implementing more anti-Jewish legislation every week, and a day doesn't go by that I don't hear about someone else arrested or deported. They're reporting that 3000 Romani have been arrested.

Franz and  Jilí are practically in hiding by now, they've started selling things on the black market to support themselves and continue to refuse most of the financial help I can offer them. My other friends aren't faring much better. Last week I and some others helped Lia Heim gather enough supplies and money for her whole family, and they left on the first train the next morning. When you walk through the city now you see ghost houses – vacated at a moment's notice, empty and graffitied with awful words.

They've started burning books in Austria.

I realize I have more friends than I thought I did – either people I met through  Jilí or just people I ended up chatting to while trying to escape my uncle and his gilded cages. The Anschluss has brought us together – some are still rightfully distrustful of me, but mostly there's a good group of us working to keep people safe and out of the clutches of police.

As for my uncle, he has apparently decided that now is the time to throw as many parties as he possibly can. I avoided them at first, because they are now even more than before filled with people I can't stand. But then, a few weeks ago, one of my uncle's guests was a police officer working under Himmler. I sang, was applauded, and afterward as I was trying to get as drunk as possible without my uncle noticing, I heard this officer brag to his friend about ten businesses they'd shut down that day, and how they were going to shut down another five the next day. After the party I climbed out my window and ran to  Jilí and Franz's, and between the three of us we were able to put out the word. We didn't get the word quite far enough, but the next day when the police arrived to shut two of the businesses down, their Jewish owners had decided not to open that day in the first place.

I couldn't stop the police from shutting down the businesses, but at the other three the owners and some of their customers were beaten, and one man arrested. It's not enough to make up for anything, or to even protect people much, but it was something. There is some value to be gained at my uncles parties after all. So I go along with them, and we're still recording the album, though my heart's not in it any more. The Siren feels more and more like a stranger to me.

I'm glad Brooklyn's still mostly the same. Pass on my congratulations to Becca for graduating, and to Bucky for his new job. You mentioned you had a cough in your last letter – please, please take it easy. If you're mentioning a cough it must be serious, and you know there's no point in trying to muscle your way through it. Rest is the best cure. So rest!

Yours,
Alice

June 19th, 1938
Vienna
Dear Steve,

Well, it seems my uncle's high-and-mighty ideas aren't so far off after all. Last week we received an invitation to an event at the Schonbrunn palace, which we attended last night. Instead of my uncle 'strongly suggesting' that I sing at the event itself, the invitation specifically requested that I perform an aria for the guests.

Well there was over a hundred people, which wasn't the problem as I'm used to performing for larger crowds by now, but I could not forget just what kind of people these were – this was an event for the newly-powerful members of Austrian society: pro-Nazi government officials, cultural leaders, and even some of the Nazi party themselves. It was an evening of self-congratulatory celebration, as if they aren't arresting innocent people in their homes and telling them to leave the country with no idea of where they ought to go.

I think I might genuinely hate these people. I'll admit I'm not always the person with the coolest temper – I'm good at controlling my temper, certainly, but not at staying even-keeled in the first place. And all of last night I felt like there was a hot coal sitting in my throat, slowly burning its way down into my guts.

The party was thrown in the first place to celebrate the visit of one of the top Nazi generals: Joseph Goebbels, the minister for Propaganda. No doubt he's here to keep drumming up support for the Reich in Austria.

I avoided him like the plague, but in the middle of my performance I looked over to see none other than my uncle sharing a drink with him. Goebbels is a thin-faced man with sunken eyes and a receding hairline, and he came to Austria without his wife. As I watched, my uncle made him laugh.

I felt like I was being strangled.

I tried to seek some privacy after that, but of course there was the usual parade of people wishing to congratulate my performance. One lady in particular especially irritated me – she would not stop going on about how I had an 'interesting face', and how I ought to audition for a film. She's some Czech actress working in Berlin, and kept saying she could sort out an audition for me. One thing she said was pretty strange. She said "being a movie star puts you in the way of powerful men," and winked at me with a look towards Goebbels himself. Later, I saw him lean in close to whisper something into her ear.

I guess these Nazi generals aren't as pure as they like to tell everyone.

Anyway. I'm sorry this is another letter all about this strange situation we find ourselves in Austria, but it's taking up every aspect of my life. I'm just hopeful that the rumors about Germany being satisfied with taking Austria are true – there's been some talk that they want to expand further, but I think they're hardly likely to get the same welcome elsewhere that they got in Austria.

Thinking of you,
Alice.

Movie Review of  The Devil's Mistress  (2016):

… highly recommend watching this dramatization of the story of Lída Baarová, the woman who was the mistress of the Nazi propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels for two years before World War II began. The film details Baarová's post-war arrest and subsequent death in disgrace in the Czech Republic. Baarová expressed no remorse about her past in her lifetime.

September 5th, 1938
Vienna
Dear Steve,

My birthday was okay, thanks for asking. My uncle threw a big party full of people I don't know, and when it was over I snuck out for drinks with my actual friends. I can't believe we're both twenty now. Seems like only yesterday I was twelve years old, staring up at Brooklyn Junior High and terrified I wouldn't make any friends.

I'm glad you liked the album – I hope you didn't buy it though, I don't like the idea of you going hungry or running late on rent again just to listen to a few songs I sang. I should have just sent it to you. Can you refund yours and I'll send you a copy? I'd be very happy to spend my uncle's money on express shipping.

Don't worry about me, I'm still being safe. We've got quite the little network now, and Franz is putting his old porter skills to work. It's not safe for me to write down too many details, because the police are getting ever more paranoid and I'm worried they might start reading mail. Just trust that I'm safe, Jil í and Franz are safe, and we're helping people.

Quick question, I just wanted to ask if you thought this was strange as well – today when I went up for my yearly checkup at the hospital, they took down some of my information (who my parents were and their countries of birth, history of disabilities in the family, etc.) for a "hereditary database". When I asked why, they told me it's routine now. The doctor laughed at my concern and told me not to worry, because "you come from an excellent family". I told my friends (the ones my uncle doesn't know about) to avoid the hospital for now, just in case. What do you think?

Yours,
Alice

Excerpt from  'The Eugenic Policies of Pre-War Germany'  by Werner Hugo (1978), p. 89:

In annexed Austria, the majority of newborns had their genetic information documented. Adults' information was also logged into these 'genetic information' databases which were compounded with school, employer, and criminal records. These policies began in Spring 1938, and individuals who did not fit into the Nazi ideological 'type' were selected and sent to clinics like the Am Spiegelgrund clinic in Vienna, which began euthanizing patients in the next year.

Excerpt from article ' The Real Story of the von Trapps'  by Isabel Monteith (2016):

The von Trapp family did not flee from the Nazis in the dead of the night by hiking over the Alps. While it is true that their ideology did not align with the new Nazi regime's, and that Georg von Trapp refused to fly the Nazi flag out of the front of their home and refused to sing at Hitler's birthday party, the family simply traveled out of the country in September of 1938, heading to Italy. From there they journeyed to England, and finally settled in the United States before the war began.

September 28th, 1938
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

I don't know if you got my last two letters, but I haven't received anything from you since the beginning of the month.

Is everything okay? Your uncle hasn't found out about your correspondence through Jilí, has he?

Please write soon so I know you're alright.

Yours,
Steve

Chapter Text

Hyginus: Sirens were fated to live only until the mortals who heard their songs were able to pass by them.

1934

On Bucky's birthday, Matthias's band performed at a theater in Harlem which had been recently renovated and reopened after falling into disrepair – the Apollo. His band had been doing pretty well for themselves with the help of a new lady booking agent in Harlem, getting hired for performances at theaters and clubs every weekend. Matthias had even been able to fix their apartment's heater and buy Alice a new school uniform.

Alice's mom didn't earn much from her translation work and had been busy with Tom, who was learning to count and thought it was good fun to pull everything out of their cupboards to count it. Alice had put locks on her cupboard doors.

Alice invited Steve and Bucky to the Apollo performance. They'd only seen Matthias's band perform a couple of times so they readily agreed. They weren't allowed to be in the audience, but they were given three stools in the dark wings of the stage, up against the wall, and told not to move.

Alice disobeyed while the stage manager was backstage before the performance; she crept up to the corner of the heavy red stage curtain and peeled back the edge. The cresting noise of the crowd pushed through the gap, and Alice's eyes went wide at the sight of the packed rows, the fancy-dressed ladies and gentlemen in the balcony. Most of the audience were black, this being the Apollo, but she saw pale faces in amongst them. As if they could all get along for a night to enjoy a band play.

She crept back to her seat beside Steve and Bucky with a smile on her face. "They've managed to fill almost all the seats," she murmured. Her stomach fluttered, as if it were her about to emerge when those velvet curtains swung open.

Steve seemed to sense her thoughts. "It'll be you soon," he said confidently.

She shook her head at him, but she was smiling.

Minutes later the band filed onto stage (Matthias darting aside to ruffle Alice's hair), and then the curtains swung open to applause. Alice couldn't choose between staring at the band as they began playing their bright, brassy music, or out at the enraptured faces of the audience. She felt magnetized toward it all, an insatiable pull in her gut. Though she knew that this place didn't belong to her: this place was for Matthias, and for Tom, and everyone else who would never be given the chance to sing outside of Harlem.

She, Steve, and Bucky kept obediently out of the way, and danced in their seats.

Alice sang along softly to the songs she knew, especially to the one she'd heard Matthias compose at home during the soft, sleepy hours before bed. Bucky bounced his knees and tapped his fingers, always the dancer, and Steve listened with a half-smile.

Alice didn't realize she had an audience outside of Steve and Bucky until the band took a fifteen minute break and a dark-skinned lady in smart floral dress with enormous buttons came over and set her hand on her hip in front of Alice.

"You're Matthias's stepdaughter, right?"

Alice glanced up at the woman with wide eyes. The woman looked to be in her forties, with round hips, keen eyes and a shade of russet on her lips.

Alice nodded cautiously.

The russet lips curved into a smile. "That's right, he told me about you." At Alice's further confusion she pointed to herself. "I'm Bess, their booking manager. You're a singer, right?"

"Yes," Alice said confidently. Hesitation was useless. Steve and Bucky nodded when Bess's eyes flicked their way for a moment.

Bess stuck out her bottom lip. "Well, I've got a band without a singer this coming Saturday night at a club two blocks from here." Her eyebrows lifted. "Think you'd be up to it?"

The muffled murmur of the crowd behind the curtains concealed Alice's sharp intake of breath through her nose.

"Yes," she repeated, trying to keep her eyes from going round.

Bess gave her a second glance. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

Bess again cast her eyes in Bucky and Steve's direction, but they just looked back at her blankly (save for a ghost of a smile twitching at Bucky's lips).

Bess narrowed her eyes, but after a moment she shrugged, pulled a scrap of paper out of her pocket and scribbled on it, then pushed it into Alice's hands. "That's the details and a set list. See you then, songbird. You'll get ten dollars."

She walked off, heels clicking on the theater floor, and Alice's eyes bugged.

"Ten dollars?" she whispered.

Steve and Bucky grinned.

"Told you it'd be you soon!" Steve exclaimed.

"You'll knock 'em dead," Bucky agreed.

Alice pressed her hands to her cheeks. "I've only sung at church and parties before. I don't even know the band! What if I'm terrible?"

"Bess there clearly thought you'd be alright," Bucky reasoned, jerking his head backstage.

Steve set his hand on Alice's shoulder. She marveled, as she always did, at how light his touch was. "You don't talk about it much," he began, "but I know you want to be at a place like this someday, singing to a crowd like that," he nodded to the crowd behind the curtain. "You perform to a church full of cold, tired people every Sunday and make 'em smile. You know how to do this." Steve had always been good at conviction, and as he looked at her his blue eyes held no doubt or possibility of hesitation. His belief in her made her pull her hands away from her cheeks. "Besides," he added with a small smile. "I bet you'll know that set list back to front by the end of tonight."

Alice looked down at the hastily scribbled set list in her hands. It was all jazz, blues, swing, nothing she'd sing in church or at school.

She smiled. "I already know it back to front."

Alice did end up checking with Matthias about Bess's offer, but he said that as long as her mom went with her she'd be fine. It was unsaid, but they both knew he could not go with her.

Saturday found her setting up with a band she'd met twenty minutes ago on a small wooden stage at an evening club, with just a screen between them and the gathered audience. Alice had caught a glimpse of them on her way in – finely dressed ladies and gentlemen sipping out of glinting cocktail glasses, sitting at tables with tealights flickering in the center. Her mom had gone to find a place at the bar after kissing Alice on the cheek.

Alice wore a slim green evening dress her mom had lent her, and had fidgeted as her mom patted her with powder and blush at her dressing table. It all felt very grown up. Her palms were sweaty.

The band were perfectly nice: three fellows from the Bronx with drawling accents and quick fingers on their instruments. They tried to hide their uncertainty about her. Their usual singer, the trumpet player's wife, was out with the flu.

Before Alice knew it a club employee pulled back the screen and a glinting audience sat before her. Watching. Anticipating. She swallowed thickly.

But then Billy the drummer struck up a beat, and the others joined in, and Alice spotted Steve and Bucky at a table up the back.

They wore their best suits and had slicked their hair to make them look older. When Alice spotted them they broke out in identical grins as if to say 'surprise!'

When Alice sang the first bar of It's Only A Paper Moon, she was smiling.

After that first moment the crowd was hers. She spent the night in a heady rush of song, her head swimming and her eyes blurring in the lights. Her voice ran as clear as it ever did and by her sides, her hands rose and fell with the melody. The band beamed at her.

By the end her mom was in tears. Bucky stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled, and Steve looked on with a smile as if finally looking at a picture he'd always imagined, but never seen.

Podcast Series 'The Pre-War Years', episode 'The Harlem Rennaisance', 2015.

"…  an explosion of art, culture, music, and society that began and centered in Harlem in the 1920s. It brought worldwide attention to African American literature, art, music, novels, poets, and playwrights, and was the origin of a lot of the music that we know and love today. Hayley, do you think there's another cultural movement in the pre-war years that really holds a candle to this one?"

The next month, Alice asked Finn Neri out on a date.

They'd been spending more time together since he got suspended for punching Ed Miller last year, and after a few months of rumors circulating about the two of them, and Edith encouraging her, Alice had asked him if he wanted to go to the soda fountain with her.

They sipped coke and talked about whether or not the police would catch up with Bonnie and Clyde or John Dillinger's gang, and at the end of the date Alice let Finn walk her home and kiss her on the cheek.

Bucky teased her mercilessly at school the next day. Steve said nothing.

After the third date, Alice realized she'd made a mistake. She knew what love looked like, since she saw it every day at home: Matthias dancing her mom around their threadbare apartment to Duke Ellington on the radio, her mom stroking Matthias's tired face when they thought everyone else was asleep.

Alice was sure she'd be able to identify that feeling in herself, even the beginnings of it, but she never saw herself feeling that way toward Finn. She was very fond of him, but this was not that.

So she told him so. He seemed a strange mix of relieved and disappointed, and Alice realized she might not have been the only one feeling pressure to find a person.

The next time she went to the soda fountain was with Steve and Bucky again, and she didn't realize that the tingling prickle she felt when Steve's hair brushed over his forehead was the very beginnings of that feeling she'd thought she was so sure she could identify.

Alice spent the summer obsessed with the Kate Smith Hour on the radio, and saving up money from her singing gigs to buy Steve a decent birthday present. She got hired to perform at a few bars and old speakeasies, since now that alcohol was legal again performers were in high demand, and Bucky and Steve sneaked in to cheer her on when they could. No longer did she only sing lofty, choral songs on Sunday – she sang jazz and blues, the stuff she heard on the radio, and she loved it. It was all mostly community work, but a few articles about her cropped up in the papers. Matthias framed every single one.

Halfway through summer break, Bucky announced that he wasn't going back to school in September.

"I've learned everything I wanted to learn," he told a dumbstruck Alice and Steve, leaning back on the heels of his palms in the grass at the Brooklyn Bridge Park. "Besides, since Ma lost her washing job I need to help them out" – sensing Steve and Alice's intakes of breath he held up a hand – "No, don't offer to help, you've got enough going on with your families." He smiled at them. "I don't mind. I want to get out there, use my hands and earn my way. My cousin got me a place working construction on the new docks in Hell's Kitchen, and after that he says there's always work in Red Hook."

Steve watched his friend with furrowed brows. "Be careful." Labor work wasn't the safest job in the city, and Red Hook wasn't the safest neighborhood in Brooklyn.

Alice cocked her head. "Have you told your parents?"

"Not yet," Bucky said with a half-smile at her perception. "I'm going to tonight, but I wanted to let you two idiots know you'll have to fend for yourselves when you go back to school."

"How will we ever survive," Alice said dryly.

Bucky pointed at her. "I think you underestimate the number of times I've kept you two out of trouble. Without me, all impulse control goes out the window."

"That ain't true," Steve cut in with a laugh. "Alice has impulse control."

Bucky just shot him a skeptical look.

Alice rearranged her skirt around her crossed legs and turned her face to the sun for a moment as Steve and Bucky bickered. Other friends of hers had left school to support their families, but it felt much closer to home with Bucky, despite his easy smiles. She knew he'd be okay: Bucky always was, no matter where he landed – he didn't take things to heart the way she and Steve did. He'd make friends, and flirt with girls while wearing his denim overalls and smelling of sea salt. He wouldn't drift away from them.

Alice opened her eyes again.

"What do you want to be?" she asked.

Steve and Bucky looked over. Steve squinted in the sunlight, his blonde hair tickling his brow.

Alice leaned forward. "Who do you want to be? When you…" she waved a hand. "Grow up."

"I'm plenty grown up," Bucky said, mock-offended. But at seventeen, he was still growing more lanky and broad-shouldered by the month.

Alice just raised an eyebrow.

Bucky shrugged. "No idea. I guess that's part of why I'm doing this. School hasn't helped me figure out what to do, so I'm going out to try stuff out." He turned to Steve. "What about you, Picasso?"

Steve's cheeks went pink and he glanced down to tug on blades of grass. "I don't know. Art school'd be nice, if I could afford it. I'd want to do graphic art, or… something." He kept his eyes downcast, as if afraid of his own dreams.

"And?" Alice prompted.

Steve's eyes flickered to her face for a moment, then down again. "I'd sign up to fight to protect people."

Summer breeze blew across the grass, shifting it and changing its patterns.

Bucky sneezed. "No need to sign up, you've been doing that for years."

Steve smiled down at the grass, and Alice smiled for him. He had two impossible dreams, but she believed he was stubborn enough to see them through. Only one of them terrified her.

Steve plucked out a blade of grass, smoothed his fingertips down it, then glanced up. "What about you, Alice?"

"I'd like to marry a baseball player and become so rich that I can bathe in wine and never wear the same outfit twice."

Bucky and Steve doubled over laughing. They were too used to the blank, deadpan way she delivered jokes now, she'd have to find new ways to surprise them. After a moment she smiled too.

"You change your team loyalty every Tuesday Al, don't know if your husband would be too keen on that," Bucky laughed. Steve rolled his eyes.

"A good old-fashioned millionaire then," she conceded. Then she propped her chin in her hand and thought about it. "No, I wouldn't like being someone's housewife. I want to work, like my mom."

"Go on then," Steve said with a smile. "What'll you do for a living?"

"Bank robberies?" Bucky suggested.

Alice threw a twig at him. "No. I want to go to a music school." She said it so smoothly, as if it were something she'd told everyone she'd ever met, but the moment the words left her lips she realized she'd never spoken them aloud. She continued: "Julliard or the Manhattan School of Music, so I can be close to home. Or there's the New York College of Music." She nodded to herself then fell still. "But there's no way I'd be able to go."

Bucky and Steve didn't need to ask: money. Silence fell between them for a moment or so, each of them thinking of the dollar signs between them and what they wanted.

Alice cleared her throat. "I'll have to settle for the baseball player, then."

Bucky and Steve laughed again, and after a few more moments they decided to take a walk along the water. It was a beautiful day, after all.

One morning at the end of July, Alice woke and sloped into the main room of the apartment to see her mom frowning as she looked down at the paper, a cold mug of tea sitting beside her. She could hear Matthias and Tom playing in the other bedroom.

"Mama?" Alice murmured as she dropped into another seat at the table. She rubbed sleep out of her eyes. "Was ist los?" [What's the matter?]

Her mom looked up. "The Austrian Chancellor was murdered yesterday."

Alice scratched her cheek. "Oh."

Her mom laid the paper down, still frowning. "By Austrians in the Nazi party. The Italians are defending Austria's independence, danke Gott, and Herr Hitler is saying he had nothing to do with it." Her frown deepened. "The chancellor… I did not like him, but he did not deserve to die. I'm worried what this will mean for our country."

Alice eyed the photograph of the dead Chancellor in the paper; a round-faced pale-eyed man with a mustache. "Well they'll get a new Chancellor, won't they?"

"I don't know if that's what Germany wants."

"It's not up to them!" Alice exclaimed. She didn't feel all that connected to Austria any more – she remembered it fondly, but her life was here – but that made her indignation rise.

Her mom raised a fine blonde eyebrow and smoothed down the newspaper. "Someone had better tell them that, then."

A few days after Alice turned sixteen, to all the fanfare of a dinner at home and a movie with Steve and Bucky, she and Steve went back to school without Bucky. They'd never had classes with him, but it felt strange to sit sleepily at a desk while Bucky was out there somewhere working in the sun. Alice's thoughts were equally on her little brother, who had started kindergarten that day and had seemed teary about the prospect that morning.

She hoped, rather than believed, that school would go smoothly for him. When she thought about some of the things she'd been through…

She shook away the thoughts. There was nothing she could do to protect him from here, and he was only in kindergarten after all.

Steve and Alice didn't have enough money to go meet Bucky at the docks in Manhattan, so they went to sit on the curb outside his family's tenement to wait for him. They tossed pebbles into the gutter and pored over Alice's book/box of useful tools, to which she had added significantly over the past few years. The book's navy blue cover had faded to grey.

When Bucky showed up, his dark hair in his eyes and his clothes filthy, he flashed a white grin at them.

"Wait there," he greeted them. "I'll get cleaned up and we'll head to the diner. I'm starving."

Excerpt from 'Love and Color in America' (1998), p. 110:

While mixed race couples did marry and live together in this time, they could not be without fear for their safety. The Mann Act, originally adopted to prosecute the trafficking of women and girls across state lines, was used by racist police forces to prosecute couples in consensual relationships who travelled interstate.

In the first decade of the twentieth century there were strong pushes to make an amendment in the constitution banning all interracial marriage.

…  The last United States law officially prohibiting interracial marriage was not repealed until 2000.

That year, their lives felt more adult. They still ran down back alleys and threw rocks at trash can lids, but they preferred to go to soda fountains and diners, or the park. They all had jobs of a sort. Steve had a string of weekend jobs that he got fired from for arguing with customers or not showing up when he got sick, and the occasional art commission. He started going to an art class on Wednesday evenings when Alice had typewriting class.

Alice made pocket money from her singing gigs, and in the summer break had started helping out in earnest at the tailor shop. Matthias was run ragged between the band, the shop, and home, so she helped out with mending, washing, measuring, and even learned how to knit so she could help him when the winterwear came in.

On clear nights when her dreams kept her awake, Alice liked to creep up to the roof of the tenement building and watch the stars. She had her own spot: a concrete slab beside the brick barrier that overlooked the street below and gave her somewhere to rest her head. One of the bricks was loose, and behind it she'd hidden a tiny set of binoculars and a few scraps of paper in case she felt the urge to write the music that drifted through her mind.

Tonight though, she just rested her chin on her folded hands on the brick barrier, closed her eyes, and listened. She wore the thick woolen pajamas and socks that she'd slipped out of bed in, shielding her from the fall breeze. The city sounded alive to her.

Until it sounded wrong.

First it was just a snatch of voices from the street below – not uncommon despite the late hour, so she ignored it. But instead of fading the voices rose, turning ugly, and then she heard the scuffling sounds of shoes on pavement. She opened her eyes just as a grunt of pain punctuated the night air.

Hair rising on the back of her neck, Alice looked down.

At first all she caught was the gleam of a street lamp off five heads of hair, and dark clothed limbs in a tangled mass. Their shadows were thrown long in the light of the streetlamp; a tangled monster of darkness.

Then one figure tumbled away from the rest onto the road, and with a sick twist Alice recognized its voice:

"Agh! Please, just take my money, it's yours-"

"I bet it's not even your money," sneered one of the dark shadows. "You come into this neighborhood and steal things, boy?"

"I live here, please just let me go home to my family," Matthias pleaded, rising to one elbow as the four men loomed over him. His shirt sleeve dangled, torn open. Just before the mens' shadows spilled over his face Alice saw slick blood gleaming on his cheek.

Ugly names floated up to the rooftop like departing spirits.

Alice wasn't there to hear them.

She thundered down the tenement stairs in her socks, her breath a cold spike in her throat, then burst out the front door onto the street and looked around wildly. The men were still where she'd last seen them, but one of them had grabbed the front of Matthias's starched white band shirt and was hitting him with sick thudding sounds. Matthias scrabbled uselessly trying to throw up a hand to defend himself and the other three men looked on with darkness in their eyes.

"Stop!"

Alice's mom had often described her as a 'big voice in a small body'. But never had she thrown her voice as large as that night. The men stopped. The one at the front withdrew his fist, but still held Matthias propped off the ground like an unruly bag.

Four sets of blurry eyes took in the sight of Alice as she stormed across the dark street toward them, her blonde hair frizzing around her face like a static cloud and her eyes swallowing the shadows around her. "Let him go!"

She seized Matthias's shoulder and tried to physically yank him away from the first man, but as if coming out of a momentary freeze he redoubled his grip on Matthias and resisted her. Alice caught the sharp sour smell of alcohol in the air.

"Go back inside," Matthias groaned as he got his knees under him. One of his eyes was completely shut up, like she had seen on Steve once after a pair of senior boys worked him over, and his white dress shirt was splattered red. Turn the other cheek.

"Go on inside," said another one of the men to Alice. His eyes were spiderwebbed with red veins. "There's nothing for you out here."

The men loomed in and over her like one staggering mass, and Alice reeled under the scents of booze, blood, and stale sweat. The first man dropped Matthias and then kicked him in the ribs, almost as an afterthought.

"Stop," Alice repeated. She darted forward and put her hand to where Matthias had been kicked, making him hiss. He raised his hand and batted at her as if to push her away.

"Go inside," he groaned. "Allie-"

Alice turned on the men. She tried to memorize their faces but their features slid in front of her eyes like smoke. They seemed as tall as mountains. She realized her heart was pounding so hard in her chest it felt as if it were suffocating her. "Please."

"You want this criminal in your streets, little girl?" called one of the men with a curl to his lip. He shouldered past her and crouched down to seize Matthias's lovely black hair. Matthias's teeth flashed in the darkness. "You want him sneaking around in the dark?"

"Stop!" Alice pulled at the man's shoulder, feeling thick muscle, and he let go to shrug her off before sinking his fist into Matthias's gut. Matthias's voice wheezed out of him like a punctured tire. Alice did not think to scream, had never been one to scream when scared, but something about that visceral blow made her suck in a sharp, high breath.

She'd never gotten in a fight before, but before she knew what she was doing she was fighting. She threw herself at the man who'd hit Matthias and tore at him with her fingernails, ripping at the side of his neck as he stood up and then pummeling him, throwing her whole weight against him to get him away from the man curled up and gasping behind her. The others moved forward, their voices an indistinguishable alcohol-soaked burr in her ears, so she threw herself at them too.

She would not realize until later, but she was screaming. She knew she was crying, because the tears blurred her vision, but she saw enough to see a shape and attack. She bounced off one wall of muscle and heard a laugh so she ducked, angled her arm and then slammed her elbow upwards into soft, sensitive flesh.

The laugh turned into a howl.

Then a hand swung out of the edge of her vision and into the back of her head, knocking her head-first down to the edge of the sidewalk. Her chin cracked off the corner of the curb and exploded starbursts behind her eyes, and then her face slid down the gravelly side of the curb down to the road. Her face felt wet, and hot.

She didn't faint away like in the movies, didn't wake up on a low-lying couch with gentlemen fussing over her. She stayed awake with her head in the gutter, her ears ringing and her whole face stinging with pain as she saw four sets of dark brown shoes walk away – out of the pool of streetlight, and into the darkness.

She blinked, and it seemed to take a while for her eyes to open properly.

Matthias groaned as he sat up. He then made a sound that would stay with her for the rest of her life: the sound of a man who thought his child was dead.

The sound made her roll over to see what was wrong, and then Matthias choked on a gasp and rushed over to her, wincing and hissing as he did.

"Alice," he whispered, "Allie, can you hear me?"

"Yes." The word tasted like blood, so she spat. Matthias's face was round and wet in the streetlight, the white around his uninjured eye so wide he looked like one of those Halloween posters. "Are you okay?"

His large dark hand rose to brush her hair away from her face, which she realized was a difficult task given all the blood matted in it. He took her jaw and tilted it, his good eye assessing with a frightened glint. "You're okay," he breathed. Touched a spot on her chin that made her jerk away. "You're okay?"

She nodded, which made her kind of dizzy. Her throat felt raw.

"Let's get inside."

Together they rose and staggered into the tenement. Matthias groaned lowly under his breath all the way up the stairs, and when Alice reached to support him he winced away. She wasn't sure if she'd touched an injury or if he was just afraid of more pale hands reaching out of the darkness.

They woke her mom and Tom when they fell into the apartment. Tom started crying without ever having seen who caused the sudden noise, but her mom flew out of her bedroom, saw them silhouetted in the gloom and barely concealed a scream.

Alice thought for sure she would scream when they turned the light on, but she only let out an awful shuddering sound like a ship creaking apart at the seams and went very, very white.

After that, she got to work. Alice's mom sat them both down at the dining table, looked between them both, then when Alice reached out to grab Matthias to stop him keeling over where he sat, got to work on Matthias first.

She pressed a hot, wet towel into Alice's hands. "Hold this over your chin," she urged. "Dicht." [Tightly.]

Alice obeyed. Her chin stung, but the pain cleared her head a little. The hazy streetlight, the gloom of the tenement stairwell, the sudden white light of their apartment had all felt like a dream. The strange kind of dream that you woke up from with sweat on the back of your neck and a deeply disturbed feeling. But she knew she wouldn't wake up.

She held the hot towel to her chin and watched her mom wipe blood away from Matthias's dark skin and ask him questions in a whisper. Only questions about where he hurt: she didn't seem to need to ask what had happened.

Matthias was lethargic, but he promised it was just from exhaustion and from being knocked around – his head felt fine. He kept leaning past Marie to look at Alice, to ask how her head felt and was she feeling sick, or confused.

Alice frowned. She knew why he asked, and she didn't think that's what was wrong with her. Her chin hurt, and the heels of her palms were skinned, but her confusion wasn't because she'd hit her head. She felt… she felt as if she'd passed into a new world after stepping into the sickly yellow pool of that streetlamp.

She answered his questions quietly, and handed towels and bowls of water to her mom with her free hand when she needed them. She stood up to pour a bowl of soupy red water down the kitchen sink and stopped short at the sight of her reflection in the dark window.

Her face was scarlet with blood. It had dried, leaving smears and drips of red across the lower half of her face and down her neck. Her hair on the right side of her head was stiff and crackly with it. She reached up to touch it and flakes of blood fluttered down into the sink.

She peeled the towel away and looked at her chin. It wasn't a very big cut, for all that blood: a shallow dark-seeping gouge at the very tip of her chin.

Alice pressed the towel back and looked up. Her own wide green eyes stared back at her in the glass, as if to ask what does it mean, that this has happened? Who are we now?

"Alice," called her mom softly. "I'm going to take Matthias to hospital." Alice looked up, eyes even wider. "I think he's going to be okay, but I want to make sure. Go get your coat."

Alice shook her head. She knew that only one of them could go into a hospital looking like this. It had to be Matthias. "I'm okay," she croaked. "I'll just put a plaster on it. It's not bad, really." The words tasted false, though she really believed the cut would be fine.

"Take Alice," Matthias said through swollen lips.

Alice just shook her head again.

Tears in her eyes, her mom nodded.

But before they left, Alice's mom crouched in front of Alice and cleaned her face with a fresh towel. She even squeezed the blood out of her hair. Then she fetched fresh gauze and a plaster, and covered up the wound. That done, she leaned in and pressed a kiss against her cheek.

"My brave girl," she murmured. "Go get some sleep."

When her mom went to go get Matthias's coat, Alice stood up and went over to Matthias's chair. He looked up at her with a single, pain-filled eye. His face looked blotchy and swollen, and he tilted to one side in his chair.

"Allie," he choked out. She'd never heard him sound like that.

She leaned down and kissed his cheek, just like her mom had kissed her. "Get better," she said.

"I will," he promised.

Alice walked into her bedroom, where her mom had lain Tom down to sleep again, and curled into bed beside him.

She lay in the dark with her chin throbbing, and listened to Matthias and her mom whispering as they left the apartment. She couldn't make out the words. She heard her mom's voice wobble.

Then the apartment was silent.

Tom's breaths were light, barely there.

It was far too late for Steve to be awake. But after a few minutes of lying in the dark beside her small, warm, brother, Alice crawled out of bed again and went to the radio. She turned it on to a soft crackle, and tapped out notes on the telegraph key: Ulysses.

She got only silence in return.

Matthias was still gone the next morning – at the hospital for observation but doing fine, her mom explained after wrapping Alice in a tight, warm hug. Then there was Tom to wrangle, and Alice's chin to be fussed over, and before she knew it Alice was grabbing her book strap and heading out the door.

Steve stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her waiting at their usual meet-up spot on the way to school.

"Is it obvious?" Alice asked, touching the plaster just on the edge of her chin. The swelling had gone down overnight and the bruise was hidden under the plaster.

"You…" It wasn't until Steve glanced down that Alice realized he hadn't even noticed her chin, but had been watching her eyes. "Are you hurt? What happened?" He closed the distance between them in a rush and ducked to look at the plaster.

"I'll tell you on the way."

Alice described the events of the night before in a low murmur as they walked the three blocks to school. Steve's face went from still, to terrified, to furious and terrified, and when she finished he was all righteous and indignant like that first time she'd seen him standing up with clenched fists as he stared down their bully of a teacher. Usually that look made her worried for his safety, but now it made her smile for the first time since last night. Nothing, she realized, was so terrible that Steve Rogers would not try to fight it.

He veered between making angry speeches about the men, to fussing over Alice's chin even worse than her mom had, and asking if she was okay. She knew he didn't mean the chin.

Alice was usually quiet, calm, but Steve sensed something different about her stillness that morning. She'd been shaken. Something had happened behind that hard, resilient shell she always kept wrapped around herself, and Steve suspected it was the kind of thing that didn't go away. Sometimes he wished she'd crack even for a moment so he could see her plain, bare feelings, but he knew she never would. Alice didn't crack. She opened up and shared when she was ready to.

He'd have to wait.

Then they were at school, and there was no more time to talk about it. In their shared classes Steve tapped out jokes in Morse code to make her smile, and at lunchtime she went to the nurse's office because her mom had asked her to. Just in case. When Edith asked about the plaster, Alice said she'd hit her chin on the edge of a sidewalk. Not a lie.

They next got a chance to talk alone after school, as they walked through Brooklyn to the train station at Union Street where Bucky had promised to meet them. Only they didn't talk right away. Alice watched her scuffed shoes step over the sidewalk and wore silence like a cloak. Steve put his hands in his pockets and matched her stride.

The streets were growing cold again, reminding him of the first time he'd really, properly met her – soaking wet and spitting mad as she fished her book out of a puddle. He'd thought back then that he didn't understand girls, and he definitely still didn't now, but he understood Alice. It had taken a long time, but he certainly hadn't minded. Alice seemed to relish in going unnoticed, but it had been impossible for him not to notice something new about her every day of the past four years he had known her. Today, he noticed that pain – the type that must be throbbing from her chin – made her eyes tight and hard like twin green river stones. He didn't like it.

When they were almost halfway there, she spoke.

"Are you scared, when you get into fights?"

Steve was silent for a long moment, looking at her. She noticed his gaze but didn't meet it. He shrugged. "I don't really put a lot of thought into it, to be honest." She snorted, and he rolled his eyes. "I mean, what usually happens is that I realize something is wrong and then I'm just there. Trying to stop it. I guess I'm wary about the pain, because I have a pretty good idea of how much something is going to hurt, but that doesn't mean I don't do it anyway." He frowned. "Does that make much sense?"

"It does," Alice murmured.

Steve glanced sideways at her again. "Were you scared?"

Her head tipped back and she took a long breath. "Yes. I was scared the second I saw him down there."

"So you were scared for him."

Her eyes flicked to Steve. "Of course I was."

"Were you scared for yourself?"

She thought about it, and he saw a shadow go over her face at the memory. "I guess so. Not until I was on the street and suddenly they were all taller and bigger than me, though."

"You didn't run." He couldn't take his eyes off her. Their footsteps scuffed on the pavement.

"No," she said softly. "I didn't."

He smiled, but then it wavered. "Kinda wish you had."

"And I always wish that you would, too."

More footsteps in silence. A pigeon pecked at Steve's shoes and he shooed it away.

"I don't know why I fought them," Alice said.

"What do you mean?"

She pushed her fine blonde hair behind her ears, and Steve noticed her fingers shaking. "I mean I… I've never been like that, Steve. I lost all control, I just… I didn't know all that was inside me. In my mind it's always been… you're the fighter, Bucky is the peacemaker, and I… I scheme." Steve knew that was Matthias's word for it. "But then… last night. I didn't even really try to talk them down. I just attacked them. Why did I do that?"

Her thoughts unspooled out of her like tangled barbed wire. Steve could feel them: sharp and precarious.

He put his hands in his pockets and sighed through his nose. "Because they were assholes."

That startled a wet laugh from her, and she finally looked straight at him.

He half-smiled at her. "Maybe that's not, uh, the right word, but you know what I mean. They were assholes, they were bullies, they thought they could hurt someone you loved and get away with it. And you might be a schemer, but you scheme to make things right. What you did, fighting them… you were trying to make things right. You let them know that they can't just hurt whoever they like."

"I'm not sure if I did," Alice murmured, but she looked better. As if she'd stepped out from a shadow. The tangled spools of her thoughts reeled back in.

"Maybe not," Steve acknowledged. "But you protected your step-dad. That's nothing to be scared of."

She looked at him again. "Are you scared of me?"

The question took him aback. He remembered thinking early on that Alice Moser was scary; the way she hid so much under an innocent façade and how she went about seeking calculated revenge. But the answer to her question came easily: "No."

Her eyebrows rose slightly.

He cocked his head. "Are you scared of me?" It was a laughable question really, with his skinny arms and wheezy lungs and the way he was always just below eyesight, but Alice looked at him seriously. "You said you were scared of the way you just busted out fighting, and I… I…" he didn't know how to put it, but he could see that Alice understood.

Her green eyes cleared. "No," she said. She smiled like she'd just taken a breath of fresh air, and Steve was helpless to do anything other than smile back. "You're alright, Steve Rogers."

He glanced away. "Might need your eyes checked, Alice Moser."

"Don't think I do."

The tone of her voice startled him, but then there was a shout of "Hey, punk! Troublemaker!" and they both looked up to see Bucky waving like a maniac on the other side of the street.

Bucky quickly went from carefree to panicked and mad when he heard.

"Did you recognize 'em? We could tell someone-"

"They weren't from round here," Alice cut in quietly. "Wrong accents. And Matthias would never want to cause more trouble anyway."

Bucky fussed as they walked to the cheapest soda fountain in the neighborhood, stopping every few blocks to check the purple bruise under Alice's chin. Alice would have gotten annoyed, but he did the same with Steve whenever he got beat up, so she just stood still and let him fuss.

When they got there and took a seat at a stained booth, Alice folded her hands in front of her and stared Bucky down. "I know you've been showing Steve how to defend himself," she said. It hadn't been a secret – Bucky's dad was friends with the owner of the local gym and let him go in after hours, and Bucky had been in the boxing club at school for years. After Steve's really bad beatup with the senior boys Bucky had taken it upon himself to teach Steve how to at least duck. Alice had never felt the need to go. She was the schemer, after all.

Bucky, who'd been in the middle of talking about how the soda here tasted weird, frowned. The jukebox in the corner played Glen Miller.

Alice's eyes bored into his. "Teach me too."

His mouth opened. "But-"

"Bucky."

He shut his mouth.

"Teach me too."

Bucky looked to Steve, who was no help when it came to Alice as per usual, then back to Alice. He shifted under her direct gaze and the seat squeaked.

"Okay," he sighed. "Fine."

Matthias was at home when Alice got back.

He somehow looked worse than he had last night – his wounds were stale now, swollen and purple, and his joints were stiff as he turned around to look at her. Bucky and Steve had left Alice in a relatively good mood, but suddenly she wanted to cry.

"Allie," Matthias breathed. "C'mere."

She ran across the apartment to him, hesitated a foot away, then stepped into his open arms. She was careful when hugging him – barely any pressure at all, fingers feather-light. He angled away from her chin and stroked the back of her head.

"How're you doing?" he asked, and Alice realized that part of the reason she'd been so terrified last night was that he had barely been able to speak.

"Better than you," she said, and he laughed and then winced.

"Let's sit down."

They shuffled over to the couch. Sunlight streamed into the small apartment through the kitchen window, dusty and golden. The apartment felt like home again.

Matthias explained that her mom and Tom were out at the store, and then his eyes (the right one peeking through a massive bruise) grew serious.

"How did you see what was going on last night?"

Alice swallowed. This conversation, stupidly, hadn't occurred to her. She didn't have a lie ready. "I was on the roof." At his steady gaze she added: "Sometimes I can't sleep. No one else goes up there."

His face drew up in tense lines, but then he sighed and let it go. "So you saw me getting beat on and came down to stop them, huh?" His voice was gravelly and soft.

Alice nodded.

His head tilted down, as if his neck was too tired to hold it up. She hated this. Matthias never showed this side to her even though she knew it was there – he smiled when he was tired, he sang when he was sad. She didn't know what to do with this.

"If you see something like that again," he said, "I want you to stay where you are. Stay safe."

Alice had expected that, at least. "Okay," she lied.

He noticed. He always did. His head rose and he looked at her. "I'm always proud of you for doing the right thing, Allie, but you've gotta pick your battles."

"But you didn't pick that!" she gestured unconsciously in the direction of the street. "They picked you, that's not fair."

"I know it's not," he said. "But it's a fact of life. And I'm not ever gonna be the guy who goes out to find people to hit because I'm angry at the world."

Alice said nothing.

Matthias sensed the revolution in her eyes and sighed. "Just… you can't protect anyone if you're dead, Allie." He touched the plaster on her chin. "Remember that."

Dead.

She felt again the crack of her jaw on the curb, the slide of blood across her skin. Cold, she nodded. "Okay."

Matthias nodded slowly, looking exhausted, then curved his bruised mouth in a smile. "I love you, Allie."

"I love you too."

They turned on the radio, because that's what they always did, and Alice's mom and Tom came back to find them half-asleep together on the couch, bruised and listening to the blues.

As Matthias stood up slowly to greet his wife and son, Alice watched through half-slitted eyes and thought: I'm still going to learn to fight. Just in case I ever need to again.

Chapter Text

Fennel Hudson: By the time you read this letter, these words will be those of the past. The me of now is gone.

October 1st , 1938
Vienna
Dear Steve Rogers,

My name is  Jilí. We have talked through Alice in the past but I thought I had better send you a letter now. I apologize if my English is not good. I got your last three letters, but I am not able to pass them on.

Three weeks ago Alice didn't show up to a meeting she was supposed be at with me, Franz, and some of our friends. This sometimes happens, but the next day I noticed one of her concerts had been cancelled. Though I tried, I couldn't see her for the next week, though I found out that she was in her uncle's house, maybe sick. This morning I got into the house pretending to be a porter while her uncle was out. She is not sick, and I managed to talk to her for fifteen minutes before a servant questioned me and I had to leave.

She told me that a week ago, her uncle informed her that he had arranged with Herr Goebbel's propaganda department for her to record a song – I don't know the details, but I can imagine the kind of song it would be. Up until now Alice hasn't challenged her uncle – she is very good at keeping her true feelings hidden. She stays quiet and obedient, but helps us when she can. But apparently to this request she gave a complete 'no'.

Alice only said that her uncle got 'angry', but there was a bruise on her cheekbone and she got very quiet when she mentioned it. I guess this arrangement would be very good for her uncle's career.

Alice didn't give in, so apparently she is completely forbidden from leaving the house – he's even assigned a maid to stay with her, so she can't even climb out the window like she usually does. She's refused to perform at all, so he's telling everyone that she's ill.

Our conversation got cut off there, but she wanted me to write to you to tell you that she's okay, but that she can't contact you right now. I'm very sorry to pass on this news.

Kind regards,
Jilí Červeňák

October 6th , 1938
Vienna
Dear Steve,

Thank you for your prompt reply. I still haven't heard from Alice, but another performance has been cancelled.

You asked if we could call the police – I wish I could, but it is more likely they would arrest us than do anything to help Alice. Her uncle is friends with Himmler, the head of all German police forces, and the police would only be sympathetic with him. We are doing what we can – without saying too much, we have networks in the city, and we are trying to find out more about Alice's situation.

I do not think it would help if you came to Vienna – you don't speak the language, you might be arrested, and Alice would only worry about you.

I will send you updates.

Kindly,
Jilí Červeňák

Excerpt from 'The Anschluss' by Wilhelm Steiner (2003), p. 187:

In the nine months following the annexation, 130,000 people escaped from Austria legally or illegally. Among these numbers were the intellectuals and creatives of Austria who saw that Nazi Austria was no longer a home for them – whether because they were Jewish or some other form of minority, or because their ideals simply could not survive in that environment. Scientists, composers, film makers, writers, singers, and actors all fled their native home for the more liberal shores of Britain or America. Otto Loewi, the 1936 Nobel laureate in Medicine, was forced to repay his prize money before emigrating out of Austria.

October 15th , 1938
Vienna
Dear Steve,

It's me. I'm writing this letter in one of the codes we used as children, I really hope you remember it. It's dangerous enough sending this even in code, but… well. I don't really have a logical reason for telling you all this. I just want to hear from you, I suppose.

I think Jil í explained my sudden silence. I reached my limit when my uncle asked me to record a pro-Nazi song for Herr Goebbels. Even singing in the same room as those people makes my skin crawl, and I've only done it before if there was some indirect way I could help my friends.

Jilí also explained my punishment, but after her last letter I managed to escape. My maid/gaoler went to the bathroom and I took the chance to climb out my bedroom window. I ran through the streets of Vienna in my nightclothes, all the way to Jilí's house. I spent the night there while (I later found out) my uncle had the police search for me. It's lucky I never let on anything about my friends to my uncle.

I didn't sleep. Jilí and I spent the night talking.  I was set on not supporting my uncle and his friends a moment longer, which I knew might mean I'd have to leave the country. But Jilí said I had a choice: she said I could flee back to America and hopefully to the kindness of my friends, or I could stay. I asked how I could possibly stay, and she said I could agree with my uncle and perform the song.

I can't quite describe the horror I felt when she said that, but I'm sure you'll share the feeling.  Jil í explained: I help people here. I haven't given you all the details, but if I were to leave then things would be harder for the people who live here.

Also, if I were to record this song I would have to go to Berlin to record it.

Jil í and Franz know some people who are sheltering three men – these men are Jewish, wanted by police for protesting. They'd be sent to the Mauthausen concentration camp to labor and starve, or maybe worse.

Jil í's idea is that I take on a few servants – say, three – to accompany me on my trip to Berlin (my uncle doesn't enjoy travelling with me anyway, we'll meet in Berlin). My servants don't necessarily have to see me all the way to Berlin once we leave Vienna – the train networks go everywhere, after all.

Also, Jil í pointed out that by visiting Berlin and performing the song to the German elites, I'll no doubt hear things (as I have been hearing at other parties). There's rumors about a new proposed deportation crackdown in Vienna, and I might be able to find out the truth behind it.

So this morning I came back to my uncle's house. I told the police I was feverish and ran off in confusion, and once they were gone I told my uncle I'd come to my senses and would record the song. He was so excited he kissed me on the cheek.

It's very, very, very stupidly dangerous for me to send this to you. But I feel like I need to… justify myself. Somehow. It's selfish. I've been swimming down a morally problematic river for months now, but this feels like I've reached the mouth of the river, leading out to the ocean. I have the chance to step ashore and dry off. But I'm not going to.

I hope you understand.

All this time I've been wondering how I can theoretically have all this power as an internationally famous singer, but be almost powerless when it comes to helping my friends. Speaking out against the things happening in Austria and Germany would only have me shunned, or even arrested. But this… this is power that none of my friends have.

I won't write so much detail about this in the future – I can't, it's simply too dangerous. And I hate that this is spreading over to you. You shouldn't have to worry so much about me. I know I said I wouldn't keep secrets from you, but I have to. And if you do refer to this, please write in some kind of code.

I'm sorry I didn't choose to come back. I dreamed about it, you know. I got on a boat back to New York, and you and Bucky and Tom were waiting for me at the port. You all looked exactly like you did when I left, even though I know you must be different. I held you all so tight my arms hurt. And then you took my hand and you led me back home.

I felt so lonely when I woke up. And the only reason that dream isn't real is because of this awful choice I've made. I can't go. But I've decided that when this craziness is over (because it must be over soon – other countries won't let Germany keep doing this forever. Or the Germans will realize that this is a pointless task and will give it up), I'm coming back. I'm coming back to Brooklyn. I'll buy Matthias's tailor shop and get it up and running again, and I'll sing on the radio, and I'll go to the pictures with you every Saturday.

I'll see you then.

Love,
Alice

[Translated] Clipping from The Vienna Times, "Radio Programming," October 1938

At seven this evening, listen to the latest tune from Vienna's favorite songbird, the Siren: Es lebe das Vaterland [Long live the Fatherland].

October 18th , 1938
Brooklyn
Alice,

What on earth did you write to Steve, troublemaker? He damn near had a panic attack when he read your letter, but when I stole it off him I couldn't goddamn read it because you put it in code and he won't tell me what it says. He says you told him it's secret.

He's worried out of his mind, Alice. Pacing up and down his apartment, missing work, chewing a hole in his lip. I've half a mind to book myself a ticket to Austria so I can drag you back by your ear and reassure him you're okay.

You are okay, aren't you? You better be.

Bucky

October 22nd , 1938
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

Thanks for letting me explain it all to Bucky, he's been trying to coax it out of me since I got your letter and as you know, he can be very annoying. Now he's worried, of course, but it seems he'd been imagining much worse stuff.

I'm sorry about my last letter. I was panicked when I wrote it, I didn't mean it to come across the way it did. I guess I understand what you wrote about feeling powerless – there's really nothing I can do to help you, is there? I hate that.

But you said in your last letter that you're safe, and being careful, and I trust you. I understand if you can't tell me stuff. From the sounds of it this was a one-time thing, though, so I'm hoping you'll be able to keep your head down from here on out.

I don't even know what I'm saying. Just please, be safe. If you have to take risks, be smart about them. I know that's rich coming from me, but the worst that can happen to me is I get clocked in the jaw.

I didn't respond to the last part of your first letter last time, about your dream. I'm sure that all this with Germany will settle down soon too – this is just a guy on a power trip, and those always come to an end. So when it does, I'll be there at the port waiting for your ship.

I'll see you then.

Love,
Steve.

Chapter Text

1934

Alice plucked at the men's trousers she wore as she looked around the empty boxing gym, with its wooden floors and three faded punching bags hanging from the high ceiling. Posters advertising long-fought boxing matches hung on the walls, and the yellow lights flickered every half hour or so. She sat on the edge of the gym's boxing ring – which, very confusingly, was actually square – with her shoulders against the rope.

Bucky and Steve wore plain white shirts, like her, and were pulling on boxing gloves. They'd put Alice's on for her like a child. She looked down and knocked her padded knuckles together.

"Alright," Bucky said as he closed the laces with his teeth. "On your feet, pupil."

Alice got to her feet.

Bucky gestured to Steve. "Steve, go on and show her how to throw a punch."

Steve blinked, started, and then cautiously approached Alice as if worried she might start punching him first. Alice just stood with her gloved hands hanging by her sides.

"Okay, so…" Steve held up his hands in a fighting stance, and Alice copied him. "Scoot your feet a bit further apart. Keep your knees bent a bit. Yeah, that's right." Steve turned and faced off against the hanging punching bag, and Alice came over to mirror him. "Then you point your chest at what you want to punch, push off your back foot and then punch through the bag."

"I think you might be underestimating my strength," Alice said wryly, even as she slowly mimicked Steve's slow movements.

"It's more a visualization thing." Steve showed the slow technique once more, then looked over his shoulder at Bucky. Bucky nodded and held up his bulky boxing glove in a thumbs up. Steve turned back to Alice, who frowned slightly at the bag as she slowly pushed her hand out, then drew it back.

"Alright, give it a go," Steve said.

Alice drew her fists back to their original position, eyed the bag, then threw a surprisingly quick punch that made the bag shiver. She drew her hand back then looked over to Steve and Bucky.

"That was good," Steve said. He glanced at Bucky again, then back. "You need to protect your face with your other fist though."

"Oh right, like a boxer." She'd seen Bucky's boxing matches from time to time.

She practiced a few more punches, once making the bag actually sway a little, before Bucky came in closer and clapped a glove on her shoulder.

"That was good," he said. "Now, Steve, what did I say was more important than learning how to throw a punch?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Learning how to dodge one."

"Great!" Bucky said brightly. He gestured to the ring. "Let's get started. Alice, just stay down here for a minute."

Alice watched the two of them climb onto the raised ring (square) and duck under the ropes, and came over to rest her elbows on the rope and watch them. They faced off in the center with raised fists. Steve had a wary, resigned look on his face.

Bucky turned to Alice. "You just watch for now." Then he turned back to Steve, shouted "Begin!" and dove after the smaller blonde boy. Steve leaped away.

Alice watched with her chin propped on a boxing glove as Bucky chased Steve around the ring for a few minutes, swinging and trying to clip him. Steve ducked and fell gracelessly and went red, and it was very clear that his every instinct told him to stop running and fight back, but they'd clearly done this before and he stuck to the rules. The sounds of skin skidding on the boxing ring floor, Steve's panting and the swish of Bucky's fists filled the air.

Bucky kept hollering "know your enemy!" and "anticipate!", and Steve looked like he wanted to sock him in the jaw.

Finally Bucky held up his hand, his chest heaving, and nodded at Steve. "Good job, punk. You almost got away from me that time."

"Jerk," Steve replied sourly. But when he ducked under the ropes Alice saw him looking pleased.

Bucky waved to Alice. "Your turn."

She climbed up, and Steve held the ropes for her. He was red and breathless and avoided her gaze. Once she'd risen to her feet in the ring, she faced Bucky.

"You ready?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

She held up her fists.

His eyes glinted. "Begin!"

Bucky rushed for her. Alice dodged aside, eyes on his face, and then he whirled around and swung at her.

Alice didn't move an inch.

The punch stopped an inch away from her head. Alice didn't flinch.

For a moment Alice and Bucky just stared at each other, one looking chagrined and the other with slow smile creeping up her face.

"Do I win?" she asked.

He pulled his fist away and wiped his forehead. "There's no winning, you're meant to dodge."

"Why?"

"So you don't get punched."

Steve watched them with his elbows on the rope.

"I didn't get punched," Alice pointed out. "I knew you wouldn't hit me."

Bucky scowled at her. "But anyone else would."

"Guess I just know my enemy," she smiled.

Steve snorted, and Bucky scowled again. After a few moments of glowering he looked down to tighten his gloves. "Alright, now I'm really going to hit you."

Alice believed him.

They went through the rigmarole of ducking and chasing and catching punches, and after five minutes sweat poured down Alice's face and her breath came sharp. She finally held up her arms in defeat, and Bucky jabbed her lightly in the ribs as revenge. She doubled over in a burst of surprise and laughter as Steve smiled on.

"You're not half bad, troublemaker," Bucky said. "I'll keep teaching you both once per week if you make me a promise."

Alice glanced up, still doubled over. "What's that?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Promise me you won't use these new skills for evil."

Steve snorted again, and Alice just rolled her eyes. "I promise, Bucky."

"Swell. Now let's get out of here, I stink and I'm worried you're about to keel over."

[Translated] Excerpt from 'A History of the Roman Empire', Sallust (c. 40BC)

Lentorius served as a musician in Spain when T. Didius was governor there. He composed and performed his own music, and received many accolades. His fame spread across the region, and he performed in front of weeping and amazed crowds, but this has not been well recorded, firstly because of his humble birth and secondly because historians were ill-disposed towards him. In his middle age a high-born woman spurned Lentorius and he leaped to his death from the cliffs of Ronda, where his body was lost to the sea. Such is the tragedy of Lentorius, and the wickedness of women.

In addition to her now weekly avoiding-a-punch lessons, the priest at their church started teaching Alice and Steve how to shoot a gun. He was a veteran and something of an enthusiast, despite the strange contradiction, and on Saturdays before choir practice they'd set up in the church yard with his old 1910 Browning and a target. He'd teach them how to hold it safely, what each part was and how it worked, how to aim, and how to keep their eyes open as they fired.

Brooklyn wasn't the safest of neighborhoods, and anyone who did come asking about the gunshots just said 'oh, good', and wandered off again.

Bucky came to their shooting practice a couple of times. The priest cocked an eyebrow at him once he'd fired all his rounds, and said "Keep it up, son. You're a fair hand at that."

The cut under Alice's chin began to fade into a scar. You couldn't usually see it in the shadow of her chin. But she knew it was there.

A few weeks before the end of the year, a radio producer called Alice at the tenement building's shared phone and invited her to sing on air as part of their Christmas programming. It was a step up from amateur hour, he explained, an exhibit of local rising talent to showcase the city.

Alice said yes so fast she'd barely had time to form the word in her mind before it was out her mouth.

Matthias couldn't go with her. They all knew why, though none of them voiced it, they just made arrangements for her mom to accompany her to the studio. Her heart panged when she walked out of the house leaving Matthias on the couch with Tom, already tuned into the radio.

The radio station itself was a grand imposing building with marble floors and impeccably dressed secretaries, and Alice tried not to seem too wide-eyed as she and her mom were escorted into an elevator, through busy halls, and toward the studio. The people around them were busy but kind enough, pressing glasses of water into their hands.

Then, very quickly, Alice was whisked away from her mom and into the studio itself. It was a low-ceilinged room that felt close, and quiet. Like the world had been told to hush. A single microphone stand stood on thick carpet in the center of the room, with wires trailing to a desk manned by two operators wearing headsets.

The radio host sat with another microphone at the other end of the room, and he glanced up as a producer ushered Alice towards the microphone in the center. His hair was slicked back and he wore a very fine suit – Alice wondered why he bothered, given no one would know. He noticed her gaze and flashed a quick smile.

One of the operators pointed to the host and he came to life: "Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, to 2XG's 'Christmastime in New York' talent hour!" His eyes skimmed across his notes. "Next up we have a lovely young lady by the name of Alice Moser, who's been gracing Brooklyn's microphones. How are you this afternoon, Alice?" His eyes rose to her.

Alice, who had been standing dumbly in front of the microphone with her hands limp by her sides, tried not to let the sick twisting of her guts show in her voice: "I'm well, thank you Mr Weller. Excited to be here."

"And we're excited to have you! Now how old are you?"

"Sixteen," Alice said, truthful for once.

"Only sixteen, and already so talented," the host said congenially. "Why don't you give us a song or two?"

"I'd love to." The confident part of her, the one that took over when she was lying or trying to get something, had been speaking so far. But then the music started up and she had to change once more.

She'd practiced her two songs (a carol and a jazzy blues song) non stop these past two weeks, so often that Steve and Bucky knew all the words as well. And the room she found herself in wasn't too imposing – just a handful of men she didn't know, thick carpet under her feet, and a little sunlight filtering through a well-glazed window.

But then her eyes zeroed in on the microphone in front of her. The receiver itself was a small metal circle surrounded by a larger one, a little brassy from use. She'd sung into dozens of microphones like it before. But her eyes followed the thin wire down from the metal circle, down the stand, and across the carpet to the operator's desk. That wire would carry her voice away and send it out on invisible waves through the air, to be snatched up by hundreds, thousands of radio sets across the city. It would be her voice in peoples' kitchens and dining rooms, her voice turned down low in someone's bedroom. She'd never see their faces, but they would hear her.

Alice's heart beat so loud she was sure it would be picked up by the microphone. She saw the host share an uneasy glance with the producer out of the corner of her eye.

She swallowed.

Steve, who'd only ever heard her over the radio through crackly dots and dashes, would now hear her as clearly as if she were singing into his ear.

The music was a bar away from where she was supposed to come in.

Ulysses.

Alice drew in a breath and sang.

Time flowed strangely over the next seven minutes – it dripped and gurgled, then raced along as if the world would start blurring before Alice's eyes. As the words poured out of her, Alice felt a rush of warmth flow through her. It was heady, like the time she'd tried the Paris Side Cars at the speakeasy.

She looked away from the microphone only once, to see the host watching her with a smile.

When her last song came to an end she turned around, thinking the producer had come up behind her, but there was no one there. She turned back around to see him. He smiled and nodded at her.

"Alice Moser, thank you very much!" cried the host. "Just spectacular, we hope to hear more from you in the future."

"Thank you for having me," she said quietly. Then her feet were moving over the thick carpet, the door was opening, and she was out in the hall again.

Her mom was waiting for her with tears in her eyes. "You were fantastic, Liebling," she breathed as she reeled Alice in for a tight hug. "What a wonderful Christmas present."

"Danke, mama."

"That was just wonderful!" came a voice from behind them. Alice turned to smile at the producer just as he followed her out of the studio. "Just spectacular." He reached into his back pocket, took out a card and pressed it into her still-tingling hands. "I'd like to get you on the air more often, Ms Moser. Give me a call after the New Year, I'll see if we can't slot you in somewhere. Sound good?"

"That sounds great," Alice breathed. Her mom squeezed her shoulder in silent excitement.

Clipping from The Daily Register, 'Radio Programming', December 1934:

…  2XG's Christmas 'Christmastime in New York' was a vibrant success, showcasing talent from the 73 year old opera singer Carla Marley, to upcoming voices like sixteen year old Brooklyn resident Alice Moser. There's been an excess of positive feedback from listeners about that one. Next listeners tuned into the new radio drama…

When Alice trudged up the tenement stairs and back to the apartment behind her mom, she was already preparing to get changed and then run straight to Steve's house. After a big performance she always felt somehow more present in her body, as if the world made sense, and she wanted to share that with him.

But then her mom opened the door for her and a wall of sound flooded out of it. Alice flinched back, but then the sounds resolved themselves into… applause. And cheers.

A veritable crowd of people stood just inside, squashed into the small apartment: Matthias with Tom sitting on his shoulders, most of Matthias's family from Harlem, their very best friends from church, Edith and Finn, and right up the front: Steve, Bucky, and their families.

They all beamed and cheered and exclaimed that she'd been brilliant. Alice's hands flew to her mouth to cover her sudden, cheek-splitting smile.

"Come on in, superstar!" Matthias called. "You gotta be hungry after singing to all of New York City."

"We already ate a lot of the food, but we'll scrounge something up for you," Bucky added. Steve rolled his eyes at him and then turned to face Alice with that silent, half-smile that he rarely showed the world.

Still beaming, Alice let her mom gently push her into the jam-packed apartment and into the arms of the people who loved her.

Alice spent Christmas and New Years with her family, with a small break in between to travel up to Harlem to get more tea for Steve, who had come down with sinusitis around Boxing Day. Steve's mom let her in to see him for a bit this time: he did his best to sit up in bed and talk to her, but she could see how tired he was.

For all that Steve had the strongest will she knew, she too easily forgot how hard it was for his body to keep going. His small chest rose and fell shallowly under the bedsheets and when he coughed it seemed to shake his very core. Alice left disturbed and scared, and stayed that way until three days later when a familiar crackle came over the radio: Ulysses.

While Steve was sick, Bucky and Alice visited him when his mom reckoned he was strong enough, and when he wasn't they escaped from the cold into soda fountains and traded jokes and insults over cups of coffee. They stole newspapers off adjoining tables, and Bucky would read aloud the articles and make sarcastic commentary about them as Alice filled out the crosswords. Bucky was as easy as breathing for Alice - he had a natural charm for getting others to let down their guard, and he didn't make Alice nervous sometimes in the way that Steve did. Bucky, for his part (though he would never admit it) enjoyed Alice's blank-faced jokes and the strange, hopeful and cynical take she had on the world.

Alice got called in to the radio station a few more times after that Christmastime special – usually for their amateur hour, but once for another showcase of local talent. The microphone stand in the studio still gave her the jitters. Sometimes singing into it felt like speaking to another universe.

One morning, Alice walked out from the bathroom into the living room just as Matthias got up with a huff to change the radio station. Alice caught the presenter's voice just before the station changed and recognized it as Charles Coughlin.

"What's the matter?" she asked Matthias as she went to go get some water. "I thought you liked his program."

"I did like him," Matthias replied as he returned to the couch and his paper. "But recently he's been going on about the Zionists." He made air quotes with a knowing look, then rolled his eyes and flipped his paper open again. "Knew there had to be a catch."

Alice cast a look at the radio over her shoulder. "Huh."

Excerpt from "Nazis on the Radio" by Edward Marlin, p. 73

Roman Catholic Charles Coughlin, one of the decade's most prominent radio presenters, had an incredibly wide-spread and significant audience, with some historians estimating that his show reached as many as thirty million people a week. Coughlin became explicitly anti-semitic in the latter half of the 1930s.  Following Kristallnacht in Germany in 1938, Coughlin stated "Jewish persecution only followed after Christians first were persecuted." This lead to the cancellation of his radio show in New York, which prompted an anti-semitic rally by his followers. It has since been uncovered that at the time of broadcast, Coughlin was being indirectly funded by Nazi Germany.

1935

As if they'd passed some milestone by making it another year, Alice, Edith, and some of their other girlfriends started going out to dance halls. Alice had been to a few to sing or to stand on the side while Matthias's band performed, but she'd never been to one just to dance before. Dancing didn't come naturally to her, but Edith danced like she'd been doing it since she was born, and quickly taught Alice the steps. Alice learned the lindy hop, the foxtrot, and the jive, and danced them with her friends or with particularly bold teenage boys who moseyed up to her with a smile. She was always home by her 9pm curfew.

Bucky was there sometimes, and even more rarely Steve – it was strange seeing them at the dance hall, especially since they'd come in different groups, and the air was always strange when they spoke under the glittering lights. Maybe it was because Alice felt like she was playing the part of a young woman dancing out on the town, rather than being that young woman. Still, it was fun to dress up at Edith's; they listened to the radio as they ironed their hair into curls and tried to apply lipstick.

Bucky, meanwhile, was going through a transformation of his own. He was nearly eighteen, tall and broad shouldered with a bright smile and charm that would win over a nun. He was a young man who'd recently figured out the effect he had on young women, and wielded his powers wherever he could.

And Alice was a young woman now, with a brassiere and heeled shoes and even lipstick when she liked, and all of a sudden Bucky realized that.

One Friday night at the dance hall, he turned his powers on Alice while she got a drink during the samba. She had a blue dress with a bow on the back, and her short-cut hair was twisted fashionably against the side of her head. Bucky slid up beside her, batted his eyelashes and drawled "Hey, Al, d'you want to go to the pictures with me?"

Alice turned wide eyes on him. This wasn't his normal 'hey, wanna see a film?' It had intent.

"Alright," she agreed. "Tomorrow?"

"Sounds good to me," he said with a sweet smile, then melted away again.

Unbeknownst to Alice, Bucky informed Steve about the scheduled date when he saw him after the dance that evening. Steve tensed up, surprised and a little… he didn't know how he felt, but when Bucky asked if it was alright, he just nodded.

He barely slept that night. He kept getting out of bed, intending to go to the radio in the living room and… he'd get back into bed again. He didn't understand.

The next evening Bucky fetched Alice from out the front of the tailor shop and they walked to the theater, talking about the weather. They'd both dressed up. Bucky bought Alice her ticket, her popcorn, and her drink; the perfect gentleman. They saw Anna Karenina.

Halfway through the film Bucky reached his arm up and over, behind Alice's shoulders.

"No thank you," she said clearly.

The arm retracted. Alice offered him popcorn, and he ate it meekly.

They walked outside the cinema at the end of the film, and in the crisp late-winter air Alice turned to look Bucky in the eye.

"Bucky," she said. "If you ever try to make a move on me again, I will poison your popcorn."

He believed her. "Yeah, alright."

After that, Bucky figured there were plenty enough girls in Brooklyn for him to charm without worrying about Alice and her tricks. She was a troublemaker, after all. And he'd mostly asked her on the date to test a long-standing theory of his.

When Bucky told Steve, Steve wondered at the rush of relief he felt. But not for long – that was a dangerous road. Bucky watched Steve's face with an amused quirk to his brow. Theory: confirmed.

Steve wondered if Alice would poison his popcorn.

He thought, against his own better judgement, that it'd probably be worth it.

Excerpt of interview with Rosemary Bridges, Brooklyn Senior High Alumnus (1994):

Mrs Bridges: "To be honest, I mostly remember Bucky Barnes – Sergeant Bucky Barnes, he became later, god rest his soul. He was the flirt of the neighborhood, dated my cousin for a couple of weeks. They went through school a few years before I did, so I only knew them through, you know… people I knew. I remember that Bucky Barnes, though.

Though don't mistake me! He wasn't ever cruel, was he. Just couldn't fix on one girl for long before he decided he liked the look of someone else. And I figure he wasn't a disloyal person, what with following Captain Rogers into the war."

Interviewer: "And what do you remember of Steve Rogers?"

Mrs Bridges: "Oh! Not much, not much at all. I knew there was some talk about the neighborhood when his mother died, but I never met him. He didn't have the way of charming and making friends that Barnes did. Never even saw him. No one talked about him really, save for the occasional mention of him being beat up somewhere. I never… I never thought about him once until we all found out that Captain America was none other than little Steve Rogers from Brooklyn, and he'd died to save us all."

[Pause]

Interviewer: "Perhaps we'll take a break there."

In March, the simmering tensions in Harlem boiled over into outright rioting after the police arrested a shoplifter. Alice stayed glued to the radio along with the rest of her family, worried about Matthias's relatives who lived and worked in Harlem. It turned out that even though they lived right in the middle of the neighborhood, their business was spared.

That afternoon in the comic book store, Alice talked about it with Bucky and Steve as they leafed through comics with no intention of buying them.

"You ain't scared to go back?" Bucky asked. "Three people died, Al."

Alice shook her head. "They just did what Steve would've done in their position." Steve looked over, his eyebrows raised. "They saw something that wasn't right, and they acted. I'm not saying it was right, but I get it."

Steve's brows furrowed. "I wouldn't have thrown a rock."

Bucky and Alice turned to stare flatly at him, and his shoulders bunched around his ears.

"Yeah, alright."

Alice's singing slowly crept toward something tangible. She was called back to the radio station for a fifteen minute section a week before school cut out for the summer break, and it got mentioned in the paper. She'd never been formally trained save for choir so she focused harder than ever on control, pitch, volume. She was still very much an amateur, but one of the station producers said that by building up a portfolio like this she had a shot of getting a scholarship to one of the New York music schools.

The very idea of it made Alice's guts twist so hard that she thought she would be sick, she wanted it so much. Part of her privately hoped she'd be able to go to a general college so she could study math and languages as well, but she knew that was an even unlikelier dream than singing.

That summer was a hot, dry one – out in the Midwest, the dust bowl storms sent families fleeing to the coast for better lives. New Yorkers trudged down baking streets that stunk of hot trash, seeking out cool shade. Alice, Steve, and Bucky hid from the sun in the back of the tailor shop, or at soda fountains when they could afford it. Steve and Alice were busy studying – the last year of high school was no joke.

Once or twice they made the trip to Coney Island beach, which Bucky strutted like a man straight out of the fashion newspapers. The beach thronged with people; sand sticking to bare flesh and the air thick with sea salt and oil. Seagulls cawed over the babble of chattering adults and squealing kids.

Steve crossed his arms over his rattly birdcage of a chest and very pointedly did not look at Alice, whose polka-dotted swimsuit extended just over the tops of her pale thighs and left little to the imagination. Alice was content to sit beside him on the sand and watch people through half-slitted eyes under her wide-brimmed hat. She watched Steve push his toes into the sand with fascination that surprised her.

They all got sunburnt and spent the next day laying cold, wet cloths on their bare skin as they complained.

Toward the end of the summer break, Alice spent every penny in her savings on three tickets to see a performance at the Roseland Ballroom. She'd grown up on the performer, thanks to Matthias's avid interest, and he'd just returned from a tour of Europe to record an album in New York.

When she gave the other two tickets to Steve and Bucky they both insisted on paying her back, which she wouldn't hear of. But she wouldn't hear of them not coming with her either.

So on Friday night the three of them dressed up as best they could (Alice borrowed a dress from her mom), took the train into Manhattan and walked into the tall brick building with ROSELAND writ large in lights on the outside.

The ballroom was packed by the time they got there, and the band was already on stage. It was a grand room with sweeping ceilings draped in shimmering fabric, neatly-dressed hostesses circulating with trays of drinks, and the whole crowd tapping their heels to the music. There were plenty of other teenagers around, so Alice, Steve, and Bucky easily melted into the crowd.

Alice loved seeing bands perform – it felt so different to the scratchy, distant stuff on the radio. She loved seeing a drummer bring down his hand and hearing the resulting beat ripple across the room. She loved the way the tunes always changed slightly, loved the crowd watching and singing along.

What she didn't love, she realized after getting elbowed in the head, was dancing.

She and Steve ended up sitting together at the side of the ballroom on a wooden bench, watching the band. Alice rested her already sore feet and Steve caught his breath.

Alice liked watching the crowd dance in tune to the music, but after a few moments she ended up listening with her eyes closed – she knew she wasn't likely to hear this band again in real life, so she wanted to savor each clear note and warbling lyric. Trumpets sang out clear and brassy.

When Alice opened her eyes again, Steve was looking at her. He blushed and glanced away.

Alice looked out at the bobbing heads and partners twisting in and out from each other in the crowd. The band stood above them all on the stage, wearing bowties and laughing as they played.

"Do you think you'll draw this?" she asked Steve.

He followed her gaze, then looked back to her. "I think I'll have to." He leaned back against the wall. "What about you? Feeling inspired?"

She looked up at the singer. "A little jealous, actually. I want to be up there."

"You will, one day."

Alice glanced at him. "You're very certain."

"Call it a gut feeling."

She laughed.

Steve jerked his chin at the stage, where the singer had just picked up a trumpet and began to play. "So who is this guy again?"

Alice cast him an askance glance. "Steve. You know who Louis Armstrong is."

He shrugged. "I mean, kinda." He did. He wanted to hear her tell him.

Alice pushed her hair behind her ears. "Wow, alright. He started out in New Orleans, he basically started the soloist trend in trumpeting – but he's also a singer, and a composer, and I've wanted to see him forever because I keep hearing he's got this incredible presence on stage…" Steve nodded seriously as she explained each stage of Armstrong's career so far to him, occasionally glancing to the stage as if to confirm what she said. She was right, of course – the man was magnetic up there, all charisma and charm. Reminded him of Bucky.

"People say he's reaching the end of his career now, but Matthias reckons he's going to make a comeback. He's one of the most talented trumpeters out there and nobody can solo like him. But that's not why I like him."

On stage, Armstrong lowered his trumpet and turned to the microphone again to sing the lyrics to Stardust.

Steve turned to Alice with a knowing look. She smiled.

He understood why she liked this fella so much – Steve had heard countless versions of this song but this guy made it anew; his voice was low, smoky, an unusual sound that made you want to close your eyes and listen.

The music prickled over Steve – it made him feel bold, a different person. A person who might lean in closer to Alice to share the space between them.

"Hey!" Steve opened his eyes at the sound of Bucky's voice to see his friend standing with his hands on his hips as he looked down at him. "Thought this was a ballroom, not a lounge. Come and dance, you humbugs."

He turned around before they could disagree, and with a resigned glance at each other Alice and Steve stood to follow him into the crowd. Bucky had made himself at home in a large group of teenagers. None of them were dancing as pairs, just stepping and turning in a group in time to the music.

Steve tried to copy them. He uncomfortably stepped from side to side, shoulders moving in time with the beat (he hoped), then shied back when he accidentally elbowed Alice. She flashed him a forgiving smile and then rolled her eyes as Bucky whirled her in a spin before letting her go. Bucky had no issues navigating the flowing, twisting bodies in the crowd – every time Steve spotted him he was dancing with someone new.

Steve sighed. This really wasn't his scene.

On stage, Louis Armstrong sang Oh my poor Nelly Gray, they have taken you away, and I never see my darling anymore, oh babe.

Alice felt Steve elbow her twice more until she finally let out a small laugh, took his elbow in her hand and began to guide him. Her fingers brushed his bare skin, warm and soft with fine blonde hair, and an electric prickle went down her spine.

She didn't look at him for another three minutes. But she didn't let go of his arm.

Towards the end of the night, Steve was once again sitting on the wooden bench by the wall when Bucky fell into the seat beside him. Alice had weaved her way to the front of the audience – he could just see her pale blonde head, tilted backward so she looked up into the band's faces.

Bucky wiped his forehead. "I dunno if I can give you any good advice here, pal."

Steve glanced at him. "What?"

Bucky waved a hand. "Well, I always kinda thought I'd be able to give you a few pointers when the time came for you to start chasing ladies. But then," he said significantly, "you went and picked the most complicated one of the lot."

Steve colored. "I-"

"Oh are you going to try to deny it?" Bucky's eyebrows rose in an amused look. "This I'd like to hear."

Steve fell silent, chagrined.

After a few moments of silence between them as Armstrong's trumpet pealed out brightly, Bucky reached over to clap Steve's skinny shoulder. "For what it's worth, I think she likes ya too."

His head jerked up. "You think?"

Bucky shrugged. "I mean, as much as anyone can tell what's going on in that head." They both looked over at Alice again as she swayed, almost on her tiptoes.

"I don't want anything to change," Steve said carefully. He'd seen it happen at school: old friends who discovered new parts of themselves and came together, then it all ended in flames.

Bucky eyed him. "Yeah, you do."

The song ended and Alice slipped out of the crowd again, making her way toward the wooden bench. Her fine hair played around her face and her green eyes focused right on him, and Steve's heart shot into his mouth. Yes, I do.

"What're you two talking about?" she asked as she dropped into the seat on Steve's other side. She was alive and vibrant from the music.

"Steve's love life," Bucky said casually. Steve's ears burned and he turned to glare at Bucky. He missed the look on Alice's face when she said:

"Oh? Any prospects?"

"Some," Bucky half-smiled. "He's an eligible bachelor, our man here."

Alice just nodded, unreadable.

Bucky continued: "I was thinking about setting him up with your friend Edith."

Steve scowled and tried to elbow Bucky, but the taller boy dodged it without glancing away from Alice.

Alice cocked her head. "She's actually hoping Finn Neri will ask her out."

"Oh really?"

She nodded with a quick smile. Bucky leaned back and tapped a finger to his chin.

"Well how about Holly Barker? She's in your art class, right Steve?"

Furious, Steve nodded silently.

Alice just looked on with cool green eyes. "Holly Barker's nice." Someone in the crowd called her name, one of her many acquaintances no doubt, and she rose to her feet again. When she'd walked out of hearing range again Steve turned on Bucky.

"What are you doing?"

"Making her jealous!" Bucky said, as if it was obvious. "It'll work like a charm, trust me."

"No it won't," he said. "And no way Holly Barker wants to go on a date with me."

Bucky raised his eyebrows. "I think you'd be surprised, Steve."

To his and everyone else's surprise, Steve did end up asking Holly Barker if she wanted to go on a date. She was a tall, willowy girl with auburn hair and a gap-toothed smile, who drew sketches of all the birds she saw in Brooklyn's streets and quietly complimented Steve's sketches when she walked past.

He'd had Bucky coach him through what to say and he still stumbled on every second word. When he fell silent, his cheeks burning and feeling smaller than an ant, Holly Barker smiled.

"I'd love to."

"What?"

"I said sure. It sounds fun."

Steve had not really planned for a yes but he managed to school his utter amazement just long enough to organize a time, and then walked away scratching his neck.

Bucky cheered like the Dodgers had won the World Series when he found out. Alice showed up at that moment and asked what all the fuss was about. Steve could not seem to bring himself to speak, so Bucky said:

"Steve here has scored himself a date with Holly Barker."

"Oh," Alice said. "Congratulations, Steve. She's nice."

An inkling of suspicion entered Steve's head at that. He knew Alice, and he knew that this impassive façade meant nothing. She could be feeling anything under that guileless expression: happiness, frustration, true neutrality. Maybe even jealousy.

He rolled his eyes at himself and hunkered down to listen to Bucky crow. Trying to figure out what was going on in Alice's head was a losing battle.

Come Saturday, Steve and Holly Barker went to the soda fountain with the best jukebox. They each had a coke, and aside from Steve's stumbling they got along pretty well. He didn't remember stammering like this around Alice back when they'd met. Maybe he'd just forgotten. Or maybe things were different now, since they were older.

Stop thinking about Alice. He knew enough about girls to know that they probably didn't like it if you didn't pay attention to them.

At the end of the date Steve didn't know what to do so he just waved, like an idiot, said "bye" and scurried away.

He trudged back home with his hands in his pockets and a furrow on his brow.

He looked up a few buildings away to see –

Alice. She sat on the stoop of his tenement building in a brown tartan dress and sweater, her chin-length hair shining in the sun as she read a book on her lap.

Steve's heart swelled in his chest – was she here because of the date? Did Bucky's plan work?

He strode a bit quicker once he'd seen her, and soon she was looking up from her book and smiling at his approach.

"Hey!" she said. "I found a new book of ciphers at the library and I there's one I wanted to show you for the radio. Want to see?"

Oh. Normal stuff. It wasn't unusual for them to wait outside each other's houses, he should have known. Steve schooled his look of disappointment and nodded. "Sure."

They climbed the creaky stairs up to his and his mom's apartment, and Alice kicked off her shoes by habit just inside the door and put them in their usual place. His mom was out at the hospital. They moved to the kitchen table and began poring over the new book.

The book was complicated; it focused on asymmetric key algorithms, which used a 'public' key for any sender to encrypt a message, and a 'private' key for only the intended receiver to decrypt it.

While they were in the middle of it, as Steve's brow was twisted in confusion and he mouthed letters and numbers while scribbling on notepaper, Alice half-turned her head toward him and said:

"How was your date, by the way?"

It almost didn't startle him. "You remembered that was today?"

She shrugged by way of an answer.

He still remembered when she went on those dates with Finn Neri, and with Bucky. He'd been acutely aware of when those dates had been. He'd sat, restless, unable to do anything. Not even draw.

"It went okay," Steve said as he tried out the 'private' key Alice had given him. "I was weird at the end."

"Weird how?"

"I just waved at her. Like she was another friend or something. I bet Bucky doesn't wave at the end of his dates."

"Well Bucky never ends up dating the same person for long. Maybe friends first is the way to go." Alice leaned forward, her fringe obscuring her face as she turned a page in the book. "Do you think you'll see her again?"

"We didn't talk about it," Steve realized. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Hm."

After a few moments Steve turned back to the code as well, because that was making his brain hurt less than this conversation.

~ Your music lilts on the breeze to me,
you're a distant spark, a memory. ~

Chapter Text

Virginia Woolf:  You have a touch in letter writing that is beyond me. Something unexpected, like coming round a corner in a rose garden and finding it still daylight.

November 6th , 1938
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

I'm glad things are more or less back to normal, but I noticed you've hardly mentioned your latest concerts or anything to do with your uncle. I know you said you couldn't tell me much, but at least tell me everything's alright? You're not doing anything big, are you?

Sorry for the short letter, it's winter so I am, of course, sick again. Bucky's just threatened to knock me out if I don't go to sleep now, so good night I guess.

Yours,
Steve

November 8th , 1938
Vienna
Dear Steve,

You don't need to worry, I'm not writing about all that because I despise doing it and don't want to think about it. As for 'doing anything big', there's nothing on that front. Just keeping people fed.

Sorry you're not feeling well – remember to drink that tea I sent you for your birthday! It'll help.

I'll keep my letter short as well, because I'm a little concerned. Yesterday a Jewish boy living in Paris shot a German diplomat. Today the German government banned all Jewish children from schools, banned all Jewish cultural activities, and stopped publication of Jewish newspapers. They've also been forbidden from owning weapons. The police in Vienna are antsier than usual, the city is simmering, and I want to head out to check on  Jilí and Franz.

Hopefully it'll all blow over and the government will roll back the bans soon – I don't know how they can just ban all that and pretend that the people living here don't exist.

Yours,
Alice

[Translated] Excerpt from telegram to police units from Gestapo Chief Heinrich Müller, November 9 1938:

In shortest order, actions against Jews and especially their synagogues will take place in all of Germany. These are not to be interfered with.

November 11th , 1938
Vienna
Dear Steve,

I'm okay. It seems I'm always reassuring you of that these days, but this… I want to make sure you know I wasn't hurt the other day.

Everything you asked is true. The German diplomat who got shot died two days ago, and the entire country just  exploded.

I'd checked on  Jilí and Franz the day before. They were scared (though they tried to hide it), but safe. But then on the evening of the 9th , when I was at home writing a song, I realized I could hear the sounds of smashing glass.

At about the same time my uncle got a phone call. He came into my room and told me I wasn't to leave the house – he got the maid to watch me again – before he left for who knows where. I can only imagine the worst.

I don't have the best view from my room, but the noise of the city outside was terrifying: smashing glass, yelling, sirens. I thought maybe a fight had broken out, except the sound was coming from  everywhere.  I asked the maid to fetch me a drink, then climbed out the window.

I can hardly describe it, Steve. It wasn't a fight. All over Vienna, groups of men were running through the streets destroying things. As I climbed down to the street I saw a group of them run up to a storefront, smash the windows in, then climb in to loot the place. I took off in the other direction to Jilí and Franz's house.

I got three blocks before I realized that the targets of the looting were exclusively Jewish-owned properties. The men were smashing in windows, tearing apart furniture and paintings, setting fire to houses. Dusk had fallen, so the orange glow flickered in the sky. I could hear screaming. One street away from Jilí's house I ran past a synagogue with flames licking up the walls. I saw the fire department at the end of the street and actually sighed in relief, but when I got closer I realized they were just sitting there, watching the building go up in smoke. I didn't know what to do, Steve. I just kept running.

I found Jilí and Franz at their house – thank god no one had come there yet – with some of their friends. I told them to get dressed and come with me.

I won't tell you too much about our trip through the city. I've never been so scared in my life, with the groups of men running by us and the screams and shouts in the air. One group stopped us, but when they saw me they either recognized me or figured I couldn't be Jewish, because we were allowed to go on our way. We picked up some people on the way – three teenage girls who'd been split up from their parents, an elderly couple who'd been beaten, and a young family.

I saw people whose faces I recognized smashing windows and setting fire to buildings. I saw others retreating to their homes with tears on their faces. The air tasted like smoke, and firelight glinted off the smashed glass on the street, making it look like a river of flames.

I fell once, and landed hands-first in the broken glass. I've gotten it all out, but I'm writing with bandage-swaddled hands now. Feeling the glass dig into my skin that night made it all suddenly, startlingly real.

I got back up. I got our small group of terrified people to the Academy of Music. I've got a key for one of the practice rooms, so we slipped in a side entrance and hid in there overnight. I don't think anyone slept.

The next morning a friend found us and gave us the all clear. I walked Franz and Jilí back to their house, which thankfully hadn't been touched. They've been living quietly. But the evidence of what had happened the night before was written throughout the city. It still is. Even looking out the window now, I can see graffiti scrawled across buildings and boarded-up windows. The synagogue three blocks away is a burnt-out shell. People walk the streets like they're afraid of their own shadows.

I didn't realize until that morning that the violence we'd seen in Vienna had been echoed everywhere throughout Austria, Germany, and the Sudetenland. It was sanctioned by the German government, started by the police, and continued by citizens.

27 people were murdered in Austria. Countless more were arrested and sent away to who knows where. What's more, the government fined the Jewish community.

I'm safe. But I am very, very scared, Steve. I knew one of the men who died – he was a friend of a friend, living a few suburbs away. It could have been Franz.

My only consolation is that I'm not the only one who's scared. More people than ever are criticizing what happened. Those in government are all for it, of course, but its as if those who agreed with them have finally realized where all this hatred leads. And they're terrified of it. The priest at the catholic church down the street openly criticized the looters.

So out of that night I've taken some hope. I know other countries are already condemning it, so maybe this is enough. Maybe this will be the turning point, the darkest day.

Until then, I'm going to be more protective than ever of my friends.

My uncle never noticed that I was gone. He arrived back after me the next morning, stinking of smoke. He called that night Kristallnacht, meaning 'crystal night', which I soon realized was its official name. He said it with  pride.

Please write soon, with something normal.

Yours,
Alice

November 13th , 1938
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

It seems I'm always scared for you these days, but once again I let out a huge sigh of relief when I saw my name and address in your handwriting on the outside of an envelope.

I'm real sorry that happened to your home, Alice, and that you and your friends got caught up in it. I can't imagine what that would have felt like. Keep your hands clean, I've gotten a few nasty infections before and they're not much fun to deal with.

Bucky and I read today that the bans on Jewish people aren't being lifted, and that they're transferring all Jewish property to Aryans. Does this affect your friends?

But you asked for normal. It's getting real cold here in New York, I go outside in two coats and a scarf and still feel like an ice cube by the time I get back in the apartment. Everyone's losing their minds because on the night before Halloween CBS ran a radio drama called 'The War of the Worlds' (remember when we read that book at school?), and some of the listeners freaked out. Apparently some of them thought that a Martian invasion was really happening. The cops got called, everyone was angry, and now they're all wanting the station to undergo regulation.

Bucky and I missed the program since he was teaching me how to box at the gym, but Bucky's been enjoying riling people up about it. Keeps running to the window and calling 'Look! Aliens invading New York!'

He thinks he's so funny.

I know you said to talk about normal stuff, but there's been more army recruitment advertisements going around. I even got hired to draw a small one for the paper.

Got to go head to work now. Take care of yourself. I'm really glad you're okay.

Yours,
Steve.

November 20th , 1938
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

I'm glad you were able to take ownership of your friends' things. I'm sorry it was necessary in the first place, but it's better their stuff went to you than a stranger. Don't be disheartened that you can't do more – you're doing so much already. Remember to be safe.

Normality: the Nancy Drew movie came out today. Bucky and I went to see it, for old times' sake, and because you won't be able to watch it what with it being banned in Germany and Austria. No idea why they banned it. I've heard they keep a running tally of Jews in Hollywood though, maybe one of them was involved in production.

It's too bad, since it's a great movie. You'd love it, Alice. Reminded me of you in lots of ways. I remembered you absolutely devouring those books when you were a kid, sitting on a door stoop or curled up in the back room of the tailor shop. Nancy reminds me a lot of you, too; here's something to be said for tenacity.

When you come back, we'll see the next Nancy Drew movie.

See you then.

Yours,
Steve.

Walter Copland Perry:  [The sirens'] song, though irresistibly sweet, was no less sad than sweet, and lapped both body and soul in a fatal lethargy, the forerunner of death and corruption.

January 4th , 1939
Vienna
Dear Steve,

We found Franz.

As you know we've been searching for two days now, searching down every angle we can think of; no one at the music club has seen him, his blackmarket contacts haven't heard from him, not even his cousins in Innsbruck had a lead. Many thought he had been arrested and deported.

But late last night Jilí remembered that Franz sometimes came back with flowers for her. We started searching around the local florists.

We found him in an alleyway behind the Stadtkino theatre, a hundred yards away from a florist stall. He was in a narrow gap between buildings so we might not have seen him save for the crumpled bunch of flowers just outside.

He was frozen solid, the blood glittering red around his head. We were only able to recognize him because of his clothes.

Jilí has been so strong these past two days, unrelenting in her search. But when we saw him stuffed into that tiny gap she fell to her knees in the snow and fell apart. She beat her fists against the bricks of the building until her knuckles went bloody, and screamed so loud I had to put my hand over her mouth. She stopped fighting then and grabbed on to me. I still have bruises from how tightly she held me.

We knelt in that stinking alleyway with the snow bleeding through our stockings as Jilí cried and choked. She didn't look back at Franz, but from my angle holding her there was no other direction I could look. He didn't look like a person anymore, Steve. They took that away from him.

After what must have been nearly half an hour, Jilí suddenly stopped crying. She pulled away and I could see that she'd leashed herself together. Jilí's always been tough, pragmatic, but I've never seen her like this before. She was hard like a compressed diamond: glittering and unbreakable.

" We need to leave," she said.

We both knew what had to be done. We left, and had the police called anonymously so they could pick up the body.

Jilí will never see Franz again. If she approaches the police to arrange a funeral for him, that will only bring further attention to herself and could end with her arrested or deported. It's possible they're the ones who killed him. The government will put him in an unmarked grave, or burn him.

I'm writing this from Jilí's house. She hasn't spoken much since we left the alley, and she hasn't shed a tear. She seems very tired, though. I've been plying her with tea, and holding her as she sits speechless. The house seems so cold without Franz in it. They've only been married a year and a half, but he brought out the best side to Jilí – he the genial jokester, her the tough-love Valkyrie.

She'll get no justice for him. Not with the world the way it is now, anyway. Not even I can do that for her.

Up until now this has all been about strangers. I've cared, deeply so, but everything I've done has been to protect people I don't really know. I haven't been able to help them, and now I haven't been able to help Franz.

I keep thinking back to that night in Brooklyn when I saw those men attacking Matthias. I never really thought seriously before about what might have happened if I hadn't come down from the roof.

Up until now I've been secretive, but in the way a teenager is secretive, to hide their actions from their parents. I can't be that teenager any longer. I must be two people. The Siren, in her gilded cage with her patriotic songs and glittering parties. Then Alice – Alice who hides in the shadow of the Siren's blazing glory.

I think I sent you a photo of Franz and Jilí's wedding last year. Could you draw Franz for me? I'd like something to give Jilí when we hold a small gathering a few days from now.

Yours,
Alice.

January 6th , 1939
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

I'm so sorry. I barely know what to say, I go from angry, to sad, to horrified, to scared.

Franz seemed like a really swell guy, I know how close you were to him. I wanted to meet him one day. I've attached a portrait of him. Hope it's okay.

I can't believe nothing can be done about him being killed – isn't there anyone who would look into it? A private investigator or something?

Pass on my condolences to Jilí. She didn't deserve any of this.

Consider this letter my way of making you a cup of tea and giving you a hug. I'm angry for Franz, for Jilí and for you, but mostly I just want to make sure you're okay. Write soon.

Love,
Steve.

Chapter Text

On Alice's seventeenth birthday, Steve got in a fight.

They'd been out at the same soda fountain they'd been going to for years, the three of them plus some of their other friends from school. Then a group of older boys on the other side of the shop began calling awful things towards the girls in the birthday party group, Steve got to his feet, and the rest was history.

The party broke up with Steve and the older boys being kicked out, Bucky chasing off the older boys, and Alice's other guests leaving. Alice stayed in the soda fountain for a few more minutes – a few of the boys had left their wallets behind so she handed their ID cards to the soda fountain owner so he could kick them out if they showed up again, stole just enough money to cover her tab, then dropped the wallets in the trash. She'd also memorized their addresses in case she ever ended up in the area and felt like having a chat with their mothers about how they spoke to women.

She walked out into the night air to see Steve sitting on the curb holding a handkerchief to his nose while Bucky stood over him, lecturing.

"– could've just spoken to the owner, Steve, this is Alice's birthday! You didn't have to–"

"He heard 'em, he wasn't doing anything about it!" Steve retorted. His voice came out muffled by blood. There must have been more fighting outside. "And I didn't even start it–"

"You went over there and told them to shut the hell up, what did you think would happen?"

Alice cleared her throat as she approached them and they both fell silent, glancing over with worried eyes. The streetlight fell on Steve's face, revealing a very bloody nose, a cut over his eyebrow, and a graze running up his forearm. Alice winced. His eyes were alight with leftover adrenaline.

"Sorry, Alice," he said miserably. Bucky crossed his arms and looked to be close to tutting.

Alice waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. I'm glad you stopped them, though I wish you hadn't done it with your face." She gestured to his injuries. "You look terrible."

"Thanks. I got in a few good hits."

"I must've missed that in between you getting your ass kicked," Bucky huffed. He checked his watch. "Damn it all to hell."

"You've got to get back to your sisters, right?" Alice said. Bucky's parents were travelling tonight and he had to be back to watch his sisters.

"I do." Bucky looked down at Steve. "But I can't let you walk back home like this, your ma will kill you then me."

Steve pulled the handkerchief away from his nose and winced. "You go, I'll get cleaned up somewhere on the way."

"Maybe I'll toss you in the river, see if that cleans out the rot between your ears," Bucky muttered.

"Then he'd get sick and you'd feel terrible," Alice cut in, half-smiling. "My place is just down the block, I'll take Steve and clean him up in the tailor shop."

Steve looked up. "You don't have to–"

"You hear that, Steve?" Bucky said, gesturing to Alice. "Now you have to be brought into the tailor shop like an old coat in need of darning. Like a boot–"

"I get it," Steve rolled his eyes. "I'll see ya tomorrow, Bucky. Say hi to your sisters for me."

"We'll see." Bucky turned to Alice and scooped her in for a hug. "Happy birthday, Al. Sorry we mucked it up."

"I don't see any mucking up here," she said warmly. "Here I thought I was going to have a boring birthday."

Bucky walked off into the darkness with a sigh for Steve and a wink for Alice.

Alice put her hands on her hips and looked down at Steve. He made a sorry picture on the curbside; he had blood on his nice shirt and his eyebrow was swelling up so he looked strangely quizzical. His arms were rising with goosebumps in the cool breeze.

"Are you okay?"

He glanced up from where he'd been looking at his bloody handkerchief. "Me? I'm fine."

She raised an eyebrow.

He just looked back at her, attempting to copy that guileless expression that got Alice out of so many scrapes.

She jerked her head. "C'mon."

They got a few looks from passersby as they walked down the block to the tailor shop, Alice moving slower to keep pace with the bloody, slightly-limping Steve. When Alice pulled out the keys for the shop an old lady walking past told her:

"You take care of your little brother now, young miss."

Steve's head dropped between his shoulders and his cheeks burned. Alice just hid a smile and nodded to the old woman.

Alice opened the door, revealing the tailor shop with the lights off and cloth over the desk and displays. "In you go. Careful not to bleed on anything."

She followed Steve through to the supply room, which they both knew like the backs of their hands by now, and Steve sank gratefully into his usual wooden chair in the corner as Alice rushed upstairs to fetch supplies. When she came back Steve hadn't moved aside from leaning his head against the back of the chair. That fight must have taken it out of him.

His head rose again at the sound of her setting down towels and a basin of warm water on the workbench. She'd learned how to do this since Matthias got hurt; she'd read a couple of nursing textbooks and had been picking up tips from Steve's mom whenever she came over to visit.

"I'm sorry," Steve murmured.

Alice dipped one of the towels in the water, turned to Steve, and slopped it gracelessly onto his face. He let out a muffled laugh and blinked up at her through watery eyelashes when she drew the towel away.

She smiled. "You don't need to be sorry." She re-dipped the towel and wrung it out, turning the water pink, then turned back to Steve and started cleaning the blood away more carefully. His nose had stopped bleeding, though it looked tender, and the eyebrow cut was still seeping lightly. She gave Steve a wad of gauze and told him to press down on it. While he did that, she started washing gravel out of his forearm cut. A moth fluttered around the orange light above them.

Alice worked in silence for a few moments, her mind on hygiene and the drip-dripping of the wet towel and how she'd have to find Steve a spare shirt to walk home in. She didn't notice Steve's mood darken.

"It's not that I'm mindless," he said into the silence. She glanced at his face and saw him staring into the middle distance. "I don't get into fights because I like fighting. I hope I'm not… not like them."

"You're not," she reassured. "I know why you do it. I just wish you'd look into other options first." She dabbed the cut with a mercurochrome swab, making him wince, then started swaddling his arm in a bandage. Her eyes flickered to his face. "But I think you do like it, a little bit."

Steve stiffened and looked away.

Alice smiled. "It's okay." He cautiously loosened again and looked up at her with curious eyes as she ripped a piece of adhesive tape with her teeth and secured the bandage. "I think I understand it. It feels good to be doing something, to strike out against the terrible things in the world with everything you've got." She shrugged and moved to his eyebrow cut. "I guess I just don't get the luxury of that a lot."

"Dunno if this counts as luxury." Steve winced as she pulled away the gauze.

"Well if nothing else, you're persistent. Anyone else would've given up on fighting back by now."

"Can't do that–"

"I know, I know." She turned to drop the bloody gauze on the table and pick up another swab, and as she did she perfectly mimicked Steve's voice: "Start running, you'll never stop." She smiled and shook her head at him. Steve always felt a bit unnerved when she did that, but it did make him smile. "I'm not running either, Steve."

"You never do, do you," he said thoughtfully. She swabbed his forehead cut and he winced again.

"I just hide," she said, with a bite of resentment toward herself.

"You don't hide," he protested. "It's not hiding. You… what d'you call it when those big cats hide in the grass and wait to spring? Or when birds of prey hide behind the clouds?"

"I think you call it hiding," she said with a smile, but her fingers slowed as they cleaned Steve's forehead. His earnestness always took her by surprise – she'd never known someone so honest where it counted, so determined to do right. She found herself struck by what he'd said.

"Mm," Steve said, thinking. He smelled like blood and soap, and the combination tickled Alice's nose. "Gotta be a better word. Because that's what you do."

She angled over him to pinch the cut together and tape it, looking down at him. "You think I'm a bird of prey, Steve?"

He looked up at her. She saw the lump in his throat bob. "A little bit, yes."

Her lips spread in a grin. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should."

The workroom door opened then, revealing Matthias in just his trousers, shirt, and socks. He glanced at the two of them, made a face at the bloody gauze on the workbench, then said: "I'll go find some raw meat for your face," and walked out again.

Alice laughed at the embarrassed expression on Steve's face.

Excerpt from New York Times interview with Sergeant Timothy Alloysius Cadwaller "Dum Dum" Dugan, 1978:

" Sarge was always telling us about the scrapes Cap used to get into when he was a scrawny kid," Dugan remembers with a hearty laugh. "Always told us that he'd never have made it to twenty if it weren't for having someone there to patch him up – poor old Sarge, usually, or… or his ma." Dugan shakes his head, bemused. "I can believe it, too. The only reason Cap didn't get torn to shreds in the war was because they pumped him full of super juice and gave him an impenetrable shield. He never changed up here." Dugan taps his forehead and gives me a wink.

Their final year of school began in September, and Alice and Steve were thrown back into study. The New York Passenger Ship Terminal construction was finished, so Bucky started moving cargo at the Red Hook docks. He was back in the neighborhood, so sometimes Alice and Steve walked to the docks to meet up with him at the ends of his shifts.

However, Bucky started coming along on their outings less and less. He said it was because he was busy with work, but he still met up with them individually and Alice could sense a lie. She was too afraid of what the lie could be to call him out on it.

It wasn't like it was a great burden to her to spend time alone with Steve. At some point over the past few years he had become indispensable to her – when she was excited about something, it didn't feel real until she'd shared it with him. She worked hard for his small half-smile or even rarer, his laugh, and felt a disproportionate amount of joy when she achieved it. He always had such a heavy aura of seriousness about him – shifting it aside to get to the secretly funny person beneath was an ongoing mission of hers.

They didn't usually have enough money to do anything really, so mostly they just walked around, exploring Brooklyn and getting into scrapes. They liked the park, and the museums and art galleries since they were free. They talked about the places they would go: the Smithsonian in D.C., the Louvre in Paris, distant shores and beautiful cities. Art lived inside both of them and spooled out in reams of imagination, making the bustling streets of Brooklyn seem somehow more than they were.

Alice showed up with tea and books whenever Steve was sick, and helped his mom without being asked. She came over to fix their radio when it started going crackly (turned out the tubes needed realigning) and actually blushed when Steve's mom kissed her on the head in thanks.

Alice wrote him songs, usually joke songs. The first was "Get Well Steve", which was all about the wonderful stuff waiting for him outside ("You'll miss the pigeons fighting the rats behind the bakery," she sang to his spluttering laughter), but also about how he needed to take time to get better. Another of her songs chronicled his many fights like the bard legends of old. But she also shared her more serious compositions – the ones about her wonderment in watching her brother grow up, about how the stars looked on clear nights from the roof of her tenement, about running down a street behind her friends with sea salt in the air.

Steve drew for her. He'd always been sketching, jotting down the likeness of the world around him, but this felt different. This felt like an exchange of pieces of their minds, an exchange of promises. He drew her the Brooklyn Bridge and the leathery faces they came across at the docks in Red Hook. For her joke songs he drew her joke-images: Bucky as a nurse maid telling off toddler-versions of Alice and Steve; Alice as a soldier with a helmet on her head and a grim look of determination on her face; Alice as a bird perched on a church pew.

He drew her imagined landscapes of rolling hills and exotic plants, and adventure scenes of soldiers running along rooftops and the tops of trains. For his birthday Alice had given him a journal, but he filled it mostly with images from each day, rather than words. She liked looking at it to understand how he saw the day so differently. She experienced the world through sound: voices and song and the clatter-bang of everyday life, but Steve caught the fleeting images and moments that most people forgot in the blink of an eye.

He showed her only a quarter of the sketches he'd done of her.

When Steve was alone with Bucky he confided that he felt as if he were hurtling somewhere very fast on a train, but the blurred images through the windows looked like dredging treacle. Things were changing between he and Alice, he could sense it, but he had no idea how it would all turn out.

"Stop waiting for something to happen," Bucky advised. "You're not stuck on a train, you're driving it."

Steve, who no one could accuse of being a coward, hunched his shoulders up to his ears and pretended he couldn't hear.

Alice confided in no one that her feelings toward Steve were rapidly twisting, cresting, like a leaf snatched up in a storm about to be flung above the clouds. She barely allowed herself to acknowledge it. But she could not deny that even when she wasn't with him, Steve dominated her thoughts. When they were together she simultaneously wanted to lean in close and flee as fast as she could. He made her feel less closed off, more free to feel and be and create. He felt like fizzing soda in her stomach, like the calm of a song.

Bucky wrote them both off as hopeless and left them space to figure things out. He wasn't one to sit around not acting on his feelings.

Alice was drawn to Steve's side every day. When winter crept over Brooklyn and made the streets shiver they tried to stay inside more often; usually in Steve's house with or without his mom, or in the back of the tailor shop. When they scratched together some money they went to the cinema, splurged on food at the soda fountain, or went to Coney Island with Bucky.

When they were younger they never spent this much time together. It got to the point that if Alice stayed at home Tom would wander out and ask "Where's Steve?", glancing around as if he might spot a pair of narrow, angular shoulders somewhere in the flat. More often than not the answer was "He's on his way," and Tom would smile his toothy smile.

Thanksgiving came around, and Steve's mom was scheduled to work on the evening of the holiday. Bucky and his family were going out to their relatives in Long Island for the weekend. Bucky offered for Steve to join them – as long as you don't fight my uncle, punk – but then Alice quietly invited him to come to the family gathering at her house.

Steve and Bucky exchanged a glance, then Steve turned back to Alice and said: "Yes. Please. If that's okay. Thank you." He wanted to shake himself but he needed to be not weird.

Alice smiled. "It's okay."

When the day came Steve found himself on the stoop outside the Moser-Johnson tenement building in his best (and only) suit, clutching a metal pot full of buttered peas he'd made with his mom's help. There was a chill in the air and the sky was dimming. Steve shifted where he stood, checked his barely-working watch, tucked his hair back into place.

He shook his head at himself. He knew this place. He'd spent five summers in the tailor shop and its back room, he'd even been up in the house half a dozen times, but this felt different.

Finally, the door opened.

Steve had fainted a couple of times in his life, and the sudden tingly head-rush he felt when Alice appeared from behind the dark tenement door made him worried for a moment. She grinned out at him as if she'd been wishing that he'd be behind the door and was overjoyed that the wish had come true.

She wore a green collared dress cinched around her waist with a brown belt and her blonde hair hung in short ringlets. A fresh gleam glittered in her eyes. Steve swallowed and realized his throat was dry.

"You got here early," she said, composing her grin into her usual calm façade.

Twenty minutes early, just in case. Steve looked at his watch. "Did I? I guess I-"

"Come in," she said with a smile in her voice. Steve could only obey.

They walked slowly up the too-narrow stairs with their shoulders bumping against each other, and Steve asked about Alice's recent performance at a dance hall. She'd told him about it over the radio, but using morse code made their conversations clipped and stilted – he liked to hear her voice.

Alice pushed the apartment door open with one hand while using the other to illustrate the size of the dance hall, and Steve stepped inside just as Matthias came to grab the door.

"Steve!" Matthias exclaimed, spreading his arms wide. He had a spot of what looked like gravy on the corner of his collar, and his smile was just as wide and welcoming as ever. Steve had liked Matthias the first time he ever saw him, though he hadn't found out for weeks that he was Alice's stepfather. Matthias was one of those personalities who brightened the people around him; a genuinely cheerful man, and he'd never had a harsh word for Steve even though Steve had been occupying more and more of Alice's attention and time.

Matthias came over to whisk the pot out of Steve's hands and cracked the lid open. "Peas! Thank you, Steve, you didn't have to do that. Did you cook these?"

"With some help," Steve admitted. He glanced over his shoulder at Alice, who nodded encouragingly and then followed him into the apartment.

Steve trailed Matthias across the apartment to the dining table and took in the room around him: it wasn't as full as the time they'd held that party to celebrate Alice's first radio experience, but it was still packed with people. He recognized Matthias's family, some people from church, and a few women who must have been Alice's mom's friends. Alice and her mom didn't have any family in New York, so Matthias's relatives made up the bulk of the numbers.

People nodded and smiled at Steve as he followed Matthias to the table. The radio warbled songs into the room, flowing under the current of conversations and laughter, and amber liquid gleamed in glasses. It seemed he and Alice were the only teenagers.

"Guten Abend, Steve!" Alice's mom called as she whirled past with a tray of cookies. He opened his mouth to reply but she'd already leaned over the couch to offer the biscuits to Matthias's sister and her husband.

"Here we are," Matthias said, and Steve looked over his shoulder to see him place the peas in pride of place on the dinner table.

The table was a mouthwatering sight. There was what looked like a small turkey under tinfoil (Steve got it, his mom could never afford a large turkey on Thanksgiving either), surrounded with plenty more dishes to make up for it: mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, asparagus, pies. From all the tinfoil and different dishes it seemed everyone had brought a few dishes to share.

Matthias took in Steve's hungry eyes and laughed. "Settle down, Rogers, we're sitting down to eat in just a second."

Steve hesitated, waiting for the dig about his size, but it didn't come. Matthias just clapped him on the shoulder and then went to wrangle Tom. Steve let out a breath.

"You okay?" Alice asked from behind his shoulder. He turned to her and she shrugged. "I know they can be… a lot."

He followed her gaze around the room: children underfoot, gabbing aunties, loud laughter. He shook his head. There would always be a part of him that envied Bucky and Alice for their big families. He wished his mom could be here – too often it was just the two of them, and she worked so hard to support them. She deserved to spend a night surrounded by love like this. Next year.

He turned to Alice. "I'm okay." He glanced around. "How can I help out? Does anything need… carrying?"

She watched his face with a smile playing at her lips. Eventually she tipped her head. "Mom asked me to start 'die Schafe hüten'. Means herding the-"

"Sheep," Steve finished. Alice's eyes widened a little and he smiled. "I remember that one."

"Gut gemacht," [Well done] she replied, then jerked her head for him to follow.

They circled the room politely asking people to please head for the table, and were mostly obeyed. Tom soon figured out that Steve was in the room and ran for the blonde boy who listened to him seriously and drew pretty drawings, and could not be convinced to let him go. The frizz-haired boy escorted Steve around by the hand until everyone had taken their seats at the table.

At the table, Matthias and Marie shared the role of host. The food smelled delicious and Steve could hear more than his own stomach grumbling.

"Thank you for coming, everyone," Alice's mom said with a smile that matched her daughter's. "Let's say grace."

Steve realized that he was sitting between Alice and Tom. Tom was already clutching his hand in a sweaty grip, but for a moment he and Alice looked at each other, hesitant. They'd spent years in each other's company, but they didn't often touch. Steve still remembered her light grip on his elbow at the dance in summer break.

Alice placed her hand on the table between their plates, palm-up. Everyone else at the table was already holding hands, so Steve laid his hand over Alice's without another moment's thought. Their fingers linked. She had clever typist's fingers, the brush of her fingertips over the back of his hand sent a shiver down his spine.

Matthias said grace – amen, murmured Steve – and then hands unlinked all over the table to dig into the food. Steve felt reluctant to draw his fingers away from Alice's; the moment seemed to lag like treacle, skin slipping against skin and then emptiness. Steve didn't look at her.

The food was just as delicious as it smelled. Alice and Steve were each allowed a finger of brandy, trading a secret glinting glance at the comments about their 'first drink', and Matthias's family supplied endless sources of side-splitting and often bizarre conversation. They were a colorful family full of jibes and strong opinions and a veritable treasure-trove of musical knowledge.

They quizzed Steve about his family and his home and what he thought about Roosevelt, and Alice defended him when he got too flustered by distracting them with an offhand comment that would have them all up in an excitable uproar. Tom just laughed to see his family interrogating Steve like he was a spy. Matthias's sister Molly declared Steve a "genuine sweetheart," and he blushed to the tips of his ears. Tom's granny just peered through her glasses at him like he might try to poison them all and didn't say a word.

Matthias managed to reel in the conversation just long enough to get them all to say something they were thankful for. It was all a mix of sweet and bemusing – they were thankful for safety and snickers bars and their family, for Fred Astaire's dancing feet and for having enough money to put dinner on the table every night.

One of the ladies from church had her turn, smiling at her children, and then it was Alice's turn. She looked around warmly.

"I'm thankful for my family. I'm thankful that we've got our home, and enough to eat. I'm thankful for my friends."

Her eyes fell on Steve, softer than usual. After a few moments he realized she wasn't just looking at him, she was waiting for him to talk. He started nervously and looked around to see Matthias and Alice's mom trading an amused glance.

What am I thankful for? He asked himself. Not the Dodgers, he thought distractedly. They'd lost again.

He swallowed and looked up. "I, uh, I'm thankful that all of you invited me here, it was real nice of you and I appreciate it. I'm thankful for my mom, and Bucky, a-and Alice." He stopped there. He didn't look at her because doing so right then felt dangerous – a prickle on the side of his neck.

The attention slid away from Steve to Tom, and Steve let out a breath.

Tom cleared his throat importantly and exclaimed: "I'm thankful for pumpkin pie!"

The next month passed in a daze of studying in freezing classrooms, and sideways glances. Bucky went on a few dates with a girl called Lacey and Alice remained friends with her after they broke up, much to Bucky's consternation.

On Christmas afternoon the three of them met up at Steve's house, where his mom welcomed them with eggnog and leftover ham. They sat in the living room to trade presents.

Bucky gifted them both warm hats (which Alice suspected his sisters had made), and made both of them wear the hats inside because he claimed they looked cold. Alice gave Bucky a Vargas girls calendar, which made Steve blush and Bucky roar with laughter so loud that Steve's mom came into the room and then rolled her eyes. Steve got Bucky a novel he'd been asking for.

Steve's gift to Alice was a drawing. She pulled it out of its tissue paper sleeve with gentle fingers, and took a few moments to absorb it. It was a portrait of her: she stood in the center of New York City where the Empire State should be, standing tall over the buildings with a microphone stand before her. And the entire city curved towards her like she was the heart of it. She eyed the fine shading against the curve of her cheek, the detail of her fingers on the microphone stand.

Alice wasn't sure what the drawing meant, but it made her heart thud. "Thank you," she murmured. He waved her off with pink cheeks.

Alice's small package for Steve contained a compass.

"I could tell you something sweet and stupid about how I hope you always end up going in the right direction," she said thoughtfully as he opened it. "But truthfully, I'm worried you'll get yourself lost the minute you leave New York."

"You think I'm going to leave New York?" he asked half-laughingly. He picked up the compass and examined it; it was a simple lensatic bronze one which she'd bought at an army surplus store. The needle shivered as he lifted it.

"You will one day," she said confidently. "As a soldier or by some other way, you will. You're not meant to be here forever."

He felt almost unnerved by that, but it gave him hope. He weighed the compass in his hand. "Then I better hang onto this." He pocketed it. "Thank you, Alice."

They leaned across the carpet to hug each other one-armed, and Bucky watched them with a raised eyebrow.

Comment Section on Buzzfeed article 'Captain America's newly-released early recruitment report has the internet scratching its head at how he's alive' (2013):

- My only question is? How?

- Ah, I understand what his problem was now – his everything was sick.

- Seems kind of skeevy to publish a living guy's medical history.

- Jeez, scarlet fever AND rheumatic fever. Those were no joke back in the 30s. I'd worry that he'd be bringing old superbugs into the future, but given the super serum he's probably healthier than any of us.

- 'Nervous trouble of any sort'? If I had a list of health issues that long you can bet I'd be nervous too!

January was all vapor-breaths and crunching through snow to school and shivering in poorly heated classrooms. A tickle in Alice's throat turned into a croak and she had to cancel some of her performances. She lay wadded in bed, reading through her old copies of Nancy Drew and tapping out Morse code to Steve on the radio. Tom brought her steaming cups of tea and let her hug him for warmth.

After a few weeks the croak in Alice's throat turned into a full-blown cold, and as if in competition Steve came down with a shivery flu. Bucky was still working down at the docks in the biting snow, but in his off days he went from one house to the other with sweets and a terrible joke guaranteed to make an invalid laugh.

On Saturday afternoon after days of being stuck at home Alice stubbornly pulled on her coat and boots, wrapped a scarf around her neck, and headed for the door.

"Where do you think you're going, schemer?" Matthias called from the kitchen.

"I'm feeling better, I'm going to go to Steve's."

Her mom walked out of the bedroom with Tom and cast an assessing eye over her. "Du siehst müde aus, Liebling." [You look tired, darling] "Why don't you stay and rest?"

"I'm not tired, mama-"

"Then why not come with us? Father Rickard lent us his car, we're going to drop Tom with Molly in Harlem then go to White Plains to see after that sewing machine." Tom's thirty-year old machine had broken down last week. Alice's mom came over to stroke Alice's hair away from her face. "I don't like the idea of you walking around in the cold."

"Seconded," said Matthias as he hoisted Tom up onto his hip. Tom already looked sleepy.

Alice shook her head. "I'm fine, I think the fresh air will help."

They parted ways at the bottom of the stairwell and Alice began battling up the three blocks in the freezing wind to Steve and his mom's tenement. The fresh air did not help – it seemed to cut right through her, chilling her bones, so by the time she knocked on the Rogers' door she was shaking so hard that her teeth clacked together.

Steve's mom opened the door. "Oh good heavens," she said, resigned and not entirely surprised, and hauled Alice inside.

It was blessedly warm inside the apartment. After toeing off her boots Alice allowed herself to be bustled into the living room where Steve sat swaddled in blankets on the sofa, bleary-eyed and red nosed. His eyes widened when he saw their visitor, though he didn't think to speak as she dropped into the rocking chair adjacent to the sofa and sneezed loudly.

"Do your parents know you're here?" Steve's mom called as she bustled into the kitchen. Alice noted that she wore her nurse uniform, and from the bag at the door she supposed she'd just been on her way out.

"Yes." Steve's mom put a blanket on her lap, so she unfolded and pulled it up over herself. Ahhh. "I don't mean to be a bother, I can head back home if–"

"No," Steve croaked at the same time as his mom said: "I wouldn't hear of it."

She emerged from the kitchen with a steaming mug and pressed it into Alice's hands. "Here." She put a palm to Alice's head. "This is that tea you brought us, you look like you're in need of it. Stay here, don't move, and don't go home until you feel absolutely, positively well. I'll see if I can have your parents come pick you up."

"Thank you Mrs Rogers," Alice murmured. The warmth from the tea seeped into her palms. It smelled like lemon and herbs.

"I've said you can call me Sarah," the older woman said gently, then pulled away. "Steve, remember to take your medicine at five. I'll see you later sweetheart." With that she pulled her bag over her shoulder, fixed her cap, and then headed out of the apartment.

Alice and Steve glanced at each other. The clock on the mantelpiece dinged softly, and the distant sounds of cars rumbling and far off-construction trickled in. The Rogers' apartment was just as small and homey as ever, with the same faded furniture and the portrait of Mr Rogers on the wall. Alice loved this place. She still remembered the first time she'd been, when she'd felt so curious about everything she saw. But now she knew the titles of the books in the small bookshelf in the corner, she knew where to find the teaspoons, she knew the whole sad story behind the portrait on the wall.

Alice turned itchy eyes back to Steve. He watched her, looking sick out of his mind from the flu. His hair was all scraggly and uncombed over his head, and his sharp chin jutted out from over the top of his blanket.

"So how are you doing?" she asked to break the silence.

He closed his eyes when he laughed. "I'm fine. You didn't have to come check on me, I've been worse."

"I know." Alice pulled her knees to her chest and the rocking chair swayed under her. The blanket Mrs Rogers had given her was brown and a bit scratchy, and smelled of Steve.

Steve wriggled closer on the sofa. "So why'd you come?"

She met his eyes. "Gotta keep an eye on you, Rogers." His eyebrows rose. "You're squirrelly."

"You're right," he said. "I might do somethin' stupid."

"Exactly."

"Like go out in the middle of winter by myself while I'm sick."

Alice's eyes narrowed as Steve's gleamed.

She sipped her tea slowly. "You're feeling brave today," she noted.

"I've had a lotta medicine."

She snorted into her tea and that got him laughing again. The two of them croaked and wheezed and coughed as they laughed, which just made them laugh more, and Alice felt her shivers fade away.

They bickered back and forth for a few minutes, and then Alice got up to turn on the radio. When she came back, the rocking chair felt treacherous as she tried to sit back down so she slowly slid to the floor instead. Steve laughed at her, then slid down from the couch as well. They were almost toe-to-toe, sitting on the floor like children.

One of her favorite songs came onto the radio and Alice tried to sing along, but her throat rasped and hurt and she had to give it up. Steve watched her with pale blue eyes.

So instead they talked. They knew each other so well by now that every topic felt familiar, but that didn't make it boring. They talked about the book they'd been reading in class and the Dodgers and how Bucky was working too hard and the broken sewing machine and about what it would be like for Steve to join the 107th one day. Alice looked away from Steve for a moment to take a sip of her tea, but then realized she'd let it go cold.

They traded tired jokes and laughed when they sneezed. Steve was a little more bold and talkative than normal, probably because of the fever and the medicine.

It felt normal. Alice realized that she didn't just feel like a guest here, sitting on the paisley patterned rug with Steve croaking a laugh across from her. It felt like a home. She had a flash-vision of herself coming through the front door and Steve's voice saying welcome home. The vision faded in a moment and she blinked away the afterimage.

Her cheeks had gone warm, she realized, and the room had gone silent once again.

Steve was looking at her. He'd never gotten that promised growth spurt and it wasn't likely he would – he was still half a head shorter than her, with ears that stuck out and clothes too big for him and a few strands of hair that he was constantly brushing away from his forehead. Alice always wanted to reach out and grab his fingers to stop him. She used to think it was because she was annoyed at the habit, but she wasn't so sure now.

Steve's eyes were always so serious, save for those rare moments she got to see when he was with Bucky or his mom, or her. They were serious again now, but not in the grim way they usually were.

Alice wondered how long they'd gone without talking. She wondered how much longer they could go like this, just staring at each other. She wasn't even sure what had been said last.

Steve drew in a breath and opened his mouth to blurt out: "Would it be alright if I kissed you?"

Alice's eyes widened and her stomach swooped. "Right now?"

He leaned forward, blankets rustling, as if to plant one on her, then swayed when he was halfway there and said: "I dunno if that's a good idea."

She smiled. Underneath her blanket, her toes curled. "I don't think so either."

Steve sat back and his face fell.

"Oh no, I don't mean at all!" she exclaimed, holding up a hand. "I mean, just now."

He looked up again. "Do you mean…"

Alice couldn't help but smile fondly at him; brave Steve Rogers who she hadn't been able to get out of her head since seventh grade. She leaned forward slightly. "Ask again when neither of us is sick, and you're sure you've got your head on straight. And I'll probably say yes."

His eyes shone. "Probably?"

"Well I might have eaten garlic, or not have brushed my teeth, or I might have been eating icecream and have a very cold mouth," she said, because she was nervous and excited and overtalking in a way she normally never did unless she was trying to distract someone.

"I wouldn't care," Steve said loudly. "I'd kiss you if you had shark teeth."

Alice grinned at him. "You are feeling brave today, Steve." His cheeks went pink, as if realizing just how loopy he was acting, and Alice shyly met his eyes. "For what it's worth, I'd kiss you if you had shark teeth too."

He smiled back at her, shy and pleased, and she added: "But I would be very careful about it."

When Alice walked home that evening (after making sure she felt well enough and giving Steve a quick, shy peck on the forehead), she understood what the singers meant when they said over the moon.

Her feet felt light on the pavement she'd trudged over only hours before. Nerves and excitement zinged through her in a potent mix that she only ever felt around Steve, or before she sang: like buzzing wasps in her stomach.

The snow in Brooklyn had given way to a light drizzle. The light shone off the damp pavement and Alice felt alive. She'd find a way to sing this moment, if she could just discover the right words.

When she pushed open the door at home she hesitated on the doorstep a moment – it almost felt as if a cold wind had blown out from within, jarring against the elation of her spirits. She wondered if someone had left a window open inside. But she didn't feel cold.

She stepped inside.

Molly, Matthias's sister, looked up from where she sat on the couch. Tom was curled up into her with his face hidden against her shoulder, and tears gleamed on Molly's cheeks.

Alice froze.

"Where's mom and Matthias?" A neutral voice. Betraying nothing.

Molly shook her head. Alice already knew.

"They're dead, child," Molly breathed as she rocked Tom. "I'm so sorry."

~ Such short, tragic lives. ~

Chapter Text

John Donne:  More than kisses, letters mingle souls.

February 4th , 1939
Berlin
Dear Steve,

I saw the Buck Rogers movie today. Thankfully it made its way through the German censorship wall and I was able to see it at a Berlin theater (I'm here to perform. Don't feel like talking about it). It made me so homesick, but the happy kind of homesick rather than the sad. It was nice to laugh. Reminded me of poring over those comics with you and Bucky when we were kids.

I have to say though, it never occurred to me before that the idea of crashing a dirigible into the north pole and surviving under the ice for 500 years is kind of unbelievable. Oh well. Someone needed to be around to defeat Killer Kane.

Thanks for asking after Jilí. She's doing okay. Doesn't talk much still, but she's really doubled down on helping our friends. She's one of those people who has to be doing something in their grief so they don't succumb to it. I help where I can, but my uncle's hold on me has been tighter lately.

Let me know if you saw the movie. It'd be nice to reminisce over old times.

Yours,
Alice.

February 21st , 1939
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

I want to preface this by saying that I did  not  get into a fight, whatever Bucky will have you believe. I mean sure, I  would've  gotten into a fight if he didn't stop me, but the facts are what they are.

He's just annoyed that I tricked him. Anyway.

A few weeks ago I saw an advertisement in the paper for a rally at Madison Square Garden on the 20 th , and then heard people talking about it – and how the mayor decided to let the rally go ahead. When the day came, I told Bucky I'd heard of a new dance club opened up in Midtown and wanted to go (really, that's on him for believing me).

Well, when I led him into the giant crowd outside Madison Square Garden, he realized what was up.

You see, there's a group in the US called the German Bund. They're pro-Nazi, and decided to hold a rally in New York on George Washington's birthday. (Remember I mentioned they were in New York last year, and got into a fight with some veterans?) They called it the "Pro American Rally". Obviously I wasn't there to join them, but the big crowd of protesters outside. Once Bucky stopped being angry at me he figured he was plenty angry enough at the Nazis to join the protest.

We didn't see much of the event itself since the police kept the protesters out, and I'm glad for it. All the Bund members were dressed up like the SS, and the few banners I saw were… well. You know what the Nazis have to say about the people they don't like. They played martial music as they waved American flags beside Nazi ones and did the Nazi salute. Apparently a Jewish boy leapt on stage at one point, but he was attacked and thrown out.

In the rally they sang a few German folk songs. We heard it outside, and I recognized some of the songs. But when you sang those songs they sounded like lullabies. These guys sang them like war cries.

Bucky and I shouted along with the rest of the much larger crowd of New Yorkers. I'm no stranger to protests, as you know. Some of these protesters had signs – my favorite was "Give me a gas mask, I can't stand the smell of Nazis". Thought you might like that one.

Things got a bit outta hand toward the end. A protester punched a police horse in the face to get away from the officer riding it, and when the Nazis came out at the end we all made a rush for the police line.

I managed to get through since I was shorter than mostly everyone else, and I went right for a guy carrying a giant swastika flag. I wanted to tear it out of his hands. But Bucky got through after me and dragged me back before I could get to any of them. Though I think he was more reluctant about dragging me back then than about any of the other fights he's pulled me away from.

Some Nazis got punched. Guess I'll have to take that as consolation.

Yours,
Steve

PS: It's just occurred to me I'm sending this into German-occupied Austria. If you're reading this, Nazi censors, suck an egg.

February 24th , 1939
Vienna
Steve!

How can you constantly be telling me to be careful but then charge at the first swastika you see like an angry bull? (not that I don't enjoy the mental picture).

I heard about that Bund rally, they're all very excited about it over here. What with Hitler opening a sixth concentration camp, it's all 'progress' here.

I'm glad you didn't get yourself hurt, give Bucky a hug for me. He's earned it. Next time, just let him know there's an anti-Nazi rally and he'll probably come along of his own free will. He's made his feelings perfectly clear in his letters to me.

Got to go, I've got a performance in thirty minutes.

Yours,
Alice

PS: Suck eggs, censors! (There aren't actually any censors, at least not yet. I got introduced to the postmaster a few months ago and with some careful questioning figured out that they're not reading the mail. Yet.)

April 19th , 1939
Harlem
Dear Alice,

Quit worrying about me, I'm doing fine in school! I'll send you my report card if you don't believe me. I'm eleven now, I can take care of myself.

Molly played that new record of yours the other day, I really liked it. I still remember bits of German so I understood some of it, which was nice. You've got a real nice voice. It was good to hear it again.

Can you send me more photos from Vienna? I liked the last lot you sent me, and they're still on my wall. It's weird to think that we used to live in the same house, but now I'm in this tenement apartment in Harlem and you're in some kind of crazy mansion in Vienna.

Do you think I could come visit you, maybe when I'm older?

I gotta go, Billy Rockwell's got a new baseball bat so we're going to go try it out down at the park.

Bye for now,
Tom

May 10th , 1939
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

I don't need to ask if you've seen the movie I'm about to tell you about, because I'm 100% sure they won't have screened it in Germany.

It's called 'Confessions of a Nazi Spy'. Can you guess what it's about?

Most other films I've seen have danced around the topic of Germany, but this one goes after them hard – it called the Nazi party dangerous. Which shouldn't be news, but this was the first movie to say it.

It's got people all riled up, predictably, and I hear Mr Hitler across the pond isn't very happy.

We gotta get you a screening of it when you get back, somehow. Scratch that, a screening of every movie you missed. Those German censors have got no taste.

Yours,
Steve.

Excerpt from '11 Influential Films You've Never Heard Of' by Will Chester(2015):

6. 'Confessions of a Nazi Spy'. Produced in 1939, this was the first Hollywood film to blatantly criticize the Nazi party and their ideology. Its plot is loosely based on a 1938 riot against the German Bund by veterans in New York City, and a Nazi espionage case in the same year.

Though the film failed at the box office, it won the National Board of Review Award for Best Film that year, and fuelled a serious national conversation about the gravity of the Nazi Party's policies and their impact on the United States.

May 24th , 1939
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

I'm writing again, without much hope, to ask you to come home.

You said that things are getting more serious – more munitions factories being built, the navy expanding, more men recruited to the army. You said yourself that almost half of the Jews in Vienna have left.

We've been following things closely in the news here, and they say that war might be on the way. If not for America, then definitely for Germany. Bucky and I still aren't sure – I don't reckon anyone wants another war. But Germany's been annexing all the small areas that no one cares about around it, and the other day the Germans signed an alliance with Italy.  If  it does come to war, I don't see how you can stay and keep helping. That's a whole other level of danger. Even if you stop helping people, no war is safe.

You should come home to Brooklyn, far away from all that. You'd be safe here. I know you want to protect people, but there's only so much you can do – and there's people who need help back here at home. You could bring Jilí. Maybe you could be an advocate here, tell people what's going on in Germany and Austria. They'd listen to you.

Please think about it.

Yours,
Steve

May 28th , 1939
Vienna
Dear Steve,

I'm sorry. I can't.

For one thing my uncle would never let me go. But even if he did, I wouldn't go. I can hardly explain it, but I know I'm not done. Jilí needs me, though she'd never admit it, and so do our friends. I can't leave them.

I will be as safe as I can, and I've learned how to be careful.

I'm still not sure that it will come to war. Nationalism is at an all time high here, but no one wants a war like the last one. I think the Germans might strike out, find the world less easy to conquer than they imagined, and then slide back inwards. Things will change here. They have to.

If  it does come to war, I know I can't ask you not to enlist. So I'll ask you now to take one goddamn minute and  think.  Think about what you're throwing yourself into, think about the consequences. Think about what I'd say. Then decide. I think that's the most I'll get you to agree to, so I'll leave it there.

I'll offer you the same promise.

Yours,
Alice.

June 15th , 1939
Vienna
Dear Steve,

So, I graduated today. I'm now a first-class honors graduate of the  Austrian Imperial Academy of Music and the Performing Arts. I learned a lot there, but I'm glad to be leaving. So much has changed since I first walked through those doors. My instructors were actually much more palatable than my uncle's friends, but even the academy has changed along with the rest of the country. My favorite instructors left, the rest have joined in the patriotic fervor.

I've been in Vienna three years now, but it feels like a lifetime.

Yours,
Alice.

August 24th , 1939
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

We're doing alright, money's a little tight at the moment but we've had worse. Bucky's sisters are able to get some work which helps them out, and I've picked up a couple more commissions.

Buck and I reckoned we had enough money yesterday to go see a movie (remember when the three of us used to scrape together our pennies?). The film was really great, though I doubt it'll make it to your neck of the woods. It's based on that 'Wizard of Oz' book, did you ever read it?

Bucky's been trying to figure out which of Dorothy's friends (there's a scarecrow who wants a brain, a tin man who wants a heart, and a lion who wants courage) the three of us resemble most. I don't imagine it'll be very flattering either way.

(Update: He's decided I'm the scarecrow who needs a brain, all because I helped Mrs Calloway cart her groceries upstairs without getting Bucky to do it for me.)

(Second update: He's decided he wants to be the Wizard).

Just read the paper; apparently the Nazis have signed a non aggression agreement with the Soviet Union – that's probably a good thing, right?

Yours,
Steve.

Chapter Text

STATE OF NEW YORK DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC HEALTH
STANDARD CERTIFICATE OF DEATH

1. COUNTY OF: Kings County  CITY, TOWN, OR RURAL DISTRICT: Brooklyn

2. FULL NAME: Marie Léonie Johnson

3. SEX: female

4. RACE: Cauc.

5. MARITAL STATUS: Married

6. IF MARRIED, WIDOWED, OR DIVORCED, NAME OF HUSBAND OR WIFE: Matthias Cowlie Johnson

7. DATE OF BIRTH: December 1 1894

8. AGE: 41yr 2mo 7days

9. TRADE, PROFESSION, OR KIND OF WORK DONE: Translator

10. BIRTHPLACE (CITY OR TOWN): Vienna_ STATE OR COUNTRY: Austria

11. MAIDEN NAME: Marie Léonie Huber (former married name: Moser)

12. BURIAL, CREMATION OR REMOVAL?: Burial  PLACE: Fulton st church

13. DATE OF DEATH: Feb 8 1936

14. I HEREBY CERTIFY, THAT I TOOK CHARGE OF THE REMAINS DESCRIBED ABOVE (SIGN): Johnson Smith

15. THE PRINCIPAL CAUSE OF DEATH AND RELATED CAUSES OF IMPORTANCE, IN ORDER OF ONSET, WERE AS FOLLOWS: Blunt force trauma, blood loss

16. IF DEATH WAS DUE TO EXTERNAL CAUSES (VIOLENCE) FILL IN THE FOLLOWING:
ACCIDENT, SUICIDE, OR HOMICIDE?: Homicide
DATE OF INJURY: Feb 8 1936

CORONER SIGNATURE: Johnson Smith

The next time Alice saw Steve was at the funeral.

It had only been a week, but the world had changed and Steve hadn't been able to see her. Alice had been at the police station, at the morgue, at the city hall, Harlem, a hotel. Whisked around in a blur of details, questions, and though she tried to cling to her brother he kept slipping out of her fingers. And Steve had been sick. His mom took him to the Moser-Johnson house three times, but after the third time no one answered she put him back to bed and told him to wait. Bucky came to sit by Steve's side, his eyes red.

The music that weaved through Alice's thoughts fell still.

Rammed off the road, they said. A witness said they'd seen the two cars pulled up next to each other at an intersection, saw the driver see Marie and Matthias together. Waited, then drove up and ran them off the road.

Unlikely we'll catch him.

Alice didn't scream. Didn't cry unless she was alone. She listened with a calm face, only the deep shadows beneath her eyes betraying that there was anything going on in her head at all.

Steve, his mom, and Bucky were among the first to arrive at the church for Marie's funeral, hoping to see Alice before it started. But the front row was empty.

Marie and Matthias were to have separate funerals – they'd had to attend different churches after all. As they'd had to be separate in life, so they'd be separate in death. Matthias's funeral was in a few days.

The church sighed and breathed with whispers. It was a clear, sharp day outside, but the priest had still lit candles up and down the pews. His face was drawn long and old.

Alice and Tom arrived a few minutes before the service began. Alice wore a long black dress and Tom clutched her and his aunt Molly's hands, wearing a black suit with the sleeves rolled up to fit him. His eyes were wide and scared.

Steve felt like he'd been punched in the gut when he saw Alice. She'd been sick when he last saw her, but that was nothing to how she looked now: her face was lined with shadows and she pressed her lips tight together as she looked up to see the full church. Her eyes were lined with red. And she still looked completely, heartbreakingly beautiful.

He was so absorbed by Alice that he didn't notice the man by her side for a few moments: he was tall and stately, wearing a finer suit than anyone else in the church. He had finely-combed blonde hair and dark brows, and a narrow, pointed nose. He stood close to Alice's side.

Steve frowned.

Alice, Tom, Molly, the strange man and some other members of Matthias's family made their way down the middle of the pews. Members of the congregation stood to pause them for a moment, to murmur words of grief and consolation.

When they reached the third row Bucky stood bolt upright and stepped into the aisle to meet Alice's eyes. At the sight of him Alice fell still and something like wariness slipped out of the tense line of her shoulders.

Bucky wordlessly pulled her in for a hug. He dwarfed her, as if Alice had shrunk in the past week. The man accompanying Alice watched with flat brown eyes.

Steve was there when Bucky and Alice pulled apart. Alice barely saw him before she was hugging him, her left hand digging tight between his shoulderblades as if he'd try to let her go. Her other hand still gripped Tom's.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured, half muffled by her shoulder. Alice clung to him tighter.

Someone cleared their throat softly. They pulled apart.

Alice looked as if the hug had sapped at her hard, impenetrable shell, turning it as fragile as the stained glass in the church window. She glanced from Steve, to Bucky, to the man standing over her shoulder.

"This is my uncle," she explained in a low voice. "Josef Huber. My mother's brother. He flew over from Austria when… when he got the telegram."

Flew. Steve looked up into the man's face, though the man did not look back at him. He must be really rich. Or famous. Alice had never spoken much about her family back in Austria.

Then the uncle steered her away down the aisle. Steve's hands felt numb. There'd been so much he'd wanted to say to her this past week, and all he'd managed to get out was I'm so sorry.

He fell back into his seat, his eyes on the back of Alice's blonde head, and his mom took his hand. On his other side, Bucky put a hand on his shoulder.

Alice's uncle gestured for her to sit at the end of the pew and then took the seat beside her, leaving no room. She took Tom and set him on her lap. The uncle's head turned away.

Then there were echoing footsteps as the priest made his way to the lectern, and the service started.

Steve didn't move for the whole service. He'd been restless all week, determined to do something, but then he had looked into Alice's eyes, held her against him, and he had felt her grief as strongly as if she'd shoved it into his chest. It froze him.

When the men stood to carry Marie's casket in, Steve didn't move. Bucky went, as did Alice's uncle, and Matthias's brother in law. Steve just sat there useless, looking at the back of Alice's head. He couldn't hold her hand, couldn't say anything to make this better, couldn't even carry her dead mother in to be buried.

Under the organ music and the heavy tone of the priest's voice, the church sounded like weeping. Steve had been to funerals before, but those were for other people. Old people. He'd felt the heaviness of them and felt their gravity but those had been about remembrance. This was tragedy.

The casket wasn't open. Steve knew what that meant: what lay inside was not for seeing. It was a simple wooden casket with white flowers laid on top. He'd smelled them as they went past – sweet, simple.

Alice didn't speak in the service; either she couldn't or she wouldn't. She sat at the end of her pew with her little brother curled up in her lap, her arms wrapped around him as if to protect him from something.

Molly stood and said a few words: loving mother, worked hard to support her family. Kind to anyone who crossed her path. Steve remembered Molly and Marie laughing over the turkey wishbone at Thanksgiving.

The uncle didn't speak. The priest had asked Steve's mom yesterday if she would speak on behalf of the church congregation and Marie's friends. She touched Alice's shoulder as she went up to speak, and delivered a loving eulogy worthy of the impact Marie had made here. Steve's mom looked down at Alice toward the end of her speech and her face crumpled. She walked back to her pew weeping.

When it was done, they all stood and walked Alice's mom out to the graveyard to be buried.

There was a hole waiting for her; the ground cold and hard. The congregation huddled around and shivered as the casket was lowered into the hole. A breeze blew through and made Steve shudder. His father was buried a few rows up from here.

Alice dropped a flower on the casket. Tom did too, his eyes wet and dark. He curled into his sister's side and she spread her hand over the back of his head. When they began pouring the dirt back in over Marie, Alice picked up Tom and held him tightly.

The congregation gathered and mingled, exchanging low words of sorrow as the hole in the ground began to fill. Steve and Bucky stood where they were for a few moments, giving the brother and sister at the edge of the hole in the ground a moment to hold each other.

They watched Molly approach, her face exhausted and bereft, and gently take Tom from Alice's arms. Alice's uncle stood only a few paces away.

Steve and Bucky exchanged a glance and then went to join their friend.

They didn't hug this time – Alice looked brittle and small, and Steve and Bucky both sensed that she might break if touched. The tightness around her eyes loosened at the sight of them, though.

For a few moments none of them spoke. The last time they'd all been together had been… the back of the tailor shop, Steve thought. Matthias had been hard at work with winter customers in the main room, Marie had stuck her head through the door to say hi as she went out to shop with Tom. The three of them had been playing cards and arguing over what radio station they wanted to listen to.

The moment hung heavy over all three of them.

"What's going to happen to you?" Bucky asked.

Steve wanted to thank him for finally voicing the question, but his words had dried up in his throat.

Alice reached up with shaky fingers to her eyes, but she wasn't crying. Her eyes were wet and desperate as she said carefully: "I don't have any family left in New York. My uncle," she half turned to the man, who took a step closer as she mentioned him, "Is my guardian now." She looked back but did not seem to see them. "I'm going back to Austria."

If this were a movie Steve would stagger back like a man struck by an arrow. He would rage and argue. But as it was he just stood, rooted to the spot, looking and looking and looking at her and waiting for her words to be a lie.

A tear escaped the corner of her eye, rolled down her face and dripped off the edge of her chin. It was alone. She swiped her cheek with twisted fingers.

"No," said Steve, sounding almost confused.

Alice finally looked fully at him. Her expression was wrenched. He'd never seen her like this – not even after the night Matthias got hurt. Something dark and overwhelming was welling inside her. "I don't have anywhere else to go-"

"There's Molly, Matthias's family, us-"

The uncle spoke directly to Steve for the first time: "The Johnsons are Thomas's next of kin," he said. His accent was heavier than Marie's had been. Steve had to compute 'Thomas' for a moment – no one called the boy that. The uncle continued: "But they - and anyone else - cannot legally take care of Alice. She'll come back to her family in Austria, where she'll be well taken care of."

"You're splitting them up?" asked Bucky with the horror of a sibling in his voice. The uncle turned to him to reply in a calm, reasonable tone.

As Bucky and the uncle spoke, Steve looked back to Alice and finally, finally saw it: her hands had been moving almost constantly since they came over – fixing her coat, wiping away tears, but Steve had just assumed it was an anxious tic that had escaped her normally rigid self control. Even now her hand played at the sleeve of her coat, but he saw that it wasn't a sign of self comfort. Her fingers were crossed.

It was an old code. They hadn't used it for years, not since they'd been smaller and wanting to escape from the bore of adults milling around after church service. It meant meet me in the courtyard.

Steve's eyes widened and he nodded. Alice's welling eyes cleared, and she uncrossed her fingers.

"So you see," her uncle said, turning to face the three of them in general rather than just Bucky, "This is what's best." He set his hand on Alice's shoulder and they turned away, heading for the priest.

Bucky watched them with an open mouth and limp hands. "She can't just go," he said. He turned to Steve. "Steve, I-"

"C'mon." Steve grabbed Bucky's sleeve and started pulling him through the mourners in the direction of the back gate that he knew led to the church courtyard. Their boots crunched on the gravel path.

"What? Where're we going?"

"Alice said to meet in the courtyard."

"When did she – oh, one of your codes." Bucky planted his feet, so Steve had to turn around with a furrow on his brow. They were a few yards away from the congregation in the graveyard. Bucky looked back at him with knowing dark eyes.

"Come on," Steve said, "I don't know how much time we'll have."

"You go."

"What?"

Bucky sighed. "You go. She wants to talk to you, punk, not me-"

"That's not-"

"I know, I know," Bucky made a quelling gesture. "But she won't have long, and it should be you. I'll be your lookout."

Steve's shoulders dropped. "Bucky."

"Go on." Bucky glanced over his shoulder and then back. "She's already slipped out, she'll be waiting for ya."

Steve looked back at his friend for another moment, his jaw clenched, then turned and hastened to the church courtyard door. Bucky watched him go.

Alice was, as Bucky had predicted, already waiting for Steve in the small courtyard behind the church. The courtyard seemed smaller than it ever had, enclosed by slate-grey brick walls. There wasn't much in here aside from a few shrubs and a pond. Weeds sprang through the gaps between cobblestones, and a fine sheet of ice covered the brown pond in the middle of the yard. They used to throw pebbles into that pond on mornings like this and watch the ice splinter. Their priest had taught them to shoot here, propping the target up against the sturdy church wall.

Alice shifted her weight from one foot to another, her arms wrapped around herself.

"Steve," she breathed as soon as he'd shut the wooden door behind him. Steve's boots echoed off the paving stones as he rushed over to her and took both her hands in his. They'd never held each other like this before.

Alice's eyes were wild and large in her pale face. "Steve, I'm leaving today."

His stomach dropped. "What?"

"There's a ticket for a ship booked, he says it has to be today, Steve, I…"

"No, but-" His head reeled, this was too much too soon. He wanted time. He wanted to sit with her and hold her as she cried and let her slowly, slowly, open up to him. This wasn't fair. "Why today?"

"I don't know. He took care of everything." Alice pulled her hands out of his to grip her head. Her breath came in a sharp gasp. "He can't take Tom," she said in a high, breaking voice. "And I can't stay with him. Steve, he's only seven-"

"I know," Steve said. Tears prickled at his eyes and he reached out – his hand settled on her arm. "I know, I'm so sorry." He felt so useless. Couldn't he say anything else? "You know Molly and the others will take good care of him, you don't need to be scared for him."

"But I am scared, I am."

So am I.

"You're…" he tried to think. "You're going to Austria, we can still write to each other. And you'll come back, you'll…" he was just wishing aloud now.

"I will," Alice said, and he realized tears were streaming from her eyes. He'd never seen her cry so freely, without even attempting to stop herself. It made his hand tighten on her arm, made him pull her into a hug so tight that he could feel her heartbeat. He drew in a breath that made his chest shudder.

"Steve," she whispered. "Please… can you go to Matthias's funeral for me?"

She was going to miss his funeral. Steve nodded, the movement brushing the side of her head. "Of course, I'll – I'll be there."

"Thank you," came her shaky voice.

She was so warm against him, but every part of her he touched was cold: the tips of her pale hair felt icy, her hand against the back of his neck was like cool glass. She's leaving, said his mind, but he could not bring himself to picture the reality of it – surely she should always be just a few blocks down the street. Always waiting for him at the post box on the way to school, always touching her toes to his on the carpet of his living room, always a melody of dots and dashes crackling through the radio.

"I don't want to leave," she whispered against the side of his neck.

"Don't," he said helplessly. This was not something he could fight.

And then she was pulling back, but she wasn't leaving, because her eyes were in front of him now – wide and green and crying.

He kissed her. Or she kissed him, he wasn't sure.

It wasn't how Steve hoped it would be (he could see it in his mind's eye: laughing, maybe a bit fumbling, free of desperation or grief), but it still flooded his chest with warmth and sent his heart pounding faster than was likely good for him considering his history of palpitations. Her lips crushed against his, not bruising but enough to make them both light up at the feeling. His fingers tangled in her hair. She moved her head slightly and he felt her wet eyelashes brush against his skin. His heart skipped.

As if she could sense the danger Alice leaned back with one palm laid on his bony chest.

A small smile broke out on her face and Steve's heart shattered and came back together in a second. "I'll be seeing you, Steve Rogers."

He swallowed. He'd imagined saying so many things to her but it was too soon, too sad. Yet it hurt not to say them. So he whispered: "Keep in touch."

"I promise." She kissed him again; long and sweet and barely there, then she slipped away.

THREE YEARS LATER
September 3rd, 1939

Banging on the door.

"Mmf."

More banging. "Steve! I know you're in there, open up!"

Bucky.

Steve rolled over onto his back and squinted in the early morning gloom. The same water stain that had been there since he could remember sat brown and splotchy on the white plaster ceiling.

"Steve!"

Bucky'd get bored of knocking (banging) soon and get the spare key from under the brick outside. But even in his half-awake state Steve could hear a more urgent note in his voice than the usual 'I have plans for us today and you're not moving fast enough'.

So he swung his legs out of bed – the mattress springs creaked in protest – winced as his feet landed on the cold wooden floor, and then trudged through the apartment to the door. If it were anyone else he'd tell them to wait a minute so he could get changed out of his cotton pajamas and comb his hair, but Bucky sounded fit to break the door down at this point. Maybe he'd forgotten about the spare key.

"I'm coming!" Steve called grouchily. He passed the table with Alice's latest letter from Vienna still open upon it – he'd already replied, but he liked seeing her flowy cursive. A sprig of lavender from Mrs Bullock's herb patch on the roof stood crumbling in a jar in the middle of the table.

"Hurry up about it!" came Bucky's muffled voice.

Scowling, Steve tripped over the rug by the entrance and then flung the door open to Bucky's flustered face. Then his eyes lifted to the outside world, where he could just see dawn light filtering through the tenement buildings on the other side of the street. The sky was a dark, slumbering blue.

Steve frowned and checked his watch. "Bucky it's half past five in the morning, what the hell-"

A rustle of paper brought Steve's attention to the thing Bucky had brandished as soon as Steve opened the door: a newspaper. It smelled like fish – Bucky must've picked it up at the docks as his shift began and run all the way back here.

"Steve," Bucky said breathlessly.

Steve scanned the bold black print of the headline and his stomach plummeted so quickly he thought he might fall backwards.

"Steve," Bucky repeated. "Alice."

Steve nodded. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the headline:

GERMANY AT WAR.

Chapter Text

Part Two: Soldiers

~ Be a single voice no more ~

New York Herald Tribune Headline: Great Britain and France Declare War on Germany

September 1939

"You gotta stay calm, Steve."

Steve cast a glance sideways at Bucky. Bucky's hands twisted as he sat on the stoop outside Steve's tenement building, and tired shadows hung under his eyes, and he still thought he could tell Steve to stay calm. Steve couldn't stop his knee bouncing where he sat.

He ignored Bucky's advice. "My last letter was…" he counted, "three days before they invaded Poland. They wouldn't have shut down all the post, would they? There hasn't been any action in Austria either, there can't have been."

Bucky sighed and lowered his head. They were both exhausted after three weeks of absolute silence from Alice, and from waking up at five every morning to have this exact same conversation before the postman arrived. The postman was used to seeing them sitting there by now, and told them straight away whether there was anything for Steve. Every morning he'd rest his bike against the wall, look up with a grimace and say: "Sorry boys."

Steve rubbed sleep out of his eyes with the heels of his palms.

"There's plenty of reasons why you haven't gotten a letter yet," Bucky said. "The post could be delayed. Could have been redirected somewhere by mistake. Could be they have halted the mail-"

"But why would they halt the mail to the US?" Steve asked. He rubbed his hands together to fight off the chill. "We're not at war with them."

The news had come just a few days after the start of the war in Europe. The US had proclaimed its neutrality, and Steve had been torn between indignation and relief. Surely that's better for Alice, Bucky had said when he heard. We don't want our Air Corps dropping bombs on her.

Steve felt ill again at the thought. And yet the idea that his country wouldn't step in to stop the Germans invading surrounding countries made him frustrated.

Bucky sighed again. "Just because we're not at war with them doesn't mean they trust us," he said. "Anyway, it could be that Alice just hasn't gotten around to writing yet. Could be busy. Could be working on getting out of Austria, maybe."

If only. Steve could hope, but he knew Alice wouldn't leave. Not yet.

The squeak of a bicycle at the other end of the street made Bucky and Steve's heads jerk up.

"Don't get your hopes up," Bucky warned.

"I won't," Steve lied as his knee started bouncing faster.

A minute later the postman cycled up to the front of the tenement, dressed in his smart uniform and cap with a hessian bag slung over his shoulder. He squeaked to a halt in front of the stoop, casting a glint-eyed glance their way, and before he'd even gotten off his bike he pulled a letter out of his bag.

Steve's stomach swooped and he shot to his feet. "It came?"

The postman leaned over with the letter. "Here ya go boys! Don't think it's the one you're after though."

Steve fumbled the envelope out of the postman's hands and flipped it to look at the return address:

The Thomas Cook Office
Lisbon, Portugal
PO Box 506

Steve's face fell and his buzzing nerves went cold. Bucky glanced over his shoulder and frowned.

The postman pulled out the rest of the letters for the tenement and hopped off his bike to slot them into the correct letterboxes. "Sorry boys," he said over his shoulder. When he turned around again he observed: "Must be some sweetheart to have you out here every morning."

"She is," Bucky said before Steve could correct the man. Steve glowered at him and Bucky just shrugged, unapologetic.

When the postman cycled off again, Steve frowned down at the letter. "I don't know anyone in Lisbon, do I?"

"Sure it's for you?"

Steve rechecked the front of the envelope, which sure enough had his name and address written in flowing handwriting. Handwriting that looked familiar.

He tore the envelope right there on the stoop, almost ripped the letter within as he yanked it out, and ran wild eyes over the first line.

It felt as if a red-hot coil twisted in her gut. "It's her!"

Bucky stood up with wide eyes. "What? She's in Lisbon?" He came over and tried to take the letter out of Steve's hands, but Steve fended him off.

"It's… she's okay," he breathed, heart suddenly pounding.

"What's she doing in Lisbon? Did she-"

"I'm reading it, I'm reading it!"

"Well read it out loud, then-"

"Alright," Steve said as he flapped a hand at Bucky. He cleared his throat, tore his eyes back up the page, and began to read.

September 2^nd 24th , 1939
Vienna
Dear Steve,

I'm safe!

Now that's out of the way, I have a lot to tell you. First, this is the letter I wrote on my birthday, the 2nd :

Dear Steve,

Yesterday Germany invaded Poland. Today I turned 21. My uncle threw a huge party in one of the biggest social halls in Vienna, though it was difficult to tell at times whether the party was for me or for Germany. He kept saying 'Germany has grown into adulthood beside my niece, the two of them stepping out into the world and proclaiming their divine glory.'

I'm not certain he thinks much of my 'divine glory'.

People shook my hand and kissed my cheeks, told me I looked beautiful and congratulated me on my 'fortuitous birthday'.

To be honest I don't remember a lot of it. I'm still in shock, I think, that this is actually happening: Germany has taken Poland against all expectations. Great Britain has delivered an ultimatum, and I don't know yet where that will lead. The German troops haven't stopped.

I have a very clear memory of standing in the middle of that hall in a stiff, uncomfortable silver dress, holding a glass of champagne, thinking 'how on earth did I end up here?'

So, that's what I meant to write you on the 2nd . But on the 3rd , four countries declared war on Germany: the UK, France, Australia, and New Zealand. Since then, South Africa has also declared war. Thankfully (more for you than for me), the US said it'll stay neutral.

It's happening. I kept telling people it wouldn't, but I now realize that was just my own wishful, naive hope. The German Army (which includes the Austrian Army now) is tearing through Poland toward Warsaw as I write.

The whole country is buzzing. Wherever I go, no one can speak of anything else but the  war.  Whether they're excited about the Third Reich becoming an empire or terrified of what wartime will bring, it's on their minds and their tongues.

Already things are changing. There's talk of conscription. There are volunteer sign-up sheets for munitions factories and ration pack assembly lines. Hitler Youth march up and down the streets, singing songs as if they've already won a victory. Behind them march the troops. The grocery shelves are empty. It's as if the city is celebrating and bunkering down all at once.

I've heard that the mail might be censored, and that brings me to the unusual envelope you've received. A friend put me in contact with someone in Lisbon, who is offering to forward mail to other countries. The US isn't at war with Germany, but I'm certain mail to the US will be censored heavily from here on out. To continue writing to me, address an envelope the same way I have, to the Thomas Cook office in Lisbon (Portugal is neutral), post office box 506, and write my name at the top of the letter itself. They'll send it on to me (or rather, Jilí). It will take longer, but that way we can keep communicating in privacy.

How are you? What have I missed? Have things changed much in New York?

Yours,
Alice.

Steve said that last part in a rush, as if the air in his lungs was deflating. When he'd finished his hand with the letter fell limp by his side.

She's safe.

Bucky stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the tenement letter box. His brow furrowed. "Idiot."

Steve blinked. "What? Why?"

Bucky just gestured vaguely in the air, then dropped his arm. A moment later he sat on the stoop again. "Just… idiot."

Steve sat down beside him. Sunlight began to creep through the chilled Brooklyn streets, and in the distance a bird sang. Steve felt stunned, disconnected from his body. He thought he understood what Bucky meant. Alice won't let this push her away. This will make her want to stay more than ever.

He reached up and ran his hands over his face. The paper in his hand crinkled.

"What do we do?" He looked over to Bucky.

Bucky opened his mouth, gestured to the letter, shut his mouth again. "I don't think there's anything we can do. Ask Germany to stop invading Poland?"

"A whole bunch of countries have already tried that." Steve's throat constricted. "Now they're going to ask again. But with guns."

Bucky's head dropped into his hands. "She'll be safe." He said it haltingly, then nodded to himself and said: "She will be. She knows how to stay out of trouble, keep her head down. She'll be safe."

Steve thought of the last war and how it had torn Europe to shreds. No country, no person untouched. No one could guarantee their own safety now. He held up the letter again and traced her words. First the I'm safe! Then his fingertips trailed down to where she'd written Yours.

For how much longer?

Bucky leaned back and blew out a breath. "You'd better get writing to Lisbon, then."

Excerpt from 'Culture of the Third Reich' by Maureen Einrich (1999), chapter 7 (Notable Musicians), p. 88

One cannot describe the Siren's career without describing the war. While it is true that Moser was performing in Vienna years before Germany's invasion of Poland, her fame did not truly soar until the height of the war years. 1939 was the real origin of what we know as the Siren. Of course, this was not to last.

October 1939

A knock at the door.

Alice looked up from where she'd been fastening her heeled shoes. "Enter."

The white-washed door swung open on its well-oiled hinges to reveal the housemaid, Julia. She was a light haired, light eyed girl and she looked in warily. "Your uncle would like to speak with you, Fräulein."

Julia might well be wary – twice before she'd been tasked with ensuring that Alice stay inside the house, only for Alice to sneak out the window. Julia was a little older than Alice and the two of them had a strange, unspoken kind of rivalry. Alice didn't begrudge Julia doing her job, but she did not trust her. Julia seemed half in awe, half irritated by her younger mistress.

"I'll be out in a moment," Alice replied evenly. She stood up and turned to the mirror to check her appearance; her fine grey cotton dress was just visible under the thick coat that ended below her knees. Stockinged ankles led into sensible black pumps. Her shoulder-length blonde hair hung in carefully-ironed curls around her calm, watchful face.

Julia eyed Alice a moment. "Are you going somewhere, miss?"

"Yes." Alice didn't take her eyes off her own reflection.

Julia bowed her head and closed the door behind her.

Alice's brow lowered when she heard the door shut, and she looked away from the mirror. Her uncle didn't often seek her company. They each drifted through this house in the hopes of not running into each other. But she was still his songbird, so he brought her out to parties and performances, and fed and watered her in this gilded cage. Alice spared a glance for her room – it really was very fine, with a rich blue and white cream carpet, velvet settees, an ornate four-poster bed and dresser table. Her phonograph sat on a low counter beside the dresser. Alice had promised herself never to get used to this luxury, but in some ways she had. She was used to selecting well-made, warm clothes from her wardrobe each morning, patting expensive cosmetics on her face before performances, having a maid and a cook and a driver to take her around town.

Sometimes she came back to her bedroom and it didn't feel like hers. What with the fine dressings and Julia cleaning, it more often looked like a nice hotel room. Only small traces of Alice could be seen – the copy of Murder on the Orient Express with its cracked spine on the bedside table, the pen and almost-dry inkwell on the dressing table, the stacks of records beside the phonograph (and that wasn't even counting the ones she'd hidden).

Their house in Vienna was… not quite a mansion, but a very nice house on the corner of the street. Alice's bedroom had two wide windows set into the outward-facing walls, overlooking the street below and beyond; the buildings of Vienna stretching away into the distance. She could just see the spire of St Stephen's cathedral.

Alice fastened her coat buttons as she looked out the window. The city sounds of puttering engines and marching feet were muted in here, as were the sounds of china clinking in the room beyond. It was if this room was another universe that just looked out on the world beyond. And Alice stood within it, unmoving, a shaft of sunlight illuminating motes of dust in the air.

Another knock at the door. "Fräulein?"

Alice's brow lowered. "I'm coming."

She pushed open her bedroom door to the universe beyond, and strode down the hallway toward the large living room. This was an imposing, open space with a brass and crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling and a grand piano in the corner. Tall windows overlooked the avenue outside. Her uncle sat where he usually did; in the sturdy armchair by the fireplace, with the ornate tapestry hanging behind it. The tapestry depicted some scene of ancient battle: a commander brandishing his weapon as around him a melee of soldiers and flags unfolded. It was bright-colored, almost cheery.

Alice preferred the wrought iron chairs out on the balcony, herself, but her uncle seemed to prefer seating himself amongst all that splendor and grandeur. It suited him.

Her uncle looked up from his newspaper as Alice walked in, his brown eyes revealing nothing at the sight of her. A cigarette dangled from his fingers. Alice often tried to find hints of her mother in his face, but could see none; his nose was angular, his brow heavy and serious, his pale hair slicked neatly to the sides. He always dressed in a fine dark suit and a starched shirt. There was none of her mother's kindness or bravery in his expression, none of her sadness either. Alice would have to remain comforted by the fact that people often told her she looked like her mother – not that those people cared to acknowledge who Marie Moser had become, or who she had married.

"You asked for me?" Alice asked politely. She glanced away to fix the cuff of her coat.

Her uncle pulled his timepiece from his breast pocket and eyed it. "You're going out?"

"Yes."

Alice gave no more information, and her uncle didn't ask for any. She supposed he must have some idea that she was doing something he'd disapprove of, but she never got caught and he must have known she wouldn't let him push much further than he already had, so he never intervened. As long as she kept singing, that was enough for him.

Her uncle cleared his throat and leaned back. "I'd like to discuss the performance at the Konzerthaus in two weeks. Pichler has written another song that I think we should debut at that performance. I'll have the sheet music ready for you this afternoon."

Alice stiffened. Pichler. She wondered whether he was actually working for the propaganda department now, or just sucking up still. She knew what songs from him would sound like. He had an ear for tune, certainly, but his heart belonged to the Nazis. Alice had already sung three songs for Herr Goebbel's department. She still heard them on the radio sometimes, stirring up national spirit and support for the war. Convincing the public to forgive the rationing of food. Convincing them to love Germany and all the Fatherland stood for.

Hearing her voice on the radio singing those songs felt strange. Alice still didn't understand how she'd sung the words so sweetly when they tasted like poison.

For your freedom, came her own steady voice. So you can help.

Alice swallowed. "I'll expect it this afternoon then."

Her uncle eyed her for a few moments, then nodded.

Alice turned on her heel and strode right past the waiting Julia, through the hallway, down the stairs, and out the front door of the house into the sunlight outside.

When the fresh breeze blew on her face, Alice closed her eyes and took a deep breath in. She never realized how stifling that house felt until she was out of it.

She opened her eyes and instantly the feeling crept back over her. Directly across the street a huge poster was pasted on the side of a building: it depicted a tall, proud eagle sat atop a set of golden laurels with the swastika prominently displayed. The poster read Rally of Peace. 1939. A red cross had been taped over it.

They'd cancelled that rally when the war broke out.

Alice cleared her throat and turned down the street. After a month of war, she could not say that life had changed so much. She still felt a creeping fear and the ominous sense that something huge was about to happen, but she'd felt that way for… well, it had been coming on for years now. Perhaps she'd been at war longer than she realized.

Mostly, the war was happening elsewhere. Japan was launching offensives on China. Warsaw had surrendered to Germany after days of devastation and violence, and thus Poland fell to the Third Reich. Alice did not think they would get to have a plebiscite. Germany was now firing on the French Maginot line. The rest of Europe was doubling down, shoring up its defenses, no doubt very nervous. British troops had entered Belgium and France. The battle had begun in earnest at sea, with air attacks and a British battleship being sunk by a German U-boat in Scotland. Russia crept closer westward, though ostensibly they were still allies with Germany.

Every day something new seemed to happen, and Alice kept waiting for it. The thing that would change everything, turn everything back the way it had once been. Maybe if America stepped in. Or Russia changed alliances. But the world just… kept on keeping on. If Alice wanted to she could pretend that none of this was happening, that no one was in danger or disappearing in the night. It wasn't like the rationing affected her uncle's household.

Alice kept her hands in her pockets and her head high as she strode through Vienna's streets. She'd never walked this route before. She didn't make a habit of going the same way twice.

Vienna felt very different from New York. Both cities held a sense of history, but Vienna's history was the older kind, of kings and empires and the black plague and the catholic church. Where New York had pavement, Vienna had cobblestones. The cities had different spirits. Alice could sense them – Vienna was ancient, regal and refined while New York was the bustling, burning heart of youth. She loved them both.

Black cars drove past Alice as she made her way through the city, spewing fumes that made her nose wrinkle, and other pedestrians walked up and down the sidewalks between the tall, grand buildings on either side of the avenue. Occasionally they glanced at Alice as she passed and their eyes went wide with recognition.

Alice knew who they saw: Die Sirene, in her elegant clothes with her golden hair shining on top of her head: aloof and beautiful and talented. She let them believe that she was that person. It kept them distant from her.

Ten minutes later, when she spotted a familiar bakery at the other end of the street, she turned left into a narrower alleyway. The buildings weren't so grand here. One burnt-out shop still bore scarlet graffiti of stars-of-David and the word Jude.

Alice averted her eyes just like everyone else did. The side of her face prickled as she walked past it.

She approached a familiar black-painted door, let herself in with the key she hid amongst the keys for her uncle's house, then climbed up the narrow, dark stairs to the third landing. She knocked on door 302, though softly. They were trying not to let the neighbors know that anyone lived there.

Alice felt, rather than heard, the presence behind the peephole, and a moment later the door swung open to reveal Jilí. Alice smiled at her friend and felt a flutter of satisfaction when Jilí smiled back. She didn't always do that these days.

In appearance, Jilí was Alice's opposite in many ways. Where Alice's hair was so pale it looked almost white some days, Jilí's hair was ink black and thick (from her Romani grandmother and mother, Jilí often said). Dark brows arched over her deep brown eyes, and her expressive face was now open in a tired smile. Jilí stood a head shorter than Alice but had acres of rigid determination to make up for it. In Alice's mind Jilí was a presence – you could not ignore her when she was in the room.

Jilí tipped her head at Alice, asked "Are you coming in or not?" in English and then turned on her heel to stride back into the apartment. They spoke English to each other usually, since Jilí always wanted to learn.

Laughing under her breath, Alice followed her friend in.

Jilí's apartment stood in stark relief to Alice's uncle's house, and was poorer even than Alice's tenement flat in Brooklyn had been. There wasn't much to it aside from a cot in the corner, a sparse kitchen with a coal stove and kettle, a table, and floorboards. Jilí and Franz had moved here after Kristallnacht in an effort to go further unnoticed, and Alice had bought it when Jews were forbidden from owning property. Still, she didn't think of it as her apartment.

Alice shrugged off her coat, hung it on a nail in the wall, and ran her hands through her hair to brush away the October chill.

"I've got another letter for you, finally," Jilí called over her shoulder.

"Truly?" Alice rushed to the cluttered table and sure enough right in the center sat a thick letter addressed to Jilí from Lisbon, in Steve's elegant handwriting. Alice picked it up and pressed her fingers to the paper, breathing in the smell of ink. The Thomas Cook service gave her peace of mind but it took a lot longer than regular air mail had. She'd sent her last letter to Steve two and a half weeks ago. "Thank you, Jilí."

Alice turned to put the letter in her coat's inside pocket. She'd read it when she got home. "Have you heard anything from the Lehners?" she asked her friend's turned back. Jilí put a kettle on the stove.

"No," Jilí replied. "So either they got out or they were caught, but either way there is nothing more we can do for them."

Alice pressed her lips together and went to peek through the crack in the curtains over the window. "Hope's a funny thing," she murmured.

"You singers and your lofty notions," Jilí responded mock-chidingly. "Come and sit, stop fussing."

"I don't fuss," Alice said, but she came to sit at the simple wooden table across from Jilí. "How are you?"

"See? Fussing." Jilí pulled a pair of men's trousers from the pile of clothes on the table, a spool of thread, and started mending a tear in the seams. Her eyes didn't lift to Alice's. "I'm fine, as always. You don't need to ask every time."

"Yes I do." Alice took a moth-bitten child's shirt from the pile and selected a scrap of fabric to darn it with. The fabric didn't match, but it didn't matter. Alice almost smiled at the thought of what Matthias would say if he saw the tailoring she was doing now. Even in the heights of the Depression he'd made sure the quality of his work never wavered.

"How are you, then?" Jilí asked. Her eyes darted up from her work.

"Fine," Alice replied. Then: "I'll be performing a new patriotic song soon." Now it was her turn to avoid Jilí's dark gaze.

"You made your choice, Alice. I know you don't mean what those songs say-"

"But no one else knows that," Alice said, keeping her voice purposefully soft. Her fingers danced around the needle. "Am I not just as bad as the rest of them who shout the slogans and praise the Fatherland?"

"Do you think you are?" Jilí asked. The two of them sat in silence for a few moments, working across from each other at the table in the bare wooden room.

"I hope not," Alice murmured. "But surely what I really feel starts to matter less, the more public I am in my support."

"I don't care what you do in public," Jilí said, suddenly vehement. Alice looked up into her hard brown eyes. "It's what that work allows you to do here, and beyond, that counts."

Alice drew in a slow breath through her nose and nodded. "You're right."

"Usually."

A smile crept across Alice's lips. "Everyone's okay?"

"As of last night, yes. We'll need to run another food collection tonight though. How are your lot in Berlin and Hamburg doing?"

Alice nodded by way of reply. She and Jilí had spent most of their waking hours lately into protecting people; they kept an eye on about fifteen families in Vienna alone, and Alice had made more 'friends' in a couple of other cities. Friends she supported with food, money, and sometimes papers from her Viennese friend Alma, an artist turned counterfeiter. Alice had met them through the music club, or through Jilí and Franz's group of friends, or from meeting them on her walks through the city at night. Her circle of friends grew larger every week. There was always someone in need of help.

It was just like having a normal friendship group, except for all the illegal help she gave them and the fact that every few months, someone was arrested and deported.

Jilí cleared her throat. "I spoke with Clara Meier from the practice the other day. She said she's worried about some of the children who've gone through there." Alice looked up from her darning. "She says she's been dealing with patient forms with three red cross marks on them – each one from a different doctor."

Alice set down her work. She'd heard of this too. Secrets in Austria inevitably turned into open rumor. "The children disappear," she said. Jilí nodded.

Alice's stomach dropped. She had barely believed the rumor the first time she heard it. She'd overheard a gossipy conversation at the opera, hardly a reliable source, but if Jilí was getting this from a nurse… "Where are they going?" she breathed.

Jilí leveled a look at her.

Alice's lips pressed tight again. "We must find out more."

"How?"

"The usual ways. You ask around where you can. Ask Clara if she can find out more, maybe get us some names. I'll do some snooping on my end, there's always a few surgeons and administrators at my uncle's parties. I'll see about visiting a children's ward sometime as the Siren."

Jilí cast her another long look.

Alice's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I just thought you'd tell me to be careful again. Play it slow, wait for information to come to me. That's normally your advice, no?"

Alice set down the newly-darned shirt and frowned at her friend. Jilí wasn't wrong. She and her 'friends' had been focusing mainly on protection – keeping people safe and fed, getting them out when things got too bad for them. But they moved in shadows, never put their name to anything. No one who was anyone even knew that Alice was friends with any 'unsavory person', let alone a Romani woman who'd married a Jew.

She picked up a new shirt. "Being careful goes without saying. But if what Clara says is true… we must see if we can do something. What if there's a child with two red crosses on their form? If we can warn just one person-"

"Alright, alright," Jilí said with a quelling gesture. She took up another piece of clothing, this time a greatcoat. These clothes were to go to the Koglers, who had been living with their neighbors since August. Alice and Jilí collected clothes and food from anyone who would give them, and often Alice stole from her uncle.

The kettle whistled and Jilí stood and went to the tiny kitchen to tend to it. "What about you?" she called over her shoulder. "Any news from your end?"

"Aside from the usual rubbish about the war and Hitler's glorious army," Alice sighed, "Yes, actually. We went to Belvedere Palace on the weekend and the generals there were talking about a new push against the Jews."

Jilí went still with the kettle still poised in her hand.

"Now that they have Poland they are saying that SS-Obersturmbannführer Eichmann has been put in charge of the Jewish Emigration office, and it's not going to be voluntary emigration anymore." Alice knew Adolf Eichmann, he'd been to a few of her performances back when he lived in Vienna. He'd been posted to Berlin now.

She continued: "They're going to just move quotas of people out of the Reich. No arrests or strong encouragement anymore, just deportation. I only heard concrete plans for Moravia and Poland, but it sounds like this is just the beginning of something larger." Alice had paid very, very careful attention to the floating conversations she'd passed through and taken part in that night, keeping her expression no more interested than if they had been discussing the theater. But now her face was as grave as stone.

Jilí finished pouring and slowly picked up the teacups. "Where will they send them?"

"East," Alice replied. "Poland. Further."

Jilí set a teacup in front of Alice. The steaming surface shivered. "I will warn everyone I see."

"As will I," Alice nodded. "I'll see if I can find out when this policy may come to Vienna. Maybe we could see about moving them to the forest or the countryside for a while."

"For how long?" Jilí asked wryly. "No, the best chance they have now is to go underground. Live in basements, attics, in shut-up houses. Their best chance is that the police think they have already left. They will only be more visible in the countryside."

"I'll pass it on." Alice sipped the tea, but all she tasted was ash. She'd started off providing food and blankets and warning people when the police might come knocking on doors. She did not know quite how it had evolved to this. She didn't know how to protect people from governments and nations. The problem had very suddenly gotten much larger than she knew what to do with. But she still felt a pull. As if there were some solution she hadn't found yet.

She ran a thumb down the side of her teacup. "What else can we do?"

Jilí took a sip of her tea and then looked into its brown depths. She did not reply.

Excerpt from article 'What Was Life Like for Jews in the Early Years of the War?' by Howard Muller (2002)

Historians are often divided on the topic of when, exactly, the Nazi party's plans for Jewish people evolved to extinction, but it is clear that the 'Holocaust' as we know it did not begin until early 1941. Jewish people were by no means safe, of course, in the wake of Kristallnacht and ever-more-violent retaliations against their people. After the annexation of Poland in 1939, the Jewish population there were forced into ghettos, governed by Jewish Councils and rife with disease and starvation.

Back in the Fatherlands, authorities began a Euthanasia Program against patients with mental illness and disabilities (in what many historians see as a precursor to the Holocaust), and Jews and other minorities faced increasingly drastic measures to force them out of the 'pure' Aryan neighborhoods. Many remained, whether out of lack of opportunity, fear of worse treatment elsewhere, or loyalty to their homes. They could not have known what was on its way.

Alice and Jilí talked about other things after that. It was too much to think only of the war day in, day out. Alice managed to make Jilí laugh. After a few hours Alice kissed her friend on the cheek, fetched her coat and walked quietly down the stairs again.

She took an entirely new route back home this time, cutting through the markets. She buried her hands in her pockets and tilted her head down so less people would recognize her. On her way back up her home street, a troop of soldiers in trucks drove past. A few of them shouted her way, and moments later their laughter faded along with the engine exhaust.

Alice felt very small as she let herself back into her uncle's house.

No one else was home, which made the stifling pressure inside the house dissipate. Alice went straight into her room, shrugged out of her coat after fetching Steve's letter, and went to her dresser.

She allowed herself a few moments to get one of her hidden jazz records and set it up on the phonograph. Then she pulled out one of her dressing table drawers, carefully took out the bottles of perfume, and eased the false bottom out of the drawer. The smells of paper and ink drifted into the air as Steve's old letters were revealed.

Alice set the new letter on the dresser and slit it open with her paperknife.

The moment she saw his words – Dear Alice – she smiled and leaned back against her chair. She had to force herself not to read too quickly; she only got the chance to read a letter of his for the first time once, and she wanted to savor it.

Steve told her about home. He told her about the end of the baseball season and the Dodger's hard luck, about Mrs Symanski at the post office and Bucky's latest outrageousness and about her brother. Tom wrote Alice letters with more frequency as his literacy got better, through the Thomas Cook office, but Alice liked hearing about him from Steve as well. Steve had started a new job, and his kitchen pipes were leaking. He sketched in the margins, as he always did: Bucky clinging to the side of the Brooklyn trolley with a wild gleam in his eyes, bagels in a shop window, a rough sketch of children playing in the street, a comedy doodle of himself battling his kitchen pipes like Hercules throttling some many-headed serpent. Alice wished she could illustrate her life for him as vividly as he did for her.

Alice finished the letter with an uncontrollable grin on her face. It had been over three years since she'd last seen Steve but the image of him in her mind had continued to grow – maybe not the physical image of him, but the way she perceived him. He'd grown even more serious with age, and letter-writing had brought out a more thoughtful side to him. It was as if through letter writing she was allowed access to the part of him that made art.

She wondered if he looked different.

Alice pulled a few sheets of paper and immediately began writing out her reply. The longer she took to write and send it, the longer it would be until she would get his next letter. She paused more often as she wrote now, though. She'd been telling Steve less and less about the hard parts of her life. She didn't tell him about the awful songs she sang, or the people she spent so long listening to at parties. She told him very little about her 'friends', or what she and Jilí got up to at night. She skimmed details. One side effect of this was that in writing to Steve, she was forced to reflect on the happier parts of her life: how she'd gotten Jilí to smile. How she'd started feeding jellied fish to the litter of kittens that had shown up in the street beside her house. How it felt to bring people to tears with her song.

Once, after a performance, Alice had planted a red kiss beside her name at the bottom of a letter. She'd regretted it as soon as she put it in the letterbox but it was too late by then.

Steve never mentioned it.

Alice skimmed through her latest visit with Jilí (though she chose to include the clothes-mending they'd been doing. She wanted to tell Steve how it had reminded her of Matthias), then sat back, let out a long breath and looked out the window. The light was fading. Her knee bounced.

After she'd been looking out the window who knew how long, she turned back to her letter.

I have this dream that my parents never moved to New York, she wrote in a more careful hand. That we stayed in Austria. I never went to Brooklyn Junior High, my little brother was never born, I never met you and Bucky. In that dream-world, this strange Nazi movement creeps over me like a tide and I succumb to it. I join the girls section of the Hitler Youth, I sing the songs and I weep with excitement when Hitler appears in Vienna. I see Jilí and Franz on the street, and I curl my lip at them.

Is that all it would take? For me to simply live in a different place at a different time? Would I become that person: a person like I see all around me. A person my uncle would love.

My other, stranger dreams are a relief after that one. I dream of velvety darkness, golden lights, and voices so sweet it's like I've gone to heaven.

Alice wrote a few more lines about useless things, then signed her name and folded the letter. She ran a hand over her eyes, covering herself in darkness for a moment.

When she opened her eyes again she noticed that the light filtering through the window had gone golden and dusky. She checked the clock on the wall and decided to take a nap. She had to sneak out again tonight to help Jilí organize the food collection, and to warn as many people as she could about the upcoming deportation order.

But first she slipped the letter for Steve into an envelope, wrote his address, then put that envelope in a larger one bound for Lisbon. She tucked that letter into her coat and hid Steve's in the false bottom of her drawer. She could never bring herself to throw them away.

Her crimes concealed, Alice crawled into bed fully clothed and closed her eyes.

Excerpt from translated article 'Das Geheimnis der Sirene [The Mystery of the Siren]' by Hans Schruben (1965)

Many artists and intellectuals fled Austria once war was declared in Europe, seeking safer shores in Britain or beyond, in the States. Certainly, it's possible that the Siren may have still had friends in America who could have helped her set up a new life. But the Siren did not leave. Perhaps, since she did not have family who would be put in danger by the outbreak of war, she did not feel the need to flee; her uncle, Josef Huber, was a titan in music industry, politics, and society, who had reason to celebrate Nazi domination rather than fear it.

Perhaps, in the outbreak of war, the Siren saw an opportunity.

Chapter Text

1940

Alice had been right about the deportations. In the middle of October the SS had started taking Jewish families from their homes and deporting them on trains and trucks out of the country. It was no longer a secret by that point, even the international press knew they were being deported – out to Poland, was the word, to the ghettos, or to empty fields or reservations. Anywhere but here, said a police chief laughingly at a party at Alice's uncle's house.

Eight of the twenty families Alice and Jilí looked out for were sent away.

Alice spent one night crying for them, and for Franz, and for the children with red crosses on their patient files, and the next night got to work again. They helped people find emptied-out homes to squat in, helped get food to those already hiding, helped others flee from the deportations: most of them heading toward Palestine.

The war marched ever on, with bombs dropped in Munich and the Thames. In November the Russians invaded Finland. Germany continued to snatch up the holdouts in Poland.

Alice performed Pichler's new song (called Birds of Glory, very obviously about the Luftwaffe air force) for the social elite in Vienna. As she sang she looked around at the room full of champagne glasses and pink, smiling faces and thought How can we live like this while ravaging another country? While ravaging our own?

After her song she accepted a glass of champagne and went to stand by the generals speaking to her father. When they turned to her she smiled prettily.

Christmas was strange. The Nazi party had been leaning away from Jesus as a whole for a while, given the whole Jewish thing, so the celebration was more about Germany than about Jesus's birth. It didn't affect Alice all that much, save for the fact that she sang Christmas carols with different lyrics and that her uncle put a swastika at the top of the Christmas tree instead of a star. Alice cut her own star out of newspaper and put it over the mantelpiece at Jilí's house. The two of them cooked a large dinner for a gathering of some of their friends, shivering in the poorly-heated room, and on her way home Alice tried not to notice the stores selling SS toy soldiers and toy tanks and Luftwaffe planes as Christmas gifts.

Steve's Christmas letter came three weeks late but he'd drawn her a picture of the Rockefeller tree (larger than ever this year), another of Bucky wearing an enormous beanie that slid over his eyes, and sent her a novel that had been banned in the Reich. Alice devoured the drawings, trying not to smudge the pencil with her fingertips, and gave the novel to one of her friends at the bakery once she'd finished it. She hoped Steve had liked the art book she'd sent him. It would be a while until she found out.

Tom's letter arrived a day later, full of colorful observations about Matthias's family and all the strange and wonderful things they'd done over the holiday. He was eleven now. Steve had sent her a drawing of him a while ago and Alice had burst into tears at the image. The small, bright-eyed toddler she'd known had grown tall, and frizzy-haired, with a quirky look of mischief about his eyes. He had gone almost half his life without his sister.

As they entered a new decade Alice watched skirmishes, victories, and losses unfold in the newspapers. Because that was all the war was so far – a series of headlines. No battles were being fought in Vienna, but the city continued to change all the same.

Alice realized, one day as she rushed to a house in a back alley of Vienna under the cover of darkness to check if the family inside had been arrested during the day, that she was drowning in desperation. The small things she had done to help people were not enough. Never enough.

She gave no hint of this in her letters to Steve.

In May, Alice woke up to the news that the German Army had invaded France, Belgium, Luxembourg and the Netherlands all at once. Her stomach turned over as her uncle read her the paper with excitement in his voice. She nodded, pale, then went back into her room and did not come out for the rest of the day.

The world is falling apart around me, she wrote to Steve. I feel like everyone around me has gone crazy. Or maybe I'm the crazy one.

That same month Alice found out from a surgeon at one of her performance afterparties that the vanishing children (and adults as well, she'd found out) were going to Hartheim Castle. "Don't worry about that," he told her. "They know how to deal with conditions like theirs up there. Cripples, the feeble minded, that sort of thing."

Alice asked if she could maybe visit, but then her uncle appeared and whisked her away before the surgeon could reply. A cold stone sat in the pit of her belly for the rest of the evening. She didn't sleep that night.

She told everyone she could to get their disabled relatives out of the asylums and sanatoriums and take them home.

One by one, the countries the Nazis invaded fell like chess pieces. On June 14th the German Army entered Paris. Alice felt dizzy at the thought of it – she'd visited Paris twice before, and the thought of German tanks rolling down those streets turned her stomach.

She'd thought war was slow, fought in trenches over the course of months, not this greedy snapping up of territory with seemingly no resistance. At this rate the Germans could cover the world in a matter of years.

Alice thought of German tanks rolling through Brooklyn. She thought of the Germans looking at weak, diseased Steve Rogers and drawing three red crosses on his paperwork to send him away. She thought of the synagogue around the block from Matthias's tailor shop burning.

Alice's dreams were plagued by these images. She imagined the nightmare that Vienna had become played out on Brooklyn's streets. Sometimes her dreams would shimmer, becoming golden light and sweet song. A way to forget. It was tempting.

She kept her head down. She sang when asked to sing and smiled when asked to smile, and when she could she fled from the fine house on the corner of the street to go to Jilí's house and work until her fingernails bled and her heart ached: mending clothes, collecting food and money, wearing her boots thin walking from one place to another trying to help, help, help.

More people went missing.

At the end of June France signed an armistice with Germany, essentially surrendering, and Alice's uncle began to talk of touring there. She said nothing.

The next day the paper came, and the image on the front froze Alice in the middle of the living room.

The photograph was of the distinctive silhouette of the Eiffel Tower, but in front of it stood Adolf Hitler. He leaned against the bridge overlooking the tower with driving gloves in his hands and his Nazi cap on his head. And Alice knew, with every fiber of her being:

This is wrong.

It was one of the first clear thoughts she'd had in ages, she realized, this sudden knowledge of wrong. It was fortifying.

With each country that had fallen, Alice had fallen further into some kind of intangible, murky depth. Everything that gave her joy was done in secret; listening to jazz, writing to Steve. Even her friends who she really loved were Romani, Jewish, other. Outsiders.

She used the fortification to develop a plan to get penicillin for Rupert, the youngest child of the Hofmanns, who were living in their cousin's garden shed. She ended up stealing the medicine herself after booking a checkup, and then got it to the family by handing it to one of the Hofmann's childrens' best friends who worked as a clerk at a shoe shine booth. Alice eyed the system all around her, the city churning away day by day, and worked out where the cracks were. That is where I must slip through.

Steve had made friends with the mailman. The guy kept going on about his sweetheart in Portugal, and Steve didn't have the heart to let him down so he never corrected him.

"How's your sweetheart?" The mailman would ask, his mustache twitching with a smile.

"Missing home, I think," Steve would reply. It wasn't a lie.

He spent most of that year drawing art for the third most popular newspaper in Brooklyn and working as a drug store clerk. Every morning he grabbed the first most popular newspaper and devoured the news from Europe.

It felt so strange – each troop movement, each battle and political maneuver was something that affected Alice day to day. She never appeared in the news, but it still felt like he was reading about her.

The war felt distant in New York. Sometimes Steve would put down the paper and look at the people walking up and down the streets.

Don't you care? He wanted to yell at them. Don't you care that there are thousands of people across the ocean hurting?

But maybe he wouldn't if it wasn't Alice over there. No way to know.

Bucky kept setting Steve up on dates. He understood that Steve was all hung up on Alice, but he didn't see why Steve couldn't have fun and enjoy his life some.

The war'll clear up soon, Bucky would say as he slung an arm over Steve's shoulder. Alice will be on a ship back to Brooklyn in no time.

Steve wished he had some way of knowing, some countdown he could check. But as the German troops rolled out across Europe he began to have a sick feeling in the back of his throat. What if this isn't a war, he thought, but the world changing forever?

In Vienna, a woman spoke out.

Her name was Anna Wödl. Alice first met her outside Vienna City Hall. Alice had just been in to meet her acquaintance Hans in the records office, who didn't like Jewish people but sure liked gossiping about them. She walked out into the warm July sun and couldn't see for a moment. When her eyes got used to the light, Alice took a step back at the sight of a small crowd of people standing in the road outside the City Hall. When she realized they weren't Gestapo, she stepped forward curiously.

A woman with dark hair and intense eyes, maybe mid-thirties, approached her. "Will you sign this letter to the Reich Ministry of the Interior to prevent them from transferring my son out of his care center?" She held out the piece of paper, which already had close to a hundred signatures. "They're transferring them to the facility at Hartheim, and the children there don't survive. The beds are emptying."

The woman must have taken Alice's wide eyes as hesitation because she continued: "I'm a nurse, I understand how the system works. This is not normal, they are…" her voice quavered. "They're doing something to those children. Will you sign?"

"Of course." Alice took the proffered pen and signed her name. A small voice at the back of her mind told her: be careful, but she could not say no to this. As she wrote, she spoke: "I… I've heard about this."

"Everyone knows what they're doing," the woman said. Her eyes went dark. "I'm not the only one protesting." She gestured around at the other people outside the City Hall, many of whom looked like her family members, but there were others too.

"I've been telling my friends to take their family members home, care for them there."

"My son's care facility won't let me," the woman said. "They've already put in his transfer paperwork. I must fight this."

"Of course. I-"

But at that moment the voices outside the City Hall peaked in volume and Alice looked up to see a unit of SS soldiers running around the side of the building, their brows lowered and their hands on their weapons.

Alice grabbed the dark-haired woman's wrist as she turned to face them. "Don't fight them," she hissed. "They will get you out of here with words or with force, but you cannot stand against them. Go send your letter." And with that she turned around and walked away – not briskly, but at an even pace. As if she had all the time in the world.

Excerpt from 'The Killing Programs' by Paula Weller (2003), p. 12

In October of 1939, the Nazis implemented Aktion T4 (though it would not become known by that name until after the war), backdating the orders to September of 1939 to disguise it as a wartime initiative. Within months it involved nearly the entire German psychiatric community. The program was framed as a 'mercy'.

After that, the Siren started visiting hospitals. She sang to wards of patients, charmed the administrators, and asked questions. At first she publicly supported Anna Wödl (she'd met her again since and found out her name). But then her uncle seized her by the arm one night and said she was destroying her reputation, that he'd confine her to the house again if she pulled another stunt like that. It was eye-wateringly frustrating to be forced to hide her true feelings lest she be grounded.

So she supported Wödl the best she could. She offered money and advice and asked around the officials she knew about the best way to prevent the transfer of Wödl's son Alfred. As she worked, she ended up bribing a few doctors. Not any that had any say over Alfred, but ones she found out were connected with the oversight of deciding which children and adults were to be transferred to Hartheim. She handed them an envelope full of her uncle's money and asked them to consider leaving a few more patients in the facility here. No doubt their families would like to visit them often.

She had no way of knowing if they ever considered it.

When she came back home from the last hospital, Alice knew she'd stuck her neck out. She didn't tell Jilí what she'd done. She was already cooking up excuses for if she got caught. I just adore children so much, Herr SS. I'd love one of my own one day, and the idea of them being whisked away to some dreadful castle just breaks my heart.

Each time the door at her uncle's house knocked she flinched.

A week before Alfred's transfer date Alice and her uncle went to a party. A social mixer for the social elite of Vienna, the kind of party where you had to be introduced before you could speak to someone and where the champagne was free. Alice wore a glittering silver dress and her hair pinned in curls, and her uncle walked her into the large bustling hall with her arm in his.

Alice had never quite gotten used to these kinds of parties. She'd known that they existed back in New York, but they were for… an entirely different class of people than she belonged to. She'd been running the backstreets of Brooklyn with grubby hands and elastic around the end of her braid. But here, she'd been transplanted directly into the world of people knowing your name before you met them, of champagne and servants and never being asked to pay. She might not be comfortable here, but she knew how it went – she would make conversation about music and gossip about other people, she would deftly turn away the young men trying to clumsily seduce her (whether they were genuinely interested or trying to make a buck, she didn't care), and she would listen quietly as her uncle had conversations with men whose power terrified her.

Alice didn't sing this time since there was already a band, so she set her sights on mingling. Her uncle watched her closely. So Alice spoke to him instead, asking his opinion on whether she should produce a single song or an album next, and handing him glasses of champagne.

When he finally went to the bathroom Alice strode across the glittering hall toward the representative from the Ministry of the Interior, who was visiting Vienna for the weekend. Herr Schneider. She stood nearby, sipping her champagne, until someone introduced her into the small circle of conversation.

"Nice to meet you," Alice said as she lightly shook the man's hand. He was in his fifties, wearing a fine dark suit with a timepiece hanging from the breast pocket. A thin blonde mustache sat on his upper lip. After a brief appraisal her eyes slid away, as if there were others more interesting in the group.

The general who'd introduced her started waxing poetic about her singing.

"Oh, please," Alice said with a smile. "Though it is difficult to perform in Vienna now, what with all the disruptions."

"Disruptions?" asked a young officer, new in town. His eyes slid over Alice's dress and she made a mental note to avoid him.

She flapped a hand dismissively. "Parades and celebrations are perfectly fine, but when it comes to protests? Petitioning? You can hardly get around town."

Bring it up, she prayed as she laughed into her champagne at her own 'witty observation'. Bring it up.

The general's wife did. "Oh, like that woman protesting all over the place about the medical facility transfers?"

The group as a whole took up the new topic of conversation, and Alice let them discuss it for a few moments as she stood in silence, smiling vaguely. The usual opinions got tossed around – awfully disruptive, shame about the son after all, not much hope for him no matter where he is.

When Herr Schneider piped up he said: "She had better let the facilities do their work, instead of disrupting ordinary peoples' days. There's a war on, after all."

Alice smiled and replied politely: "Surely, though, it's a little cruel to a sensitive mother? My friend has a disabled son herself, one can hardly blame her for a mother's love. It can't hurt to let her keep her son close."

Her tone was bland, conversational. Alice wanted to scream at them for killing children, because she hadn't acknowledged it out loud yet but she knew, but she also knew screaming wouldn't work and her uncle would do something drastic. As if her thought had conjured him, her uncle appeared back in the entrance of the room and looked around. She felt his eyes fall on her, and saw his teeth grind.

The representative sighed. "You're not alone, Fräulein. So many young women and mothers are writing to us, it seems you're onto a struck nerve. We're in talks though, you needn't fret." And then he offered her a genial smile and turned back to the rest of the group, who had already changed the topic.

"Sir," she said a little louder. He looked over at her with raised eyebrows. "If you would consider-"

"Alice!" her uncle called as he strode across the room to her. "There you are, I thought I'd lost you."

"Not quite," Alice said with a thin smile. The Ministry of the Interior representative looked away.

Alice's uncle took her arm in a rigid grip and walked her across the room to one of his friends. Alice let him. She felt like a grain of sand in a riptide – she moved, she scraped across the bottom and was whisked up and around, but despite all that she had no true power to do anything to change her situation.

And as she whisked to and fro, others were pulled into the depths.

In the end, they did move Wödl's son. But not to Hartheim, to a children's clinic in Vienna. Wödl ceased her protests under immense pressure from the police and government and under the hope that in raising her voice this time, she had saved her sons life.

Alice tried to feel hope. But she just felt cold.

Excerpt from article 'The Rise and Fall of SHIELD' by Amanda Glass (2014)

… SHIELD's parent agency, the Strategic Scientific Reserve (SSR), had noble beginnings. In mid 1940, on the orders of President Franklin D Roosevelt and alongside similar agencies forming overseas (see: British Special Operations Executive), Colonel Chester Phillips was tasked with heading up a new top-secret war agency to combat the Nazis' startling strides in technology, notably their HYDRA science division. At the time, the SSR's foundation would have been a beacon of hope, however secret, amidst the desperation and devastation of war. Little did they know then that the division they'd been founded to fight would become their downfall.

One night at the end of August, the British dropped bombs on Berlin. Alice felt… hopeful, maybe. But then she thought of the people she'd met in Berlin – not the officials and socialites who she went to parties with, but the people she met when evening fell and she crept out of her uncle's lodgings. She didn't know if those people – singers and street urchins and barflies – had access to bomb shelters.

A government official came to Alice's uncle's house and instructed them all on what to do in the event of an air raid. As he spoke, Alice pictured a dark sky and the shudder of bombs hitting the streets. For the first time, it felt like the war had come to Vienna. Even if just in her mind.

Then Alice went to the war.

Her uncle had been talking about a tour of occupied France for a while, but Alice hadn't thought he was serious until she came home from a visit downtown with Jilí to find a folder of papers on her dresser table. French Tour Schedule. Her heart shot into her mouth and she had to plant both palms on the dresser to keep herself upright.

She knew there was no saying no to this.

So she went.

The tour lasted two weeks: Paris, Marseille, Vichy (the new seat of the French government), Bordeaux, Lyon, Nice. She'd been to Paris before, but the others she'd only ever imagined. Her friend Edith at school had told her about these cities, about the patisseries and cafes she had visited as a child, and how the French countryside felt to her like the simplest and most perfect place on Earth.

Alice hoped Edith would never see her country like this.

Over two weeks, Alice saw what the war had done to France. Nazi flags hung in the cities and soldiers marched the streets, and from the train window on her way from city to city Alice saw metal blockades and tank tracks churning through fields. The German troops only occupied the north half of France, leaving the southern "free" zone to organize the day-to-day running of the country under collaboration with the Germans. No matter what half they were in, though, the people looked the same: they wore stunned faces. Faces that said this can't be real.

Alice knew how they felt.

She was touring France, but really she was just singing for more Nazis – German troops, officials, generals, French politicians who were sympathetic to the Nazis. Her voice rang true but the words felt like nothing to her, as if she were just a record that one touched a needle to and it would peal out the same old song like clockwork.

On the way out of her concert in Paris, a man wearing overalls and a threadbare cap pushed through the crowd and spat on Alice's pure white dress. It all happened so quickly she had only a second to look up and stare at the man's furious face before the soldiers outside the concert hall ran over and slammed the butt of a rifle into the man's face. The crowd outside the hall exploded into uproar – shouts, excited chatter, fussing over Alice and her dress. Hands touched Alice's arms and guided her back inside just as the man with the broken face was hauled away by the soldiers.

Alice did not say a word as she was tended to. She'd been taken back into the hall and aides were cleaning her dress while apologizing profusely the whole time. She could hear her uncle yelling at someone.

Alice wondered if she'd feel anything if the soldiers struck her like they'd struck that man.

John Lempriere: "Some suppose that the Sirens were a number of lascivious women in Sicily, who prostituted themselves to strangers, and made them forget their pursuits while drowned in unlawful pleasures."

That night Alice changed out of her evening gown into a pair of brown trousers and a loose shirt, and tucked her hair into a cap (she'd stolen the clothing from the hotel's laundrette after dinner). She looked at herself in the mirror and slid on the unseasonably thick coat she'd brought with her. She tilted her head so the cap shadowed her face.

A sigh of relief escaped her lips. This wasn't Die Sirene. This could be anybody. Any man.

She crept out of her room, slipped down the hotel corridor and down the staff stairs. Each step she took away from her ordinary life felt like a weight off her shoulders.

It was only until she began walking the dark, silent streets of Paris that she remembered the Nazis had imposed a curfew – nine in the evening until five in the morning. Not a light shone in the city. She could hear the distant coordinated steps of patrols.

But the air felt cool and fresh on her skin and her disguise made her feel as if she could fly, so she stayed out.

At night you couldn't tell what the city had become. All flags were the same color in the dark. She turned down narrow alleys that smelled of trash and paced down wide avenues with her ears alert for the sound of footsteps. She could hear the city, if she listened hard enough: there might be a curfew but no one was asleep. She heard snatches of conversation and song and even laughter in the buildings she passed, the crackle of the radio and clattering dishes. Paris was still alive even in the dark.

Two hours of walking later, Alice walked past a building where the sounds of life in the dark were somehow brighter than anything she'd heard before. She paused, cocked her head, and spotted a halo of light peeking out from under a door across the street. She squinted and read the sign, silently thanking Edith for teaching her French back in junior high: she'd found a music shop. Though the large closed sign under the name of the shop wasn't encouraging.

She listened at the door for a minute or so – certainly didn't sound like music inside. Just chatter and clinking glasses.

Then she heard tramping footsteps at the other end of the street.

Alice had pulled the music shop door open and whirled inside before considering that she might be better off trying her luck with the patrol than with whatever waited inside.

The noises within fell dead at her sudden appearance. Alice looked up, blinking, to see about thirty people staring at her. They sat at wobbly tables that had been pushed into the disused music shop, and on the other side of the room the cashier's counter had been turned into a makeshift bar. Brown, dusty bottles of alcohol gleamed dully.

She'd just interrupted a quiet night of illicit drinking, judging by the suddenly-afraid faces now looking back at her. Wine glasses and beer flagons were gently set on tables and shoulders tensed across the room.

Alice swallowed and tilted her head to shadow her face. She cleared her throat. "Bonsoir," she said in a low pitched voice, mimicking the Parisian accent she'd heard throughout the day. Just that simple word seemed to relieve the sudden tension in the makeshift bar. She jerked her head over her shoulder and continued in French: "The patrol is coming."

The man standing behind the bar checked his watch. "Ah. Eleven o'clock patrol. Audric?"

A dark-haired man near the door leaned over and hit the light switch, casting the bar into the same darkness that lurked outside. Everyone listened in the dark as the tramping footsteps outside grew louder, louder, seemed to be at the very door… and then faded away.

Alice let out a breath.

Audric switched the lights on, and with a shared laugh and a clink of glasses the French men and women inside got back to drinking.

Alice cautiously walked through the room toward the counter-turned bar. The bartender, a round-faced man with a quirked mustache, looked up and tipped his cap at her.

"Thank you, stranger," he said. "When the patrols come knocking we usually offer them a beer and they leave us alone, but it's better to be safe than sorry. What'll you have, sir?"

Alice blinked and looked around again. She could see how this used to be a music shop – empty shelves on the walls, a bare spot on the wooden floor where a phonograph stand must have been. But now it was empty save for a collection of mis-matched chairs and tables, bottles of alcohol, and a collection of Parisians who did not seem to pay all that much mind to the newly-imposed curfew. Their bright faces were enticing after the company Alice had been keeping these last two weeks. They chattered and gossiped and told dirty jokes, a low hum of words Alice felt lucky to understand.

She turned back to the bartender. "Can you make a Paris Side Car?"

He made a face. "Goodness, normally folks just want whatever will get them drunkest fastest. Let's see…" he leaned back, surveying his many bottles, and then shrugged. "I can make something close enough. With the way rationing is going I won't be able to soon, but for now you shall have your Side Car."

Alice leaned against the counter and watched people as the bartender made her drink, letting the warmth of collective body heat wash over her and the smells of stale alcohol and dust fill her nose.

"What's your name, stranger?" asked the bartender as he mixed her drink.

She angled her head away. "Al."

"Well, Al, welcome to our small establishment." He slid the cocktail over – it was in a gin tumbler, but she didn't mind – and Alice took it with a smile.

She found herself a spare chair and took a sip of her drink as she closed her eyes. She remembered the first time she'd tried a Paris Side Car, how Bucky had complained about it being a fancy drink and how Steve had fearlessly taken his, raised it and said 'to Alice'.

When she opened her eyes again she was alone in Paris, hiding from the world outside in a bar that had once been a home for music.

Alice spent the next few hours in the strange room with the others who didn't want to stay home. She drank and spoke as little French as possible in order to keep her cover, and began to feel the city open up to her. She heard her fellow patrons curse the Germans and complain about how hard it was to get a decent fucking wine these days. They drank a round to General Charles De Gaulle, who had fled to London but who hadn't forgotten his country, and complained about the regulations, censorship, and propaganda that the Germans had brought.

"Not much changed at first," said one woman when she noticed Alice looking over, "but things are getting worse."

They drank to their family members trapped as prisoners of war in Germany, and hoped that the Germans would just win already so they could get their country back like had been promised.

When Alice's mind was pleasantly blurry, she nodded farewell to the bartender and then walked home in the dark. As she walked, she looked up to see a man and a woman silhouetted in a window, entwined in a kiss.

Why am I here? She thought. Her stolen shoes pinched her toes. Why am I seeing this place? What can I do?

Excerpt from 'The "Refus Absurde": Life in Nazi Occupied France, 1940'  by Pierre Montague (1997), p 2

… after such a complete and total defeat, there was little the French population could do but submit to Nazi domination, and wait for the war to end – inevitably a German victory. Resistance was futile. Those who'd fled to the countryside slowly trickled back into the main cities. The overall feeling after the lightning-fast invasion was shock, and alienation. A great portion of military-aged men were trapped in POW camps, and those who were left behind were left to the rigid rule of the puppet government in Vichy (in the unoccupied "Free Zone") and the Gestapo.

But even in that shocked, defeated summer, a budding resistance began to bloom. Writer Jean Cassou called this resistance in the face of inevitable Reich victory the 'refus absurde' – "absurd refusal".

September 17th, 1940
Vienna
Dear Steve,

Just got back from France and had a letter from you waiting for me – a perfect welcome home present. Needed the laugh from that story about Bucky and his sisters, so thank you.

France was fine, you don't need to worry about me – they never took me anywhere dangerous. Nothing bad happened. It was sobering to see the changes that have happened there: there's a curfew now, and of course Nazi flags everywhere, and there's a labor shortage which makes things even more difficult for them. I hope my uncle doesn't take us on another tour there. It felt wrong.

I just heard they're introducing conscription in the States. I know the US isn't in the war, but I was wondering: they can't take you, right? Surely you could get a letter from your doctor to exempt you.

I know you'd rather join, but this feels like the beginning of something serious. What are the rules of conscription? The news here is so full of propaganda I couldn't find anything useful out. I think Bucky must be eligible, but surely they don't automatically take every young man of a certain age? He hasn't been drafted, has he?

This isn't the time to be a soldier, Steve. Germany is winning.

Please write soon.

Yours,
Alice

September 29th, 1940
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

It was good to hear from you too. I'm glad nothing happened in France, but I still feel like you maybe haven't told me everything. That's okay, I know there's some things you can't put in the mail, but I want you to know that I hope you stay safe. You're in a war, Alice. Be careful.

As for conscription, not much has actually happened in that regard yet. They've got a cap of 900,000 per intake across the country.

I know you're worried, but if we go to war I'll be out there with everyone else. I've got no right to do any less.

Sorry.

Bucky's nervous, but more for me. He hasn't said anything but I think he might enlist under his own steam if we go to war.

If Germany's winning, now is exactly the time to be a soldier.

Yours,
Steve.

One morning, Alice knocked on the door to Jilí's house and let out a sigh of relief when the door swung inward to reveal her friend. Walking through the cooling streets of Vienna had felt like striding through treacle. Alice felt small and tired, and arriving at the familiar apartment was a source of comfort.

Jilí frowned at Alice as she walked past her into the apartment. "Aren't you meant to be having visitors over at your home today?"

Alice shrugged and went to the kitchen to start the kettle. "They're my uncle's visitors."

"He'll be angry," Jilí said softly.

"What's he going to do, force me to stay at home again?"

"He might."

"Maybe I could run away. Live here."

"You don't want to do that, Alice. Don't throw yourself away."

Alice just bunched her shoulders and made herself busy in the kitchen. When she turned around a couple of minutes later Jilí had sat at the table to assemble food packages in brown hessian bags. She didn't look up when Alice set down a cup of tea for her, but then Alice moved past her to sit on the other side of the table and she looked up with a wrinkled nose.

Her dark eyes flicked over Alice. "Isn't that the same dress you wore yesterday?"

Alice sipped her tea. "No one notices."

"I do."

Alice looked up into her friend's dark, serious eyes, and then glanced down to pull a hessian bag towards herself and began packing it. Cans and packets of dehydrated goods, unpleasant to eat but utterly necessary for a family hiding and surviving in a garden shed or a basement.

For twenty long minutes, Alice and Jilí worked in silence. Alice let herself get lost in the repetitive work.

But then they ran out of food. The two of them sat across from each other in the quiet apartment and listened to car engines rumble outside.

Alice thought wars were meant to be noisy – shouting, explosions, gunfire. But so far the war had brought nothing but silence to her life.

Jilí broke the silence. "Do you think that we might…" her eyes dropped. "Do you think there's some way of pushing back against all this?"

Alice looked up at her friend. "Against the war? What, a resistance?"

Jilí met her gaze. "Exactly." Her eyes were resolute. It was clear this wasn't a spur of the moment thought.

Alice sighed. "There's no resistance in Austria, Jilí. There's not even one in France, not really. They don't see the point. And in Austria… this isn't an invasion or an unwelcome tyrant. People wanted this."

"I didn't," her friend replied with a bite of anger in her voice.

"Neither did I," Alice said in a softer tone. She recalled how they'd found Franz: frozen and bloody. "But I don't think what we want counts at all."

"It counts for you," Jilí said in a firmer voice. "You are not like me, Alice."

"Why not? Why should we be different?"

"Now you're just being naïve," Jilí said dismissively as she leaned back in her chair. "I'm not telling you to speak out, I know that's too dangerous. But you are not helpless, Alice."

"I'm not naïve," Alice replied. She was no longer looking at Jilí, but out the window. "This world just makes no sense."

Alice stopped writing songs. No one noticed. Songwriters at the production company and the propaganda department kept up a steady stream of songs for her to perform, and her uncle kept bringing her to concert halls and parties.

But this was the first time in ten years that Alice had not had an unwritten tune nagging at the corner of her mind, the first time she didn't feel song waiting to trip from her tongue. It was as if her mind had fallen silent.

October 16th, 1940
Brooklyn
Dear Alice,

Went to go see a film with Bucky today, and I definitely don't think this one will have been allowed in Austria. It's the latest Chaplin film, called 'The Great Dictator.'

I was in two minds watching it. Chaplin plays a Jewish man and Hitler himself, and it's… a comedy, I suppose, but it's serious too. It shows Kristallnacht in Berlin. I suppose it's good to turn Hitler into satire – make fun of his flaws, that sort of thing. But the other half of me thinks that we ought to take this seriously. Like you said, he's a serious man. I don't know how you or anyone else living under all that would feel about it all being turned into a joke.

Also I read somewhere that apparently the Nazis are convinced that Chaplin's a Jew. As far as I know he's not, which makes it all kind of bizarre. Maybe they're just trying to find a reason to hate him.

I haven't heard from you lately. I know the mail's slow, and I know you must be busy, but I'm worried about you. You've been writing long enough letters but you've been saying less and less. Let me know how you are. How you really are. You're not alone, Alice.

Yours,
Steve.

October 1940
New York City

Peggy Carter strode into an unmarked office in a nondescript building just outside of Manhattan, her army regimentals neatly flatironed and her red lips pressed together. First day on the job – had to make a good impression. They didn't have to like her, but she'd make damn sure they respected her.

The man at the desk inside looked up with a vaguely irritated expression on his face. Peggy knew who he was already: Chester Phillips. His dark brown uniform bore a Colonel's stripes and Peggy instantly saw from his rigid face and the flat line to his mouth that this was a man who would take no nonsense.

"The hell are you?" he said by way of greeting.

Peggy straightened and saluted. "Agent Carter, sir."

"Ah." Colonel Phillips set down the file he'd been reading. "MI5, right?"

"Yes, sir."

He eyed her. "I didn't agree to your transfer. MI5 and the army went over my head."

Peggy returned his gaze flatly.

After a few more seconds of silence he let out a harrumph like an unhappy bull and picked up the file again. He continued to read as he spoke to her. "Your official title is 'adviser', but I think you probably know enough about how things work around here to know that official titles don't mean all that much."

"Yes, sir." She'd been quick to learn, first as a codebreaker at Bletchley Park and then with MI5. The war had been a whirlwind since her brother died on the front.

Colonel Phillips shot her another quick, irritated glance. "At the moment we're gathering intel on HYDRA. They're-"

"The Nazi science division," Peggy finished. "I've been briefed, sir."

His jaw tightened. "We're also working on bringing Stark into the fold, but he's not taking the war all that seriously right now."

Peggy tried not to grimace. "Do you want me to-"

He waved a hand. "Don't' worry about him for now, we'll bring him around. No, your first assignment will be in the field."

Peggy's eyebrows rose. "Sir?"

"We're planning a rescue mission."

October 30th, 1940
Vienna
Dear Steve,

I'm sorry I haven't written lately. I don't even have a good excuse to give you, I'm afraid. Time seems to drag on, dripping slow… and then the next thing I know three months have passed. I think it's because I'm trying to pretend that the reality around me isn't happening – the war, the Nazis, the violence creeping closer and closer to home.

When I sing I feel like I'm in a dream. Sometimes, I think I see things out of the corner of my eye: flashes of light, and sometimes a figure. Sometimes I think I'm going mad.

My uncle is flourishing. I think he likes how he fits into the political structure here. He's a big, important man and he will only get more important as the war marches on. He's gotten us an invitation to Castle Kauffman in Bavaria, the headquarters of one of the top Nazi generals (head of their new science division), for a gathering of SS generals and officials. My uncle is ecstatic.

He says I ought to be happy too, but… I don't know if I know how to be happy anymore.

I'm sorry, this is depressing. I suppose I haven't really thought all that much about my situation until just now when I sat down to write to you. This is nice, at least.

Thank you for telling me about the film. I hadn't heard about it.

I have to go now.

Yours,
Alice.

That night, after delivering the letter for Steve to Jilí, Alice climbed the stairs to her uncle's house. Jilí was frustrated with her for some reason, her words had been curt. Alice had been too tired to fight with her.

She didn't stop climbing the stairs when she reached the level of her bedroom. She kept climbing, one foot in front of the other, until she arrived at the roof. She kept walking towards the very edge, then set her hands on the low stone barrier and looked down.

She was four floors up, breathing in the night air. The October breeze snatched at her hair and made her eyes water.

She wouldn't get a reply from Steve for weeks. When he did reply he would be worried, and she would feel bad for worrying him, and he would tell her that she should come back to Brooklyn, and… every time Alice considered it guilt twisted in her gut like poison.

She had a whole month of performances ahead of her, and after that probably another month, then another, until…

Her hands clenched on the stone barrier. There was no until. This looked like forever.

Her life had become cold, lonely, terrifying. It had happened so gradually that she hadn't noticed until she found herself short of breath from anxiety each morning and realized that she could go days, weeks, without smiling. She had Jilí, but their friendship was a secret that more and more became an alliance, a bond to keep death at bay. Alice knew that she was letting Jilí down, but she didn't know how to stop it. More often than not she only had her uncle: cold, disappointed, thrilled by everything Alice despised. She was pretty sure she hated him, but she didn't have the energy to hate any more.

Steve was a distant, warm memory. His letters no longer felt like a promise for the future. They felt like a reminder of her past, a memory of what might have been – what if, what if.

Alice's gaze traveled down. Down past the terraces of the building across the street and its darkened windows, down past the iron street lamps, to the cobbles of the footpath below. The street was nearly empty; just a few pedestrians a few hundred feet away. They couldn't see her.

Alice stretched up on her toes.

It would be easy.

A short, fluttering flight, like a bird released from a cage. Then nothing.

She stared at the cobblestones below for so long that her eyes burned and her fingers grew rigid and uncomfortable from gripping the stone barrier. The wind caressed her wet cheeks, her neck.

She pressed her lips together.

What's the point?

After another moment to stare down at the empty air below, Alice pushed her rigid fingers against the barrier and stepped away. Wiping her cheeks, she turned and went back downstairs to bed.

~ It doesn't need to hurt. ~

Chapter Text

November 1940

"And the glory of the Fatherland…"

As she sang and played the piano, Alice let her gaze drift around the room. She never obviously moved her eyes, but she'd developed a talent for observing unnoticed while being observed – and every eye in the room was on her.

Alice had never performed in a castle before (unless you counted the bar in Brooklyn called King's Castle). She sat at a grand piano in a grand room. Arching windows overlooked the mountains and hills that lay beneath the looming castle, two chandeliers ablaze with real candles hung from the tall ceiling, and the walls boasted ornate paintings and landscapes. Where once this castle might have hosted German nobles, princes and princesses, nearly everyone in the hall listening to Alice's song wore a uniform. Her eyes skimmed across their grey-green uniforms with the Nazi crosses hanging around their necks like medals. They'd taken off their hats at least, so she didn't have to see the Reichsadler eagle.

They listened to her song with beneficent smiles and for some, with misty eyes.

Alice often had a recurring daydream. In the dream she stopped mid-song, breaking her audience out of their reverie, and then began to scream at them: how can you cry at my song, but not at the things you have done? How can you gather here and drink and enjoy comforts while people suffocate beneath your boots? A siren turned harpy. In the dream her voice shattered the chandeliers which rained razor sharp shards down on the uniformed men, then she picked up her microphone stand and hurled it across the room like a javelin to pierce a distant, smoky Führer in the heart.

Alice's voice crested and she let the dream fade slowly. No one noticed her fingers shaking slightly on the piano keys.

Her uncle was an ever present shadow out of the corner of her eye.

She supposed there hadn't been this many gathered SS generals since their last meeting in Berlin. Alice had figured out what all this celebration was in aid of a few hours after arriving: Herr Johann Schmidt, the leader of the Nazi special weapons division HYDRA, wanted to buy more support and money for his division by impressing his guests with his castle and getting them fat and drunk. There'd been rumors that the Führer might show, though those had so far been unfounded. Still, the room contained many of the top Nazi generals and elites. Alice and the others were just decoration.

Alice had met their host earlier that morning when they arrived. Her uncle had taken her arm the moment she stepped out of their black towncar, and she had barely a chance to gaze up at the stretching spires of the castle before he steered her through the open front doors. The foyer had been bustling with other guests, and at the far end of the room stood Herr Schmidt. He was younger than she'd expected, with a rigid posture and flat dark eyes that suggested a sharp intelligence beneath them. Alice instantly mistrusted him.

An aide had whispered into Herr Schmidt's ear as she and her uncle approached.

He looked up with a tight smile. "Herr Huber, Fräulein Moser. What a privilege to have you here with us." He looked bored.

Her uncle immediately shook Schmidt's hand and started simpering and flattering.

A nearby general looked over at the names, and on seeing Alice his eyes lit up. "Are you to sing for us, Siren?"

Schmidt seemed irritated at the interruption, and for the first time actually looked at Alice. She bowed her head. "If our kind host wishes it, of course."

Since that night on the rooftop, something had died in Alice. The only reason she got out of bed each morning was a vague kind of curiosity about what new horrors the day would bring, and the knowledge that someone would tell her what to do: her uncle giving her performance schedules and party invitations, or Jilí telling her where to go and who to help, with an increasing look of concern and frustration on her face.

The general who'd first spoken clapped Schmidt on the shoulder. "Do ask her to sing, Schmidt, she's divine."

Alice still did not look up, but she saw Schmidt's thin smile.

"Of course, Fraulein, you must give us a song or two this evening."

An order. She lifted her gaze to the man's flat, unimpressed face. "Certainly."

Since then Alice had been doing her best to stay out of everyone's way until it could no longer be avoided. Since she'd met him that morning she'd only caught glimpses of their host – he'd been off on the other side of the castle, which a servant told her housed the science labs. He had a shadow: a short weaselly man with thick round glasses, who stooped and genuflected around Schmidt like he was worshiping a god who terrified him. Schmidt had another shadow, a man with a graying beard and thin wireframe glasses. Alice had only caught a glimpse of this man's face, and saw that he did not worship Schmidt. He just looked afraid.

The castle also thronged with soldiers and guards – the head of the special weapons division seemed to like keeping up an armed presence.

Herr Schmidt was nowhere to be seen as Alice finally reached the end of her song. The music quavered, held… and then faded away. She closed her eyes and curled her fingers away from the piano as the room erupted into applause.

She stepped away from the piano and into the crowd, feeling congratulations and praise wash over her like oil off water. Numb, she just moved. Anything to get out of their gazes. But then her uncle took her elbow in his bony, always-too-cold hands and she fell still. He murmured in her ear over the noise of the now well-pleased crowd. Saying that she'd done well and made him proud, no doubt. She didn't care to listen but that was usually what he said to her. She stood, her face angled down and her body utterly still as he held her fast and gave her commands. Mingle. Be pleasant. Mention the production company. She didn't notice two pairs of eyes watching her from different positions across the room.

Finally her uncle let her go, and she moved away. A dark-haired maid with a tray of glasses appeared at her elbow. "Would you care for a drink, Fräu Siren?"

Alice only heard the words because the maid's accent was strange to her ears, but then she looked up and shook her head mutely. The maid backed away.

Alice moved to the edge of the room and pressed her back against the ornate wooden wall. The body heat and collective conversation in the room washed over her, somehow overwhelming. She swallowed thickly and forced herself to appear serene, untouched.

She felt the presence beside her before she saw it. "I see you too have someone pulling your strings."

Alice stiffened and glanced sharply at the stranger. Her wariness only increased when she recognized him as Herr Schmidt's reluctant shadow. He wore a dinner coat over what looked like a doctor's white uniform, though none of it fit him very well at all. He was slightly shorter than her. His shoulders were hunched, as if to avert attention, his white-grey hair was receding from his forehead and he had a short beard. He looked from her uncle across the room to her with a knowing look.

Alice had been offended by his words, but then the man shot her a small, sad smile and her shoulders loosened slightly. He had kind eyes. She felt presences close by and looked up to see two SS soldiers standing equidistant from the stranger, not looking at him except out of the corners of their eyes. They held drinks, but didn't even sip from them. They were guards.

Alice averted her eyes from the guards. She looked back to the stranger and said, cautiously: "It's not an enviable task, being a puppet. Who is your puppetmaster?"

The man sipped his drink, looked meaningfully at the guards watching him and then gestured a hand as if to encompass the entire castle. Alice understood now why he had been following Schmidt through the castle corridors with the look of a prisoner on his face. He was a prisoner. But if this dinner party charade was anything to go by, Schmidt wanted to make him seem a guest.

The man leaned against the wall beside Alice. "I am afraid that I cannot speak my master's words as beautifully you do yours." He toasted her with his glass. "You have a gift."

Alice pressed her back harder into the wall. "What use is a gift when you cannot use it for yourself?"

His eyes went sad behind his glasses. "In the service of others, perhaps?" He spoke softly. He had a south German accent.

Alice shook her head, thinking of Jilí and the Hofmanns and the Steiners and all the other people counting on her in Vienna. The people who she couldn't help, not really. Certainly not with her voice. "I've not been able to do that in a long time."

"It is difficult to be kind in a world of big men with cruel hearts."

The hopelessness in his voice sparked something in her and she spoke before really thinking about it: "But not impossible."

She felt a kindling of interest from that forgotten part of herself, the part that brought wordless tunes floating through her mind and sent her scribbling notes on whatever was closest to hand at three in the morning. Her words felt like hope, when she hadn't thought she was capable of that anymore. And she didn't truly know what had changed.

The man perked up with raised eyebrows. "Oh? I see you have an idea, Fraülein."

"Not an idea," she said with a frown. "Not yet. A hope." She had no idea where it had come from. Perhaps just from the comfort of finding someone like her, who stood in this room of uniforms and laughter and felt trapped. She didn't know what he'd done or why he was a prisoner, but she felt as if just maybe, their hearts might be similar.

"Do you mind if I borrow some of your hope?"

Alice turned to eye the man. For the first time, as he sipped his drink, she saw the purpling chafes on his wrists that she knew meant handcuffs. She saw a hopelessness in his eyes that she had seen in some of her friends, sometimes. She'd seen it before in dogs on the street. She'd seen it on the faces of dying men. She'd seen it in the mirror.

Alice reached out impulsively and took the man's hand. He had thin, clever scientist's fingers. "You may take all you need. What's your name?"

He seemed abashed at having her take his hand, and his gaze dropped. "My name is of no consequence anymore."

"It is to me."

He looked up with a smile. "Abraham. Doctor Abraham Erskine."

Abraham. Alice wondered if he was Jewish. If that was the source of the sadness behind his eyes. She felt the smooth metal of a wedding ring as she held his hand.

She opened her mouth to reply, but then Erskine's eyes flicked over her shoulder.

"Here comes a puppetmaster," he warned.

Alice dropped his hand and looked over just as her uncle appeared, his brow heavy as he looked between her and the strange prisoner. "Alice, what are you doing over here?" he chided. "Come, I have just made the acquaintance of the Minister for Finance." He pulled her away by the hand and as ever, Alice went. She looked over her shoulder toward Erskine as she was pulled into the crowd.

She made a snip motion with her fingers over her head, and it made him smile.

When she turned around with a serene smile on her face, her heart felt lighter than it had since she entered this castle. Nothing had changed, really, she was still in just a hopeless position as before. But that brief, strange conversation had reminded her that it was not impossible to be kind, even in the midst of the insanity her world had become. It reminded her that it was possible to hope. Possible to fight back, even in the smallest ways. It reminded her, strangely, of Steve.

She didn't notice the maid from before standing in the corner of the room, watching her interact with Erskine with a quirk in her brow.

In the early hours of the morning, Alice and her uncle were hastened out of their beds by a flustered soldier in a dark uniform Alice didn't recognize.

"You must leave," he told them, clutching his weapon too tightly for Alice to be comfortable. "The castle isn't safe."

Her uncle was very unhappy, and made his unhappiness known, but the whole castle was in uproar for some reason and the other guests were being shuffled out to their cars as well. Alice's uncle's complaints were by no means the loudest.

As Alice followed silently, her trunk in hand, she heard a soldier exclaim to his fellow: "- knew they were up to no good in those labs, it was only a matter of time until something went wrong-"

"-looks like a monster-" said the other in a hushed voice.

Alice slowed her steps to listen further, but her uncle planted his hand on her back and propelled her out of the front doors and into the shivery November air.

In the car on the long road back to Vienna, Alice's uncle switched between complaining to no one in particular about their rude ushering away, and reiterating that Herr Schmidt had told him personally that they were very welcome guests. Alice did not listen to him. She twisted in her seat and watched Castle Kauffman fade into the dim dawn light behind them. When she could no longer see it she sat back down and looked down at her entwined hands. She hoped Erskine was alright.

Preliminary mission report by Agent Carter: Operation Marmot (November 15th, 1940)

I am pleased to report complete mission success. The asset was liberated amidst the chaos following the uproar at Castle Kauffman (see report r.e. 'Red Skull), and smuggled through Bavaria and back to the extraction point with minimal opposition (neutralised).

Attached are hand-drawn maps of Castle Kauffman, a report of observed HYDRA activities, an asset report, and a list of personnel and guests observed at the castle (mostly military personnel, but also some socialite figures from Germany and Austria. Recommend compiling intel on all attendees).

Extraction to the States is expected in the coming hours. Asset is willing and eager not only to flee captivity but also to participate in anti-Axis efforts. Mission control query r.e. remaining familial connection has been answered: none survived.

When Alice came back to Vienna and snuck out to Jilí's house, her friend opened the door with a look of deep concern which then transformed into a surprised kind of relief.

"How are you?" she murmured, letting Alice in and shutting the door behind her.

Alice nodded slowly. "I… am awake again. I think."

Jilí reached out to touch Alice's shoulder. Alice leaned into it. "I am glad to hear it."

Weeks later, Alice heard a rumor. She'd been asking about Castle Kauffman and Herr Schmidt, curious about what had prompted their abrupt removal, but had gotten back nothing more concrete than that there had been some kind of accident, that Schmidt was injured, and the Nazi elite were displeased with him.

But then she heard another rumor; not from her higher-up 'friends', but from the streets. A whisper that could have been pure fantasy: A prisoner of a high-up SS general has escaped – has been liberated, by Allied spies. From right under the general's nose.

The moment Alice heard it she thought of Erskine and her heart leaped. She crossed all her fingers and toes and hoped it was him. Hoped he had been whisked out of his chains and out of that looming castle. For him she couldn't do much more than hope, but the hope gave her another surge of strength in her assistance of her friends in Vienna. If Erskine could get out, surely so could they? She organised more escapes in the dead of night, coordinating train tickets and border passes and empty lorries. Jilí helped, offering Alice warm looks and comforting touches in the darkness. Alice could tell she wanted to say thank you, but knew that Alice would never let her say it.

They did all their work through personal networks: friends and friends of friends, a game of life and death and trust.

It felt like something was coming. And in the end that was what hope was, wasn't it?

"Steve. Steve, you're drunk."

"M'not drunk, Bucky, listen to me-"

"I am listening, and I know you're worried – I am too – but worrying about this while you're drunk isn't going to help anyone." Bucky set his hand on Steve's thin shoulder, trying to steady his friend.

They sat at a table at the back of a dance hall with dim candlelight illuminating their faces and half-finished drinks at their elbows. Steve's date had ditched him an hour ago (fair enough really, he'd accidentally headbutted her chin after dancing for about ten seconds, and then a handsome fella at the bar had come over and offered to "rescue" her). Bucky could gauge pretty well by now when Steve needed to be alone and when he needed to talk, and knew that tonight was one of the latter times. So he'd apologized to his date and joined his friend at the back of the hall.

Steve ran a hand through his hair. "Buck, her voice has completely changed. Something's wrong-"

"Well she's on the other side of a war, pal. Besides, I thought you said it was getting better? She's written me a couple times and she sounds more or less normal."

Steve sat back. "I think she is getting better, but she still sounds tired." He ran a hand over his face, not noticing that his collar was sticking completely up now. His words tripped from his tongue, fueled by alcohol and months of stress and worry. In a strange way, Bucky sometimes privately reflected, it was as if Alice were the soldier off to war and Steve was the sweetheart left waiting and worrying back home. Bucky kept that thought safe in his own head.

"It's only letters, Steve," Bucky said. He slid Steve's drink out of reach across the table.

"But I can tell," Steve insisted. "I… it's Alice, and I know Alice, and she's… she's hurting, Bucky."

Bucky's brow furrowed and he leaned back in his chair as well. He hadn't seen Alice in four long years, but he hadn't forgotten her. She was still his friend. And he knew that if Steve said she was hurting then she was. Steve had a way of seeing past her tricks and careful words in a way that Bucky had never been able to.

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. "We'll get her back, Steve."

Steve looked up with red-lined eyes. He was drunk.

"Even if we have to go over there and win this war ourselves, we'll get her back home to Brooklyn." Bucky leaned over to grab Steve's shoulder again. "Until then… write to her. Tell her about your day. Tell her about how you blew another date" – Steve's miserable look turned annoyed – "and about how the Dodgers blew another game, and about how handsome and talented I've become since she left." Steve's annoyed look turned into an eye roll. Bucky laughed and reeled Steve into a one-armed hug. "Your girl will be home before you know it." Steve stiffened. "Don't tell her I called her that."

But Bucky had misjudged the reason for Steve's sudden tension. Steve pulled out of Bucky's arm, got to his feet, and shouted "Hey!" across the room.

Bucky looked up to see the handsome fella who'd stolen Steve's date leaned over the date in question, his hand on her arm and his body language domineering. The young woman looked up at him with a plastered-on nervous smile. Her hand wrapped around the man's wrist as if trying to pull him off her.

Steve shot out of his chair and stormed over.

"Oh boy." Bucky grabbed Steve's forgotten drink, finished it, and then rushed to help Steve's date and wrangle his friend.

Excerpt from 'The turn of the war: US involvement in World War II' by Kathy Grant (1992), p. 72

For the first two years of the war, the United States did not get involved. The majority of the population believed that getting involved in the international crisis in World War I had been a mistake and the cause of a colossal loss of life. In 1935 Congress passed a law preventing the shipment of arms to any party in a war, though this was revised in 1939 to allow Congress to send arms to Great Britain and France, much to the displeasure of Adolf Hitler. In the election of 1940, both candidates promised soldiers that they would not become embroiled in the war, but in reality both planned for the eventuality.

As the war in Europe progressed and became ever bloodier, the prospect of becoming involved was a topic of heated debate in the United States, with some convinced that America must step in to help its allies and others arguing that it would only lead to more American young men dying fruitlessly, or worse, defeat to the seemingly unstoppable forces of Germany.

Until the events of Pearl Harbor kicked off an inevitable decision the people of the United States watched from across the ocean as Europe tore itself apart, and waited.

At the end of the year, Alice convinced her uncle to let her drive up to their summer house in the mountains for the five days between Christmas and New Years. He had performances planned for her on either side of that, but he agreed that she had earned a small holiday for herself. Alice did want the time alone, but it was also a test – could her uncle be convinced to let her have a small freedom? And more importantly: would anyone notice if she disappeared for a few days?

She drove through two road blocks on the way. They checked her papers and asked for her autograph, but didn't bother checking her car.

The mountains and their spiky black pines were laden in a fresh dump of snow, making her path up the roads treacherous. Alice drove carefully and steadily until she made it to her uncle's peaked wooden cabin (though it was really too large to be called a cabin). She parked the car and peered through the front window at the quiet house. She let out a breath.

"Are we there yet?" came a small voice from the back seat.

Alice glanced over her shoulder. As soon as her uncle had lent her his Steyr motorcar she'd made some modifications: she'd hollowed out the space under the seats and poked some holes through the back of the interior into the trunk. Nothing she couldn't fix later. Now, four pale faces peered back at her from those hidden spaces.

Alice smiled. "We're here. The ride wasn't too bumpy, was it? I only learned how to drive in Vienna."

The man hiding in her trunk shook his head. "It was fine. Thank you, Alice." He had his arm wrapped around his wife, who despite what he'd said looked a little rattled.

"Don't thank me, I'm only getting you part of the way." She cranked down the handbrake and opened the driver's door, shivering at the snowy chill in the mountain air, then circled to open the back seat door. The two children under the back seat wriggled free and then jumped out into the crunchy snow, shaking out their limbs. Alice walked to the trunk to free their parents, then stepped back with her hands on her hips to survey the family before her.

The Hofmanns hadn't had enough money to move out of Austria before the war. They still didn't have a coin to their name (nor were they allowed to, thanks to the post-Kristallnacht laws), but it had become increasingly obvious that they needed to make some form of escape or be sent to who knew where in the East. For a month or so now they'd been gathering supplies and planning their escape with Alice and Jilí's help. Mr and Mrs Hofmann had spent a lot of sleepless nights on the concrete floor of their cousin's garden shed preparing. Their youngest son Rupert had been ill that year, but Alice was sure he'd be up to the journey now. She smiled thinly as she watched the ten year old boy pack a snowball in his bare hands and toss it at his older sister. The girl, Elizabeth, wrinkled up her pointed nose and went to hide behind her mother.

Alice swallowed dryly. "Do you have everything?" she asked the parents. A mountain wind whistled around them, plucking at loose jackets and hair. "Your food? The maps? Your money?"

Mr Hoffman patted the bag slung over his shoulder, then nodded at the bag his wife carried. They made a strange group in the snow: two adults fussing over their children, dressed in the best clothes they could find for a long hike, laden with enough layers to see them through the Austrian mountains. Alice caught a glint of metal and her eyes zeroed in on Mr Hoffman's neck.

She sighed and met his eyes. "You can't take that with you, Isaac."

He followed her gaze and his jaw tightened. "It's all I have left of my father." His hand closed around the star of David hanging from a chain on his neck.

Mrs Hofmann's eyes softened. "Isaac," she said, half exasperated and half sorrowful.

Alice stepped closer. The children were still mostly oblivious to what was going on: Elizabeth was kicking snow at her brother. "I want you to keep it," Alice told Isaac. "But you four have a long, hard journey east ahead of you. You might be getting out of Austria, but you're going to travel through other occupied countries, and those papers in your bag" – she cast a significant look at the bag his wife carried – "say that you are a poor, Austrian, native German family seeking a better life further away from the war. People will believe your papers. They won't believe them if they see that," she finished, touching Isaac's closed fist. His skin was cold.

For a few more moments Isaac stared her down, his jaw clenched under his beard and his eyes hard and dark. Beside him, his wife set a gentle hand on his arm.

Finally he closed his eyes and pulled the star of David over his head. "Please take care of it, Alice."

Alice accepted the warm metal chain with both hands and looked down at it. The star gleamed in the bright, cold light. She glanced up with a determined look. "I'll keep it here at the cabin," she said. "The fourth step in the staircase is creaky, if you check on the left side there's a way you can pry the board up. You'll find your father's necklace there. When you can come back."

Isaac nodded, his eyes gleaming. Both of them knew that with the way things were going, the chances of the Hofmanns being able to return to Austria were small.

Alice let out a breath and closed her hand around the star. "Are you sure you don't want to come in? Spend the night, and then set off tomorrow?"

Mrs Hofmann shook her head. "No, we don't want to wait another day. Besides, you've done so much for us already-"

"Don't worry about-"

"It's alright, really," Mrs Hofmann said with a small, sad smile. She was a striking woman, with thick dark hair and a nose that reminded Alice of Greek statues. "The sooner we leave, the better."

"I agree with you there," Alice sighed. She hesitated, then darted forward to wrap her arms around the warmly-dressed couple. They were really only about fifteen years older than her, but they reminded her of her mom and Matthias.

After a moment of hesitation, Mr and Mrs Hoffman reached to hold her back.

"Good luck," Alice murmured. Their plan was to walk and hitch rides all the way to neutral Turkey, and then maybe on to Israel. The length of such a journey boggled the mind, but it must be achieved.

"Shalom, Alice," murmured Isaac.

Alice pulled away and turned to the children. "Goodbye, you two troublemakers. How about a farewell hug?"

Elizabeth and Rupert stopped trying to smother each other in the snow and ran to Alice with their arms out. Alice dropped to her knees to hug them, not caring that the snow seeped through her stockings and bit at her knees. "You two listen to your parents, and remember to stay quiet no matter how scared you get. Alright?"

"Alright," they echoed. They'd already had many serious conversations with their parents about their upcoming journey.

Alice kissed the top of Rupert's dark head. She tried very hard not to think about how Tom had turned twelve last month. Only two years older than Rupert, and Rupert seemed so tall. "I'll see you later."

"When?" he asked as they pulled away.

That stumped her for a moment. She'd only really said it to make them feel better. She swallowed and faked a smile. "Once we're all safe and sound."

He thought about it, then: "Okay. Bye, Alice!"

Alice rose to her feet. The Hofmanns checked their children's clothes and boots once more, then hiked their bags over their shoulders and looked up the road, to where a narrow path lead up into the mountains. A narrowing, unmanned path that would eventually bring them to the border to Hungary. Hungary had joined the Axis powers late last month, but the Hofmanns should go unnoticed amongst the other poor and hungry families fleeing from the war.

Alice waved them off, faking a smile for the children, and then stood watching them tramp off into the distance. They crested a hill and looked back.

"Bye," Alice breathed. She waved to them.

The smallest figure raised his hand and shook it back and forth wildly, making her laugh. Then they vanished over the lip of the mountain.

Alice stood out in the road for what could have been hours, until flakes of snow began to drift out of the sky and catch in her hair. Alone, she pulled her bag from where it had been resting on the car's passenger seat and walked inside the cabin.

Five days all to myself.

Five days with nothing but a radio and a pile of old books to entertain herself. It would have sounded quite relaxing actually, if it weren't for the fact that she knew she'd be spending each minute wondering where the Hofmanns were – if they were warm enough, if they had enough to eat. If they'd been caught.

Alice ran a hand over her cold face and then went to the creaky staircase. She pried the fourth board free, eyed the star of David in her hand for a few moments longer than necessary, then slid it into that dark, unseen place. Until we meet again.

Adolf Hitler:  " The year 1941 will be, I am convinced, the historical year of a great European New Order."

1941

Alice returned to Vienna on January 1st to hear that there'd been a massive German air raid on London and that the night before, General Charles deGaulle (the exiled leader of the Free French) had called for French citizens to stay indoors on New Years Day from 3 to 4pm as a show of passive resistance. Alice wasn't sure how useful that'd be, but she liked how angry it made her uncle.

He only thought to ask her a single question about her solo trip to the mountains.

"It was a wonderful trip," she replied evenly. "Thank you."

He just took a drag of his cigarette in response.

Alice didn't get to hear if the French were able to carry off their passive resistance, because she had a performance at the Palais Pallavicini that afternoon. The family living there was throwing a luncheon/dinner for the elite who'd stayed in Vienna for the holiday period.

So she found herself in another glittering ballroom under ornate chandeliers, playing the piano and serenading the latest round of favored officials and generals. It was a sedate affair, more out of respect for everyone's hangovers from the night before rather than for the war – everything was going their way, after all, so why not celebrate? Germany had yet to suffer a major defeat.

Alice kept her voice low and her songs slow accordingly, which gave her the ability to people-watch. She noted who was new in town, and which Nazi officials were here. The Minister for Finance had finally left, which was probably a good sign for Austria's economy. But one of Goebbel's aides was back, speaking to her uncle and some other suited, cigarette-smoking men at the table nearest Alice.

"… will see the institution of a New Order, and-"

Alice let her voice fade away at the end of the chorus to an old Austrian folk song, and continued playing the melody on the piano so she could eavesdrop better.

"Very exciting," her uncle said. "And if anyone can achieve it, it will be the German race. The strongest one, after all."

"I see you've been paying attention to our Führer," the aide said laughingly. "Yes, our influence already extends across Europe from France to Norway to the Ukraine, with only the British to the west, barely holding their own, and the Russians to the east, who do not belong to us."

"Are they next?" asked someone else at the table.

The aide just took a drink, shaking his head as if to say you know I can't talk about that. Alice peered at him out of the corner of her eye. He had Aryan-blonde hair and blue eyes that right now seemed to glitter. "As I was saying," he said, "Europe has never been so united under a single power, save for maybe the Roman Empire. And we know what a civilizing impact they had. Once we have reordered the ethnographical relations…"

Alice listened to the conversation taking place at the table across from her as her fingers danced numbly on the piano and her ears burned. Her skin crawled at each word. It felt as if the universe were expanding around her and laying flat at her feet.

Here is the future, the aide seemed to promise.

And in Alice's mind, a question emerged: What are you going to do about it?

The door handle of Jilí's front door banged against the wall inside her apartment when Alice burst in.

At the table Jilí leapt to her feet with fear in her eyes, which abruptly turned to irritation when she saw Alice's flushed face. She'd been in the middle of preparing a care package for the Steiners.

"Alice, when my door bursts in I'm expecting to see-"

"We have to do something," Alice cut in. She stopped a few feet away from the table, her chest heaving and her hair falling in her face.

Jilí cocked her head. "What?"

Alice gestured at the cans of food on the table. "We've been hiding people, feeding them, keeping them safe, but what's the point?" Jilí's face darkened. "We've been able to protect, what, thirty people?"

"Alice-"

"No, just let me…" Alice strode across the creaky floorboards, yanked out a seat and sat down. Jilí slowly lowered back into her seat across the table. Alice met her eyes. "This isn't going away." She gestured out the window. "They will continue to spread, and invade, and infect the minds of our friends and neighbors like a tumor. We must try to get more people out of their reach, but what's the point if they just continue to expand? Who will stop them, if not us?"

"The Allies are-"

"They're trying to push back against an insatiable tide. We're in the heart of it, Jilí. We're here. We can do more. I know we can. I've been waiting for something to happen but I just realized that what I've been waiting for is me." She spread her hands. "We can put the word out, quietly, that we'll protect people. At the moment we've just been helping the people you and I know, but those people know more people who need help."

Alice leaned across the table. "There's a network out there, we just have to pull on the threads. I know people at the markets, we can set up a food network. I can cover it. And we can get more people out of the country. I'll take on more performances abroad and get back in contact with the people I know at the border to Switzerland." Her hands were flying now. "And you mentioned those people Gruber knows in France – I told you not to take the risk of contacting them, but if they can help us then let's do it."

She drew in a breath. "We've thought we're alone all this time but we're not, Jilí. We can't be. There are other people out there trying to put a stop to this… this insanity. I can't just stand by and watch it unfurl any longer, but I also can't do anything alone. We need friends. Or if not friends, then… then fellow soldiers."

She finally drew to a halt, breathless. Jilí watched her with a blank face.

After what seemed like an eternity of silence a smile crept across Jilí's face. The first genuine one Alice had seen from her since Franz died.

"There you are," Jilí grinned. "There you are, Alice. Welcome back."

~ Puppet no longer. Grow your wings. ~

Chapter Text

Nazi Minister of Propaganda Jospeh Goebbels: " Music affects the heart and emotions more than the intellect. Where then could the heart of a nation beat stronger than in the huge masses, in which the heart of a nation has found its true home ?"

Until this point, Alice and Jilí had been planning day-to-day, week to week at the most. But for the first time they set their sights on the future.

That January the British forces began to push back against the Germans in North Africa. Alice followed their lead.

She began by saying no to her uncle. She stopped performing so much for the Nazis, but to appease her uncle she performed more and more in general; she booked public performances on her own and agreed to tour in several occupied and neutral countries: France, Hungary, Poland, Greece, the Netherlands, Italy, Switzerland. The music lurking in her mind woke up once more and she wrote four songs in the space of two weeks.

Her uncle was happy, the public was happy, the Nazis were more or less happy. Goebbel's propaganda department kept reaching out to her uncle to get Alice to perform for them, but Alice managed to stave them off.

"You seem… better," her uncle told her over a stiff one-on-one dinner at home one evening. He didn't look at her as he spoke. "Whatever has inspired you like this, keep doing it. The reviewers are much happier."

"I intend to, uncle," Alice replied with a polite smile.

Alice and Jilí had begun coordinating underground activities. They put out the word: do you need help? Can you provide help? And their network spread through quiet bars and hidden attics and the back of shops. They set up a regular food donation system under the radar of the police and most of Vienna's population; through friends and friends of friends they identified food vendors who might be willing to set a little aside for the needy and transported it with the help of grandmothers, cousins, paper boys and in their own bags. They organised donations for the families of Jews, protestors, or political figures who had been arrested.

Alice returned to the old swing club with Jilí. She hadn't been since before the war started and she found that like everything else, it had changed. They still played forbidden records and spoke in English, but they'd started calling themselves the swingjugend [swing youth]. Alice loved the place – the atmosphere was warm and there was always a gaggle of laughing, interesting people to fill the place with noise and song. A plinky piano sat in the corner.

"Do they know how dangerous this is?" Alice asked Jilí in a whisper as they sat in the club, watching two slightly tipsy eighteen year olds burst out onto the street loudly singing Nat King Cole.

Jilí sipped her drink. "Yes. But they don't care. Don't you remember feeling young and invincible?"

"No." Alice watched another group of teens across the room mockingly singing one of the Hitler Youth anthems on the wooden dancefloor. "And anyway, Jilí, we're only twenty two."

"Exactly. I've already exceeded my life expectancy."

"Don't say things like that," Alice frowned, but Jilí was smiling. "Where'd Hugo go?"

"He's just there." Jilí pointed across the club as their tall curly-haired friend made his way back through the gathered youths with a cup held over his head. He winked at them as he spun past a group of girls in laddered stockings and then dropped down in the seat across from them.

"Sorry, you were asking questions and I needed coffee." He drew in a deep whiff of his coffee, which smelled like black market stuff if Alice was any judge. Hugo was a gangly, effervescent nineteen year old and the unofficial leader of the group of kids who hung out at this club/café. Alice had met him years earlier the first time she came, when he'd been sixteen, trying anything to avoid conscription, and the life of the party. Well, he was still the life of the party. Hugo leaned back in his chair and beamed at them. "What did you lovely ladies want to know?"

"You said you knew people in… Hamburg?" Jilí asked, her chin in her hand. "They have a place like this?" She gestured around at the club.

Hugo nodded. "Hamburg, Berlin, Linz… there's groups like this all over. The Gestapo don't care except for when we get in fights with the Hitler Youth."

"Is that often?" Jilí asked with a raised eyebrow.

Hugo shrugged. "Only when they're being especially annoying."

"And you're in contact with these other kids?" Alice asked.

"Yes, letters and phone calls and such. And what with the war there's a lot of bed hopping between cities. Winnie from Margareten is engaged to one of the men from Berlin." Hugo cocked his head at her. "Are you going to sing today, Alice?"

"If you want to hear me sing these days you have to buy a ticket, Hugo," Alice said sweetly.

"You're a businesswoman, I can respect that. So why're you asking about our friends?"

Alice and Jilí glanced at each other. "We'd like you to put us in contact with them. Days like these, it pays to make friends and get news from other cities. And also… keep us in mind. If anything comes up."

"If anything comes up?" Hugo said with raised eyebrows.

This was the dangerous part. Alice eyed Hugo evenly. "You guys get in trouble a lot. You need help with that, you let us know."

"In return for…?"

Alice smiled. "Believe it or not, Hugo, I'd like to see you all stay out of trouble. So it's an end in itself. Jilí and I… we're just trying to make friends. Being lonely is dangerous."

Hugo nodded carefully. "Fair enough." He drained his coffee. "I'll ask around, get people to give you some addresses for you to get in contact with some people."

"Great," Alice said. "And tell them I'm touring soon and I'd like to meet them. Fellow tastes in music, and all that."

They spent the next few minutes chatting about the latest records and the stuff on the radio. Jilí asked Hugo how his girlfriend was doing, and he gushed about her and her new job.

Eventually, Hugo set his head on his hand and eyed the two of them. "You know, one of my friends in Hamburg was talking about how he's been learning French to speak to some new friends of theirs in Paris. Some friends who might not want their names circulated in public. That wouldn't have anything to do with why you two are here?"

"What do you mean?" Jilí cocked her head at him.

He just smiled. "You know… making friends. Did you guys know about that?"

Alice returned the smile. "We didn't. But it's always nice to learn something new."

Excerpt from article 'What were the Germans listening to?' (2008):

The Swingjugend (Swing Youth – a parody of the national socialist 'Hitler Youth') were a widespread group of German and Austrian teens which began as a celebration of jazz, swing, and American culture, and evolved into increasing nonviolent resistance against the Nazi powers following the outbreak of war…

…  with the increasing force and ferocity of the Nazi regime the Swingjugend were forced to continue their activities in secrecy. Most members did not organise politically, though some broke off into protest groups. Interestingly, some members of the group formed friendships with the famous Munich political resistance group the White Rose (which ended in tragedy in 1943), though no formal alliance was ever reached.

Alice started hosting parties of her own, inviting the usual crowd along with a few other, seemingly random newcomers: high-ups in the police force and gestapo, diplomats, a visitor from the German Abwehr (the Nazi intelligence agency), members of the Foreign Office. She gave them no special attention, but she did charm them with her song and with her attentive, smiling conversation. Alice had learned long ago that most men didn't want her to be intelligent in conversation – just receptive.

Alice and Jilí also set up what Jilí called their wireless telephone network, which was in reality mostly a gossip chain. If anyone heard about a new police strategy, they would tell one person and by the end of the day fifty more would know. If someone had a spare children's coat, a few hours later a recipient would be found. People asked about missing relatives and the network trickled back with scraps of rumor and potential sightings.

Resistance – because it was becoming rapidly apparent that this was what Alice and Jilí were up to – was difficult in the heart of Austria. They played a dangerous game of trust and suspicion: what to say to who. They kept their names out of it for the most part.

Alice spent her nights in a thick coat and a headscarf by Jilí's side, meeting with people in the dead of night and passing on information about where to get food, or shelter, or a way out of the country. And then that person played a game of trust in their turn; was this a true offer of help, or a death sentence?

Alice spent her days singing and making appearances around town. More often than not she had some dangerous thing or other in her bag – a wad of money or cans of food, usually. Flitting about the city as a socialite was a perfect excuse for meeting people across her ever-expanding group of friends.

Her career began to soar. It turned out all she'd needed was a modicum of enthusiasm for it.

Late that winter, Alice and Jilí's cautiously rising confidence crumbled at its foundation when the 'Jewish Emigration Office' introduced a new quota. 4500. Four thousand, five hundred people to be whisked up and sent east.

Despite their best warnings, rooms and attics across the city went dark. Stolen property got snatched by police, soldiers, and neighbors. Silence crept into spaces where there'd once been life.

Alice watched a canvas-covered truck drive east out of Vienna as she stood behind a window with her fingernails pressing so hard into her palms that her fingers creaked. She hadn't seen the soldiers force the families in at gunpoint as mothers and fathers wrapped their arms around their children, but she knew it had happened all the same. She'd heard the whispers.

She thought of the glimpses she'd had of the ghettos in Poland, where people were sent to waste away. She thought of whispers of soldiers in the east forcing people to take off their clothes and line up along the edge of a ditch. No way to find out if it was true. Not a doubt in her mind that it was.

Do something.

What can I do? Everything I have done was not enough to protect the people sitting in that truck.

The truck turned a corner and vanished from view.

Excerpt from Austrian newspaper Kleine Zeitung, February 27 1941 [Translated]:

THIS EVENING'S RADIO: Listen to 'Whisper A Promise To Me', the latest hit record from The Siren, on RRG.

In February Alice came home from a secret meeting with a woman with ties to the communist party to find the maid Julia waiting with a card for her.

"It was delivered an hour ago, Fräulein. No name, just an address."

Alice took the card with a tight smile and her heart thudded when she saw the address. She'd been there once before.

She fetched her coat from the hook and went right back out the door.

Alice had kept in touch with Anna Wödl since they first met last year. Anna had prevented the transfer of her son to Hartheim, but the system of mysteriously transferring and disappearing disabled children and adults had gone on. It was full public knowledge now. Anna had held a few demonstrations since, though they were quickly put down by the Gestapo, but she wasn't alone now – the Catholic Church had condemned the disappearances and pressure was increasing on the government. Alice thought that maybe, in this, they might be successful.

But when she knocked on the door to Anna Wödl's house in Alsergrund, her stomach churned with dread.

Something has happened.

The door opened to Anna Wödl's pale, tear-stained face.

"No," Alice breathed.

Anna's eyes welled at the sight of the Siren in her doorstep, and after a moment she stepped back to let Alice in. Alice followed her into the darkened house. She strode past photos of Anna and her son on the walls, past the huddles of gathered family members talking together in low tones, and into the living room. Alice felt something rising within her. Bile, maybe. Maybe pure, unfettered desperation.

A photograph of her son Alfred as a baby rested on the mantelpiece. He was a round-faced boy, dressed in his white christening dress, his pale hair swept to the side and a toothless smile lifting his cheeks.

When Anna sank down beside the coffee table Alice found her tongue. "What… how?"

"They said it was pneumonia," Anna murmured. Her eyes, normally intense and passionate, had gone flat. "I have no way of knowing if that's true."

Alice lowered onto the sofa beside her and set a gentle hand on her back. "But I thought…"

"It seems the clinic he went to was no safer than Hartheim." Anna shuddered, and Alice put her arms around her. For a few minutes they sat like that: Anna shaking in Alice's arms as the heavy silence of the house oppressed them.

"I'm so sorry, Anna," Alice said. Her tongue felt leaden. "I should have-"

"We all did as much as we could," Anna croaked. "I've never fought so hard in my life and he still…" her voice cracked.

Alice smoothed her fingers over Anna's shoulder. "When is his funeral?"

"Tomorrow. I got his body back, which is more than other parents can say." Alice closed her eyes. A moment later, Anna added: "They kept his brain."

Alice's eyes snapped open. "What?"

"They cut out his brain and put it in a jar. For science. They didn't tell me that, of course, I found out from an orderly."

"They can't-"

"There's nothing they can't do, Alice," Anna said in that same wooden tone. She drew in a long, deep breath and Alice felt it fill her chest. When she let out the breath again, four words escaped with it:

"He was only six."

Alice began her international tour in March, leaving Jilí and her cousin Vano to run things back in Vienna. She took to the stage with the songs she'd written before the war and the ones she'd written more recently, enthralling theaters and halls of people who had paid to hear her voice. In the Axis-allied countries she dined with officials in the evening and when they'd all gone to bed she went out into the city to meet the people who really ran the town. In neutral countries she got to sing whatever she wanted, because they certainly didn't want to hear German patriotic songs.

She swapped correspondences with everyone she could and entrenched herself in gossip. She made friends with everyone from diplomats to porters. In the occupied countries she disguised herself in men's clothing and crept through cities, poking at the edges of tensions and secrets.

She met with Hugo's friends in the Swingjugend, and as she'd suspected they were an excellent way of making friends in the counterculture of each city. They knew how to get around the Gestapo, and knew who needed the most help. Alice was careful not to give too much of herself away; either she didn't reveal her true intentions with the people who knew her name, or she visited in some form of disguise.

Her life became a blur of song, landscape rushing past train windows, her uncle's rigid face, her heart pounding as she crept through cities in the darkness, vague and dangerous conversations, and extravagant parties. Her tour kept away from the front lines of the war but she still saw it everywhere she went, in the dead eyes of a soldier and the scars in the earth glimpsed from a train window. Sometimes she closed her eyes and thought of home: Brooklyn, with the sun beating on the sidewalk and the feel of her friends by her sides. She pictured Steve: his flax-gold hair and tentative laughter. She could still mimic his voice, despite not having heard it for four long years.

She found herself in France once more, following whispers to those who were not willing to stand by and watch any longer. Resistance was just as dangerous in France, maybe even more so, as some French citizens were collaborating with the Nazis and informing on their own people.

But, as Alice found with mounting excitement, there was resistance there. Either she hadn't noticed last year or it hadn't appeared yet. She came across tiny pockets of people in illegal bars, smoking in alleys, creeping in and out of what looked like an abandoned warehouse. It was all small moments: a maid telling a courier about what one Nazi general had mentioned in a brothel, and the courier's knowing look before he started his car engine for a journey to Marseille. A pamphlet lying out on the street for anyone to see, declaring the Vichy government a farcical tool of the Nazis, until a police officer snatched it away. A Nazi Foreign Office representative in Paris complained to his friend at a party that somehow intelligence from France was leaking to Britain. Alice might not have noticed any of it if she hadn't been looking for it.

The biggest signs of resistance were when they got caught. Some students had been shot last year after demonstrating in Paris. Posters lined the streets, warning that anyone who 'resisted the might of the Nazis' would be similarly shot.

Dressed as 'Al', Alice started talking. She told an old man with a veteran's attitude what she'd heard about the Nazi's New Order. She told a group of university students about how she'd heard that a certain three Nazi generals planned to meet in Vichy next week. She talked as much as she could about the things she'd overheard and seen, with no way of knowing if any of it was useful or if her audience could even pass it on to someone who could act on it. But it was something. In return she absorbed gossip and rumors like oxygen.

Some of the people she spoke to were living underground with no fixed address. These were the ones who really didn't trust her; the ones who caught a glimpse of a stranger's face and vanished back into the night. They were the ones Alice wanted to talk to the most, but every time they slipped away.

The moment Alice returned to Vienna she ditched her uncle and took a circuitous route to Jilí's house, only to find that her friend wasn't there. She pressed down her initial surge of worry and made her way to a café two streets over, where the owner didn't care who his patrons were as long as they paid.

When she spotted Jilí's ink black hair in the back corner, she let out a silent breath of relief and paced over, nodding to the waitress.

Jilí sat with her head bent over a cup of steaming coffee, her face shielded by her thick hair. Alice couldn't see her eyes, but she could tell that her friend's gaze rested on the plain silver wedding band on her left ring finger.

"I'm back," Alice said softly.

Jilí's head jerked up, eyes wide, and when she saw Alice standing over her in her brown coat she beamed and shot up. "You're back," she echoed, and pulled Alice in for a quick, tight hug. Alice patted her friend's back. "You're safe? Nothing happened?" Jilí held Alice at arm's length and looked her over.

"I wasn't exactly performing at the front," Alice replied with a small smile. "I'm fine, I promise. I've got lots to tell you."

Jilí gestured for Alice to take the seat across from her, then ordered a second coffee from the waitress. "I've got lots to tell you too," she said. Once the waitress had gone far enough away, she leaned across the table with glinting eyes. "Vano" – Jilí's cousin, who had joined in their efforts after being beat up by the Gestapo last year – "and I have been running the usual network, but we've also been looking around. Vano's friends at the university put him in contact with this political group of students, they're anti-Nazi," Jilí dropped her voice further. "They've been trying to spread the word."

Alice kept her voice low but didn't lean in or cover her mouth, or in any way appear that she was trying to speak secretly. "Spread the word how?"

"Vano's still earning their trust but he thinks they're writing articles and pamphlets, that sort of thing."

"Okay, tell him to-"

"Be careful, I know," Jilí said with a quick smile. "That's not it, though. While you were away the church has been kicking up a fuss."

"They don't like the Nazis' take on religion, I know."

The waitress came with Alice's coffee, and Alice and Jilí pretended to talk about edible arrangements until she left.

"It's not just that," Jilí said after telling Alice that fine cheeses were so hard to get these days. "The church has been organising donations for families in need, which has the Gestapo all riled. Your friend at the music school says that some of the clergy still support Prince Otto."

Alice rubbed her jaw thoughtfully. The Crown Prince of Austria had been living in exile in Basque for years, but she knew he'd strongly opposed fascism and the Anschluss. He could afford to, given that he didn't live here. The Nazis had put out an execution order for him. "Let's keep the church in mind, then," she said slowly. "But don't reach out. They're a target if they're being so public about this, and the last thing we need is to be aligned with the Prince."

Jilí nodded. "I agree. We've been funnelling some donations their way, though."

Alice nodded. "Anything else?"

Jilí cocked her head. "Maybe. Katrin – you know Katrin, she works at the library – her sweetheart is a labourer, she says he's been up in the western mountains since winter working on some big project: scientific installations." She shrugged. "Thought it might be worth mentioning. Not that it's likely that her sweetheart will stay hired for long, they've been using prisoners from the camps more and more as labor."

"We'll try to keep an eye on it," Alice replied as she sipped her coffee. A frown furrowed her brow. "Nazi science installations?"

"I think so. Katrin says the division running it don't dress much like Nazis, though."

"I'll ask some of my friends who work those kinds of jobs, see what they turn up," Alice said.

Jilí nodded and slowly turned her empty coffee cup in her hands. Her wedding band clinked against the side. After a few long moments, she said: "We're not alone, Alice."

Alice sighed, looking at her friend. Jilí didn't often let her sadness show, but she could see it now in her dark eyes. "I know, Jilí. We know there are people out there willing to help us. Let me tell you about the people I met abroad, it's not just us-"

"I mean in Austria." Jilí looked up. "I can see it – signs of people like us. The other day I saw a marking in chalk on a street sign near the city hall. O5. Yesterday I caught one of the Swingjugend kids carving the same thing into a table at a café. But it's not just them doing it. It can't be."

"O5," Alice repeated slowly. Her mind churned, thinking over codes and symbols that might be similar. "O… maybe there are five letters after it. Maybe OE? E is the fifth letter of the alphabet."

Jilí's lips quirked. "I thought you might get it."

"OE? But what does it mean?"

"You might not have lived here long enough to know. OE is the short version of Osterreich."

"Austria," Alice translated. Her fingers fell still on her coffee cup. "You think…"

"It has to be some kind of resistance," Jilí said softly, her dark eyes gleaming. "It has to be. It's a sign. Of a free Austria."

Alice leaned back slowly, turning it over. Was it possible there were others like them out there, whispering in the dark, playing the terrifying game of trust and suspicion, scratching signs into walls in some hope of a reply? "O5," she breathed.

Jilí nodded and laced her fingers together. "Anyway, that's what I've been up to. Did you find anything interesting on your tour?"

Alice met her friend's eyes with a smile. "Perhaps we'd better order another coffee."

May 25, 1941

"… And then she says she's just been writing more songs, working with a composer from Hamburg." Bucky flipped over the one-page letter in his hand, shading his eyes from the beating sun. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the shouting, cheering crowd inside Ebbets Field stadium. "Some more stuff about her songs… then she's telling me off for not listening to my ma…"

"- she's right," Steve cut in. His eyes were on the field even as he listened to Bucky. "You should've quit that job months ago. They ain't treating you right."

"And where am I meant to work then, genius?" Bucky snarked. He watched the Philadelphia player go up to bat, dusting off his white trousers. "Watch this fella, he's tricky." He glanced back down at the letter from Alice. "Anyway, then she basically just talks shit about me until the end of the letter."

Steve glanced away from the field and smiled at the letter as if he were smiling at Alice herself. "Sounds like she's doing better."

The Dodgers pitcher, Pearson, pitched a curveball at the Phillies batter. It connected with the bat with an audible crack and went flying high and outside. Bucky grabbed his hair, crinkling the letter, and the crowd groaned.

"Damn it all," Steve huffed as the Phillies third base runner ran home. "We're tied now."

"Our innings, though."

The crowd at the Brooklyn field settled back in their seats, grumbling and scowling at the scoreboard. It was a bright, sunny Sunday and thousands of Dodgers supporters had come out to cheer on their team. Bucky had checked his mailbox on his way to the stadium with Steve, and both of them had been surprised to find a letter from Alice there. Letters came so irregularly now.

As the Dodgers batter strode up, Steve leaned back in his seat and rolled his head to look at the letter again. Alice's elegant script flowed down the page. "D'you think she's lonely?" Bucky glanced up in surprise. "She doesn't mention people in her letters anymore."

"Can't imagine Nazi Austria is the best place to be making friends," Bucky said darkly. "And I don't like that she's traveling through all these Axis countries. I mean I know she lives in one, but Italy? Greece? The Germans just invaded Greece."

"I doubt she's going anywhere near the fighting," Steve said. He shaded his eyes and squinted at the Brooklyn batter. "That's Pete Reiser. Reckon he'll make it?"

"He's young. Maybe. Ain't he the one that got his skull damn near cracked by a Phillies pitch last month?"

Steve hummed and eyed the letter. "She's hiding things."

"Of course she is, Steve, it's Alice." Bucky tapped the paper. "And she's sending letters that might be intercepted."

Steve's brow furrowed. "She promised me once that she'd always tell me her plans."

Bucky looked away from the field, his face softening at the tone in Steve's voice. The crowd was on the edge of their seats around them, the energy buzzing. "You think she's planning something?"

"It's Alice," Steve said. "She's always got plans. She wouldn't still be over there if she didn't."

"Well I just hope those plans involve her staying safe."

"You and me both, Bucky."

The crack of a pitch connecting with a bat and the crowd cheering jerked their attention away to the field again.

"That's three in the bag!" Bucky shouted, leaping to his feet as he watched the ball soar to the outfield. White-clad players sprinted across the green grass of Ebbets Field and the crowd positively screamed.

Steve didn't remember jumping to his feet but before he knew it he was bouncing on his toes as he watched the batter, Reiser, reach third base. "They're waving him in!" he realized excitedly as the coach on the sideline waved his arms.

The outfielder tossed the ball to one of the infielders, who wound up and threw it home. Reiser's legs pumped across the diamond. Bucky and Steve grabbed each other's shoulders, jumping and shouting along with the rest of Ebbets Field, hearts pounding – and then Reiser slid home.

Anyone who'd still been sitting exploded to their feet as the stadium lost its collective mind.

"Pete Reiser with an inside-the-park grand slam!" cried the announcer over the roar of the crowd. "Oh my goodness. The crowd is going absolutely wild here at Ebbets Field… the Dodgers take the lead here, eight to four!"

Bucky flung his hands into the air, one in a fist and the other waving a letter from across the ocean. Steve jumped beside his friend, his lungs already wheezing, and thought I can't wait to tell her about this.

Excerpt from: S.H.I.E.L.D. Incident Report #508-GH-72 (October 9 2011) r.e. SR Containment Malfunction, compiled by Agent P Coulson:

…  the preliminary failure, of course, being the chronological inaccuracy of the containment unit in the form of a radio broadcast. In subsequent interviews the team responsible for the containment design reported that they were unaware of the baseball game broadcast's original date: May 25, 1941, Philadelphia Phillies vs Brooklyn Dodgers (in fact quite a memorable game for Brooklyn fans).

In their defense, the date was stated nowhere in the broadcast itself, and no physical evidence has been found of SR attending the game in question – no ticket stubs found in remaining files – but it was a clear oversight to use a game from approximately four years before his crash in the Arctic. A game from before his exposure to Project Rebirth, even.

Recommendation: Next time, employ a historian. Or a baseball fan.

Under the fresh blue sky and crisp air of an Austrian summer, Alice traveled around Austria on a home tour. She met old friends, made some new ones, and traveled with a suitcase with a false bottom full of pamphlets. Jilí's cousin Vano had secured the trust of the university students who opposed the occupation of Austria and had offered to help distribute their publications. Through Vano, Alice and Jilí offered the students money for their printing presses and volunteers for distribution.

Alice had taken it upon herself to get the leaflets to other towns and cities across Austria.

She never saw the fruits of her labors. She passed brown bags full of paper to students in other towns who knew how to distribute them, and left them in post boxes and on doorstops.

It never appeared in the newspaper, of course, but when she returned to Vienna she heard rumors about showers, snowstorms, of pamphlets across Austria, with the title WIDERSTEHEN [RESIST].

The Gestapo never caught the students who had tossed the leaflets around libraries and government buildings and schools, nor did they catch the hand in the night who'd gotten the leaflets to them. They didn't find the printing presses, or the group of angry students who'd written it in the first place.

Alice read her copy of the leaflet and her heart soared at the denunciations of the Nazi party's persecution and rigid policies, and at the calls for resistance. Then she took her matchbook and set the leaflet aflame.

On June 22nd, Alice woke up to the news that Germany had invaded the Soviet Union.

Her stomach dropped. One more country falling away beneath their feet. Her uncle talked excitedly over breakfast, poring over the paper and predicting that Hitler would spend his Christmas in Moscow, and Alice ate silently.

She wondered if she was crazy for thinking that anyone could stand up to this ever-expanding tide.

A week later proved her sinking feeling right – the German Blitzkrieg had stormed across the Russian border and tens of thousands of Soviet soldiers were dead. Alice kept writing letters and visiting 'friends', strengthening her hold over the places she could. Rumors drifted back about Einsatzgruppen [operational groups] roaming the occupied countries in search of Jews – not for arrest and deportation, but for murder. The rumors also told of locals helping the death groups. Each whisper chilled Alice to the bone, turning her hard as ice.

The letters from New York brought warmth and a reminder that life didn't have to hurt. In early July Steve wrote to Alice that New York had just gained two television stations.

I don't have a television of course, he wrote in his neat hand, but Bucky's family and their neighbors pooled together to get one. It's electronic, and as far as I can tell the basic concept is that the station turns moving images into code, then sends the code via radio waves to television sets. WNBT's first program was a newsreader, but then they played the Dodgers game!

We watched at Bucky's place, and the whole  street  was packed in there to watch it. It's bizarre seeing something on a television screen as it happens. Had to shake myself a few times to remind myself I wasn't watching a movie.

I wonder if they've figured out how to transmit television across the Atlantic.

Alice sometimes pressed her face into the pages he wrote her, inhaling the scent of ink and maybe, just faintly, of Steve.

Excerpt from '1941: The Year of Change' by Harley Harrison (1988), p. 31:

1941 was the year that the Nazi policy toward Jews and other minorities shifted from deportation and imprisonment, to annihilation.

' Concentration camps' have come to be synonymous with the Nazi death-camps such as Auschwitz and Dachau, but before this time the term referred to any camp where people (usually prisoners of war) were detained for a period of time. The Germans did not invent concentration camps – indeed, before the second world war, countries like Britain, France, Denmark, Canada, and even the USA had established concentration camps for soldiers and civilians. Until WWII, the term was synonymous with enforced labor, cramped conditions, and occasionally disease and hunger – but not extinction.

Those sent to concentration camps in 1941 did not know what the camps had become. They did not know to fear them.

In August, as the streets of Vienna sweltered and Alice's uncle planned yet another tour of France, Alice was at a party when she heard an acquaintance of hers in the Austrian police say: "Himmler has finally given us the go ahead to crack down on those traitorous Swingjugend." Alice did not respond to him, did not even give any indication that she'd heard at all, but the minute she left the party she ran to the old swing club to warn them.

Those who believed her accepted her offer of shelter. Hugo and some others went to stay with Jilí, others bunked with friends, and Alice found beds for the rest. They sent off letters of warning to their friends in other cities. But they weren't an organisation, not really – it was a collection of young people who didn't fit in with the marching blonde-haired rule-followers they were expected to be like. Many of them shrugged off Alice's warning.

Two days later the Gestapo kicked down the doors of the swing club. They arrested anyone inside and tracked down everyone else they could. Most of them were children.

Alice breathed a sigh of relief when she found out that mostly, those arrested had just had their hair cut and were sent back to school. But the crackdown had been throughout Germany and Austria, not just Vienna, and Alice heard of Swingjugend leaders elsewhere being sent to concentration camps.

When she saw Hugo that evening at Jilí's house he hugged her tightly, shaky and bright eyed. "Thank you, Alice," he breathed as he pulled away. "If we hadn't known-"

"But now you do," she said. She gestured for him to sit down, then cleared her throat. "Hugo, these orders came from Heinrich Himmler. The chief of the Gestapo. You're not in a counter-culture youth group anymore. You're in a prohibited minority." She watched Hugo's wide dark eyes as the words sank in. Alice leaned over to grip his arm. Jilí watched silently from the kitchen. "These kids trust you, Hugo. You must teach them to be careful. They can't dance in the street anymore. They can't fight the Hitler Youth. They can't go back to that club."

Hugo's fear sparked at that and his jaw tightened. "But-"

"No buts," Alice snapped. He shut his mouth. "You do what I say, or your friends will die."

His eyes widened again. "You think…?"

"You heard about Wilhelm in Hamburg, right? They shipped him off."

"To a concentration camp, that doesn't mean he'll never come back-"

"You can't afford to be naïve anymore, Hugo," Alice said softly. She sat at the table beside him with her hand still on his arm. "This is wartime, and the Nazis are winning. And even though they're winning, they're afraid. Afraid of people who are different. That means people like Jilí, and now it means people like you. The Nazis can't afford to let difference exist. They won't let it exist."

They sat in silence for a few long moments as Hugo looked down at his hands in his lap. Alice glanced over to Jilí, and Jilí nodded solemnly.

Finally, Hugo looked up. Tears clung to his lashes. "What can I do?"

Alice squeezed arm and smiled. "I'm glad you asked."

That week, Alice watched with wide eyes as the Nazi government caved to pressure from the Catholic and Protestant Church, the Austrian Communist Party, and countless other organisations, and abolished their T4 policy – the one that had been euthanizing the 'incurably sick' since the start of the war.

Alice spent the night at Anna Wödl's, holding her as she cried into her handkerchief, but when she walked back at dawn the next morning she felt only darkness.

They won't stop, she thought as she eyed a massive red swastika flag hanging from a corner of a building. They won't ever stop, until we stop them.

Excerpt from 'The Killing Programs' by Paula Weller (2003), p. 54:

Hitler publicly halted the Aktion T4 program in August of 1941: they'd reached their target of 70,000 'forced euthanisations', and personnel were needed for the Soviet front. But despite the public "roll back" of the program, killing of disabled and mentally ill children and adults continued in secrecy.

Some historians posit that the program was continued by the Nazi powers, to align with their other 1941 policies such as the Einsatzgruppen and the lethalization of concentration camps, which had shifted toward obliteration of 'undesirables'. Others argue that there is no evidence for continued national organisation of the killings, and that the killings likely continued under the direction of local hospital directors and doctors.

Whatever the case, it is certain that by the end of 1941 another 30,000 patients had been killed.

A month later, Alice lay on the floor of Jilí's apartment (there wasn't anywhere else to rest) with her hands folded behind her head and her eyes on the ceiling. She listened to the rustle of paper as Jilí looked over her tour itinerary at the table.

"It's only a week long trip," Jilí said wryly. "You think you'll have time for all this?"

"I'll make time," Alice said with a concealed smile. She rolled so she could see her friend. "Quiz me."

Jilí held her gaze for a few moments, then set down the itinerary of Alice's official activities and crossed one ankle over the other. "Alright. How are you going to meet the contact in Paris?"

"After my performance on the second day, I'm going to rue des Rosiers. I'll wait under the streetlight outside L'Etoile Boulangerie at a quarter past four, and the contact will find me," Alice recited. "And then it's anybody's guess."

"What are you going to tell this person?"

"I'll offer them our friendship. Monetary support, escape routes, an exchange of information."

Jilí's face turned hard, distrustful. "You know you'll have to tell this person your real name."

Alice sighed. "Hugo's sister studied in France for three years, and she says we can trust this person. Says she's connected."

"Hugo's sister is only twenty-"

"And I've only just turned twenty three," Alice finished for her. "I've looked into this, Jilí. It's the best way." Jilí's mouth turned down. "I'm also going to try to pass on what I heard about those troop movements on the Eastern Front."

"They're French-"

"I know, but if they know anyone-"

"Alice-"

"I have to try, Jilí." Alice rolled to her feet and went over to hug her friend, leaning over her chair from behind. Her cheek pressed against the top of Jilí's head. "I'll be back in no time."

She felt Jilí's scowl against the side of her arm. "You'd better be."

Chapter Text

Haruki Murakami: "Precipitate as weather, she appeared from somewhere, then evaporated, leaving only memory. "

Two days later Alice stood center-stage at the Théâtre Mogador in a lavender gown with trailing gossamer sleeves, near blinded by the stage lights as she sailed her way through Nessun Dorma. Not the most popular choice of song in Paris given that it was Italian, but beyond the dazzling lights she sensed that every single person in her nearly two-thousand strong audience sat spellbound.

Listen, she coaxed with her voice, lilting one hand with the rise of a note. She closed her eyes. Let me break your heart.

The orchestra came in before the final rise and she opened her eyes, taking in what she could see of the front row. Seven men in Nazi uniforms sat front and center. One of them had tears in his eyes.

Alice closed her eyes again a moment before she opened her mouth for the final aria.

She'd arrived in France only that morning, and had barely had time to change after the train ride before she was being shuffled backstage at the theater. Paris was much the same as the last time she'd visited; people walked quickly down the streets with their heads down. Soldiers seemed to wait at every corner. It seemed the new law forcing Jews to wear yellow stars had been enforced here as well as in Austria, as she'd glimpsed a few men and women scurrying past with fabric stars on their coats. Alice felt a strange pressure between her eyes when she saw them, as if halfway between crying and screaming.

At the train station she'd noticed a large V graffitied over one of the station boards. She'd seen the same letter carved into the sidewalk outside the theater. She couldn't puzzle out a reason.

Curiouser and curiouser.

A smile quirked Alice's lips a moment before she let out her breath in the soaring, earthshaking final lines of the song:

"All'alba vincerò!" [At dawn, I will win] Her hands rose by her sides and her sleeves rose off the floor like wings. "Vincerò, vincerò!" [I will win, I will win].

Just watch me.

Standing under a streetlight on a Parisian boulevard a few hours later, Alice self-consciously wiped the corner of her sleeve at the side of her face, grimacing when it came away with a smudge of makeup. She'd finished at the theater, dressed in her 'Al' getup, and come straight to Rue des Rosiers. She'd never worn these clothes in daylight before, but no one passing by gave her a second glance.

She'd tucked her hair into a worn grey cap, bound her chest under a loose white shirt tucked into brown trousers, and an oversized coat hung over her shoulders. She looked like a young man in clothes a size too big for him. She'd worked out how to alter her bearing and facial expression to further fool people – she slouched more, clenched her jaw, swung her arms when she walked. Oftentimes she found herself mimicking her memory of Steve. It made her feel braver.

Fifteen minutes later, Alice had just noticed a small V etched into the side of the streetlamp when a light voice spoke in French behind her:

"Georg! How wonderful to see you again, how is your mother?"

Alice turned with a pleasant smile on her face to see a woman, maybe in her mid-forties, with grey-streaked dark hair and a wide face with deep-set eyes. The woman was smiling at Alice, but her eyes flicked over her with an intensely perceptive look.

"Louise," Alice said in a soft voice, dipping her head. The woman's eyes became razor-focused. "My mother has a slight fever, but she will be well in no time."

Code phrases exchanged, the woman took Alice's arm. "Come, let's speak somewhere more comfortable."

Alice let the older woman steer her down the street and around the corner, their footsteps in time and their mouths shut. To anyone else they appeared to be a woman and her younger male acquaintance taking a stroll. The woman's hand was warm on Alice's arm. Her heart thudded when they turned down a quieter street and came to a green door.

The woman knocked six times, and after thirty seconds a man about her age cracked the door open, peered at them both, and then let them in.

"We'll be in the sitting room," the woman curtly told the man, then steered Alice in. She got a glimpse of a small, sparsely decorated home before she was bundled into a stuffy room with the curtains drawn. A sofa had been pushed all the way up against the wall and there was a bookshelf in the corner, but not much else in the room other than that.

Alice's contact shut the door behind her then turned to face Alice. Her eyes flicked over her.

"You are not a man," said the woman. Her voice was even.

Alice swallowed. Great disguise, Moser. "No, I…" she reached up and took off her cap, straightening into her natural posture as her hair fell loose to her shoulders. She held the cap in both hands and watched the woman's eyes narrow. "I'm not."

The woman eyed her. "I recognize you." She cocked her head, thinking. "How do I know you?"

Alice drew in a deep breath. Moment of truth. "My name's Alice Moser."

The woman's eyes widened. Alice got the sense she didn't often show surprise. "La Sirene." She crossed her arms and shot Alice another evaluating look. "Well, that is a surprise. Tell me why the Siren's in France dressed as a man and seeking out resistance?"

"I think Hugo's sister – Marie – I think she wrote to you-"

The woman waved a hand. "I know Marie well, and I trust her, but she can be impulsive." She took a step closer. "I want you to explain yourself."

Alice lifted her chin. "I'm here because I want to help. We… we have a small group in Vienna, of people trying to help-"

"Help who?"

"Anyone who needs it. Jews. Romani. The sick. People who speak out." Alice ran a hand through her hair. "To be honest, anyone who's not a Nazi." The other woman's eyes flashed, and Alice continued. "I'm not going to pretend there's a lot we can do. Most of us are kids, students, plenty are in hiding themselves. But we learned that we're not alone in Vienna, and we… we think we might be stronger together."

The woman's eyes darkened. "How can you help?"

"We've been keeping people safe. We have some money, we can offer it if you're in need. We know people at the borders of most central European countries and we have access to forgers. We can help people flee east, if that's what they want. In return, we want to help people flee west – eastward is a long journey through occupied countries, but we've heard of people fleeing across the Channel to England." The woman's eyes flashed again. "And we learn things. We want to share those things." Alice sensed the woman's question before she spoke it. "New policies. Police movements. Where people will be, when."

"How."

"Rumors and gossip mostly." Alice swallowed again. "And I… my uncle's well connected, we go to a lot of parties. I hear things."

"Hm." The woman finally tore her eyes away from Alice and paced the length of the room. Up to the closed-off window, then back, her eyes on the ground and her hands folded behind her back. Alice stood with her hat in her hand, barely daring to breathe.

Finally the woman looked up again. "Why should I trust you?"

Alice spread her hands. "I don't expect you to. Not fully. But I…" she met the woman's eyes. "I've told you my name. I've been plain about what I've been doing and what I want to do. You could destroy me if you wanted to. Hell, you could make me disappear right now and no one would know where I've gone."

The woman's eyebrow lifted. "We're not in the habit of murdering young women, Ms Moser."

That's a relief. She shrugged. "What I mean is… I'm in this. My name on the line, my life on the line. I want this war to end, and beyond that I want the Nazis to end. I don't know how, but I want it more than anything else." Her voice cracked. "That… that has to be enough."

The woman's dark eyes took Alice in. Alice had never felt so… judged before in her life. She'd stood on a stage in front of almost two thousand people only an hour ago, but this made her gut churn and her head swim. In the woman's eyes she saw the promise of ruin.

The game of trust and suspicion.

Alice let out a breath.

A moment later the woman held out her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Alice Moser. My name's Vera Izard. Welcome to the OCM."

Alice spent the rest of her week at performances, parties, and dressed as a man as she followed Vera Izard around the secret places of Paris. The OCM, she'd found out, stood for the Organisation Civile et Militaire, and… that was about all Vera would tell her. Alice met some other members, and from what she could tell they were a mix of conservatives who didn't like the Germans, and socialists – they worked as bankers, lawyers, scholars, laborers, and soldiers.

Alice learned from Vera, taking note of how she only gave away as much as she needed to, and in return passed on some tricks of her own: how to hide keys and letters on your person if you didn't have a bag, how to set up a food network (get the grocers to set aside a portion of food, and if anyone comes asking imply that it was the Nazi generals taking more than their fair share. If the generals came asking, blame it on the troops).

Only Vera knew Alice's real name. Everyone else came to know her as Al, the soft-spoken young man with a perfect Parisian accent and a host of handy tricks up his sleeve.

Vera said nothing explicitly, but Alice figured that the OCM had connections to Britain and British agents in France, as well as to the resistance groups carrying out sabotage and attacks against German troops and assassinating German officials in France. Vera pressed a brochure titled Manuel du Légionnaire into Alice's hand and explained 'this was published to educate French people who wished to join the Germans fighting on the Eastern Front'. Alice read it that night and smiled when she realized that this information was intended to spread no further than France itself: the manual explained how to make bombs and shoot guns, how to carry out sabotage against various military installations such as factories, and how to avoid detection. Alice committed the information and diagrams to memory and then put the manual in her fire grate.

Alice and Vera established a set of ciphers so they could exchange letters once Alice went back to Vienna, without fear of censorship. On the second last day they walked past a German truck with a giant chalk V drawn on the side.

"What's with the Vs?" Alice asked.

Vera turned her head slightly and gave Alice a funny look. "What do you mean?"

Alice didn't point at the truck, as there were soldiers looking. "I've been seeing it everywhere."

Vera smiled. "It's a symbol we picked up from our British neighbors."

"And it means…?"

Vera spread her index and middle finger in a V and shot Alice a small smile. "La Victoire." [Victory].

A thrill went down Alice's spine.

Excerpt from 'The "Refus Absurde": Life in Nazi Occupied France, 1940' by Pierre Montague (1997), p 24

In the face of immense force and racial segregation from their new oppressors, French citizens began to amass a resistance ( La Résistance).  Individuals began recruiting others for resistance and arranging counter-German activities such as sabotage, passing information to Britain (to the newly-founded intelligence Special Operations Group), and assisting code breakers from Poland and Britain. Many of these individuals would later become important leaders when many individual resistance cells mass organized in 1943 (the United Resistance Movement).

…

The early resistance cells included… 4) The Organisation Civile et Militaire (OCM), with just a few hundred members in late 1941 which ballooned to over forty thousand within two years. Four thousand of these were to give their lives for the resistance.

After her last performance in Paris, a morning concert at the Salle Wagram, Alice decided to stroll around the 8th Arrondissement before a scheduled lunch with her uncle at the hotel before their 1pm train.

It felt strange to be sightseeing when so much of her time in France had been spent working; either performing or creeping through back streets and meeting strangers. From here she could see the Eiffel Tower stretching into the sky, and when she crossed a road she looked up to see the Arc de Triomphe at the end of it. She could almost pretend she was a normal tourist, but then she spotted a roadblock of German trucks and a tank at the end of the road and her smile soured.

She turned left down a shopping street and tried to lose herself. The autumn air in Paris smelled like fresh cooking bread and engine exhaust, and despite the crowds on the street the atmosphere felt muted. Like a photograph that hadn't quite come out right in the darkroom. Alice huddled further into her coat.

The subdued quality to the air shattered when gunshots rang out.

Alice froze for a moment, instantly recognizing the loud cracks for what they were; she might not be a soldier, but she'd fired guns before out the back of the old church in Brooklyn. Never anything of this caliber though.

She unfroze when the crowd screamed. She ducked, staggered back, and then as the gunshots kept shattering the air the people on the street started running. Alice was forced to run with them down the paved street back the way she'd come, her elbows knocking against others and her pounding footsteps jarring her jaw as she ran. She saw a sign on the side of the street shatter as a bullet zinged through it. She ducked her head. She thought the gunshots were coming from behind, firing off every few seconds, but she wasn't sure what was going on. We're in the middle of Paris, she thought numbly as a man barged into her side and nearly knocked her over. This isn't meant to be what war is like.

"Saboteure!" shouted a man in German, followed by more shots. A woman next to Alice screamed.

A dark alleyway yawned open to her right and Alice shoved sideways into it. The crowd was panicking, running in any direction they could, and a few others darted into the alleyway along with Alice. They pelted down the street with their shoes slapping on the pavement.

Then Alice heard the loudest gunshot yet. It seemed to erupt from right behind her so she dove sideways, behind a metal trash can outside someone's back doorstep. Her shoulder banged against the wall as she scrambled for cover.

Alice hunched into a ball behind the trash can and gripped her knees, her heart pounding so loud against her ribs she thought it must be audible and her breaths coming short and sharp down her ragged throat. She heard screams and running footsteps in the direction of the main street.

After a few seconds of mind-numbing, paralyzing fear, Alice peeked around the side of the trash can. The crowd of people running down the street had thinned, and she caught a few flashes of terrified faces as they sprinted past.

"Saboteur Verbrecher!" [Saboteur criminal!] came another deep shout. A moment later a young man in overalls with a cap pulled low over his face dashed into view, glancing over his shoulder as he ran.

Crack.

She thought the man had tripped, but when he fell to the ground his head smacked against the pavement and bounced twice before falling still. His face was turned toward the alley. Alice saw his eyes go dead.

Alice felt as if ice had crept into her heart as she stared at the dead man lying on the street. She blinked, her eyes burning, and saw the scarlet glint of blood pooling around him.

A second later thudding footsteps approached and Alice caught a glimpse of a German soldier's uniform before she whipped back behind the trashcan.

"Du hast ihn," [You got him,] she heard a man's voice say, with a Berlin accent.

There was a pause, and Alice heard the sound of clothing rustling, a boot scraping pavement. "Französischer Bastard," [French bastard], came a second voice. "Es wird Tage dauern, bis der Panzer repariert ist." [It'll take days to fix the tank].

The roadblock, Alice realized. She heard more movement and shoved her fist into her mouth.

She crouched behind the trashcan for what felt like hours, listening to the German soldiers curse the dead man and drag his body away. When she couldn't hear them any longer she counted to one hundred, then crept away the alleyway. She didn't look over her shoulder, but she pictured the empty street with the cooling pool of blood on it all the same.

She emerged from the alleyway onto another street. It was empty. Heart in her mouth, she walked as fast as she could back through the now deathly quiet streets, past the Arc de Triomphe, back to the hotel.

"There you are," said her uncle when she appeared in the dining hall. He had pulled his pocketwatch out of his breast pocket and frowned at her when she arrived. "Hurry now, we'll miss our train if we don't eat quickly."

Alice followed him to the table silently. Her knees felt wobbly as she sat down across from him, and her hands shook when she reached to pick up her waterglass.

"Alice?"

She flinched and looked up at her uncle, who was still frowning at her. His deep-set eyes looked impatient.

"What's the matter?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Took a sip of water and opened it again. "Nothing," she breathed. "I'm fine."

"Hm." His eyes slid away from her and he picked up his menu.

Alice stared at her empty plate, her ears ringing, as her uncle called the waiter over and ordered for both of them. She was looking at white, spotless china, but all she saw was the blank, blue eyes of the young man lying in the street.

Excerpt from article 'La Marseillaise: History of a Song' by Henri Marcelle (2004)

Following the swift defeat of France in 1940, the Nazi powers quickly banned any French citizen from singing their national anthem (it had previously been banned by French rulers three times before). An understandable decision, given that the song is a seven-versed war cry, but this led to the secret singing of the anthem becoming a rallying call for the budding French resistance.

…

Verse 4:

' Tremblez, tyrans! et vous, perfides,  [Tremble, tyrants! And you, traitors,]
L'opprobre de tous les partis, [The disgrace of all groups,]
Tremblez! vos projets parricides [Tremble! Your parricidal plans]
Vont enfin recevoir leur prix. [Will finally pay the price.]
Tout est soldat pour vous combattre. [Everyone is a soldier to fight you.]
S'ils tombent, nos jeunes héros, [If they fall, our young heroes,]
La France en produit de nouveaux, [France will make more]
Contre vous tout prêts à se batter. [Ready to battle you.]

When the towncar from the train station dropped them at the house in Vienna, Alice rushed upstairs to put her trunk away, dressed, and rushed back down again.

She tried not to break into a run as she made her way to Jilí's apartment, her mind abuzz with la Victoire and the OCM and their interesting connections. She still wasn't sure whether or not to tell Jilí about the shooting she'd witnessed. She wanted to tell someone but it would only make Jilí worry more.

She climbed up the stairs of the narrow apartment building two at a time and tapped her fist against Jilí's door.

The door creaked open under her knuckles.

Alice's heart dropped so hard and so fast that she was sure it would bring her to her knees. She paused a moment to let out a shaky breath.

The gap in the doorway widened at a push from her fingertips, and Alice's chin trembled when she saw that the apartment within was dark. And cold. She paced in, holding her breath. Her footsteps creaked on the floor.

The apartment looked just like it had when she left: chairs pushed neatly against the bare table, the kitchen filled with the necessities for living. A glimpse of Jilí's cot in the tiny bedroom. The windows were still papered over.

Alice walked the perimeter of the room, her eyes on everything for some sort of sign. But there was nothing here – not even a bootprint or a scuff mark to give her some idea. Jilí's coat was gone. Cans of food rested on the table, ready to be packed.

After looking around for a few minutes, Alice went into Jilí's bedroom and pried up the loose floorboard under her cot. There, in the gap in the floor, rested Jilí's secret things: the drawing of her and Franz from Steve, some papers relating to their work (not much, they wrote down as little as possible as a rule), and some money. Untouched.

When Alice walked out of the apartment a minute later with Jilí's secret possessions in her coat pocket, her stomach churned. She knew what this meant.

She went straight to Jilí's cousin Vano's place. He lived in a loft apartment with seven other men, who all looked up when she opened the door without knocking.

Alice stood in the doorway, her heart pounding and her breath short, and her focus zeroed in on the dark-haired Vano. "Where is she," she said flatly.

Vano sat at the table, holding a pen over a single piece of paper. He looked up at Alice with big, distraught eyes, and Alice felt her heart turn to stone.

"I was just writing to you," he said softly. The entire apartment was silent, like the hush in a library or a graveyard. Alice felt seven pairs of eyes on her. "I didn't know when you were getting back. She's…" he swallowed. "No one's seen her since Wednesday."

It's Sunday. Alice grasped the side of the door jamb and let out a breath. "What's… where have you looked?"

A tear spilled down Vano's cheek. "Everywhere."

Alice spent the next week searching. Vano helped her, as did Hugo and their other friends. She asked everyone she could, everyone she could possibly think of. The last anyone saw of Jilí she was delivering food and clothes to the Steiners, who were hiding in the back room of an abandoned church. After that… no one knew anything. Alice warned the Steiners to be on their guard just in case.

She found out quickly that there'd been another round of deportations of Jews from Vienna, along with everyone else the Nazi's didn't like. Like the Romani people. She learned of other friends of hers who'd gone missing, but people had seen their arrests, they knew where they'd gone. Jilí was just… gone.

Alice visited families who wore yellow stars on their clothes and looked at her with fear in their eyes.

She walked the streets from one lead or idea to another, her face calm and her strides purposeful. She barely came home, and that was only to sleep. She walked the streets at night, alone more often than not. She went back to the alley where they'd found Franz almost three years ago.

The glimpses she caught of herself in darkened windows or puddles reminded her of the stories her mother used to tell her about the Druden, the nightmarish wraiths and witches who haunted the night and went screeching through the streets on the Wild Hunt. The only difference was that Alice was completely and utterly silent. Her screams stayed in her own mind.

On her sixth day of searching Alice went in her desperation to a man she knew in the police force and tried to coax him into telling her if anyone had been arrested lately. He responded eagerly to her flirting, but gave away nothing. She even asked her maid Julia if Jilí had come to the house for some reason. Julia just shook her head mutely.

Finally she found herself in the basement dwelling of Noah, a Jew who had fled from a train packed full of terrified people headed east two months ago by squeezing out of a tiny gap in the window as the train was going sixty miles an hour through Czechoslovakia. He'd broken both his legs, but eventually made his way to Austria and hid right in the heart of Vienna.

Alice had heard his story briefly when she first met him last month, while delivering food. He lived up to his story: he was rail-thin, with arms like sparrow bones and a prematurely grey beard concealing the lower half of his face. He had bright, suspicious eyes that gleamed out of his face.

As Alice explained why she'd come and who she was looking for, his eyes slowly turned compassionate. She recalled that he'd been a father, once.

"I know you made part of the journey," she said in a shaky voice. "Do you have any advice for how I can find her? Where to look? If… if she did end up on one of those trains."

She fell silent, twisting her fingers together.

Noah leaned over where he sat on a paint can and looked into her eyes. "Wherever Jilí is," he said frankly, "there is no saving her, Alice. She is dead."

Alice sat down hard, as if she'd had her strings cut, and a cry bubbled up her throat and escaped her lips before she could stop it. She doubled over and gripped her hair in her hands.

Noah didn't move from where he sat but he made a low, shushing sound as if trying to quiet a baby.

Alice stared into the darkness as she pressed her face to her knees and felt her whole body shake.

She is dead.

There was no way to know if Jilí was gone because of who she was – Romani, other – or because of what she and Alice had been doing. No way of knowing if Alice got her killed.

"Shh, shh," murmured Noah.

Noah had only gone part of the way on that train. And he was one of so many who'd vanished with no clear idea of the destination. Even Alice with all her whispers didn't know. But she knew it must be so much worse than here, and that terrified her.

Maybe Jilí hadn't even made it to a train.

Alice gripped her head on her hands and rocked herself where she sat on a creaking crate in a dusty basement, as a man who'd lost everything shushed her into silence.

Excerpt from article 'The Vanished' by Sarah Lille (1999)

Throughout history there are stories of people vanishing without a trace, leaving little sign as to their fate. Explorers who never came home, children who left nothing but their bike behind on the sidewalk, men and women who simply dropped out of their lives without a hint as to where they have gone. Sometimes whole civilizations and entire airplanes full of people simply disappear, no matter how hard we search for them. Lists of missing people grow by the hundreds each year.

To this day they live in a perpetual limbo of unknowing: not dead, not alive.

Just gone.

Alice didn't remember walking back home from Noah's basement. She remembered feeling cold, so cold that she shoved her fingers into her armpits for fear they'd fall off like she'd seen happen to some people in winter. But it was only September. Their first snow wouldn't fall for months.

She remembered opening the door to her uncle's house, shivering so hard her teeth chattered. She remembered a flustered Julia appearing before her and yanking her out of her coat.

"You've been gone all day!" Julia chided. "Herr Huber has been leaving notes for you since Tuesday, did you get any of them?"

"Notes?" Alice asked. Her lips felt numb.

"We're having a dinner party this evening, with some generals visiting from the Italian front and a man from Herr Goebbels' department…" Julia chattered on, hastening Alice out of her boots and upstairs, and Alice could only blink at her. "Let's get you dressed and ready, you've only got twenty minutes-"

Alice let Julia push her into her room and sit her down at the dresser. Alice's eyes fell to the second drawer, which had the false bottom with her letters from Steve and Jilí's possessions.

Dear Steve, she thought. Everyone around me dies. Yours, Alice.

Her heart did a strange flutter-jump-crash which brought a tear spilling from her eye. She looked up at herself in the mirror and stared at the wet trail down her cheek.

Julia came back from the wardrobe with her arms full of dresses, still talking, and Alice swiped away the tear.

You must hide.

The thought shimmered to the front of her mind like an illusion in a frozen desert. Alice drew in a hiccupping breath and stared back at her own wide, glittering eyes. You must hide every part of your true self from the world.

The thought felt like Jilí. It felt like her mother and her father, loving each other and hiding it away. It felt like Tom. It felt like Bucky, and Steve, and everyone else she loved and had ever loved.

The thought sounded like herself.

"Which dress for the dinner?" Julia asked, breaking into Alice's reverie. Alice carefully brushed tears out of her eyelashes and looked up at the two dresses her maid held up: a bright white frock with lacing, and a dark navy. I don't care.

"The navy," Alice said. She turned back to the mirror and waited for Julia to start fixing her hair.

Alice didn't pay any attention for the first twenty minutes of the dinner. Her uncle had invited eight men and two women, all of whom arrived in some form of uniform or expensive outfit. Alice smiled when spoken to and nodded when asked a question, but she couldn't bring herself to speak. The chandelier hanging over the dinner table was too bright, the clink of glasses and cutlery sounded like screaming in her ears.

Her whole body was rigid, her face felt tight. She could feel her uncle casting glances her way but she couldn't look at him.

As Julia and the manservant took away the salads, Alice looked up and finally registered the faces around her. Her shock ebbed as they all sipped white wine. When Julia brought out the main courses, Alice's shock faded away and she realized that all that was left under it was howling, ice-cold rage.

It took her by surprise and she spluttered as she took a sip of her wine. She waved off the concerned looks and the offer of a napkin. She set a hand to her chest, sure that the freezing anger cracking inside her would chill her fingers, but all she felt was her own heartbeat.

She looked up.

Eleven people sat around a finely-arranged dinner table with her, laughing at her uncle's joke. Alice stiffened in her seat.

She wanted to scream at them. She wanted to tear the medals off the generals' uniforms and smash their glasses over their heads. She wanted to throw her uncle through the double-glazed panes of his mansion windows.

She wanted to scream at these men for taking Jilí from her, for coming in with their hate and fear and tearing the world apart. How could they sit here and drink and smile?

But Alice didn't scream at them. She sat perfectly still and took small bites of her meal, smiling politely when her neighbor spoke. She looked around and took in the laughter, the faces, the uniforms.

And she thought: I will do everything in my power to bring you to your knees.

The thought straightened Alice's spine and turned her face into marble.

The Army general sitting across from her cleared his throat and looked at her. Alice met his gaze. "You look very pretty tonight, Fräulein Moser." He held up his wine glass.

Alice leaned over and clinked her glass against his. "Thank you." Her lips parted and she bared her teeth in a pretty, dazzling smile.

~ Sing to me of grief and pain,
I know them well,
I know their names. ~

Chapter Text

That night Alice got to work.

Once she'd undressed after dinner she pulled open the false bottom of her drawer and removed everything that could possibly get her caught: her letters from Steve, Bucky, and Tom, Jilí's things, and her jazz records. She put it all in a cardboard box and once she was sure everyone in the house was asleep, she went out to the garden and buried the box behind the rose bushes. It would be smarter to destroy it all, but that would mean something, and Alice wasn't' read to face that. Burying it all was just… saving it for later.

She crept back up to her room and tucked herself into bed, her mind full of plans.

As Kiev fell to the German Army, Alice changed the face of her small network in Vienna.

She began by rallying her 'friends': Jilí's cousin Vano, Hugo and the Swingjugend, and many other people she'd met since arriving in Austria six years ago. Some Jewish and Romani, many not. Many of them were like her; people who'd seen something of the world and knew that this is not how it was meant to be. Alice didn't know if she could trust any of them.

Alice continued working within their usual network, but she overlaid a system of security and secrecy over it all. Every communication and piece of information came through a code – she taught codes from her childhood to everyone in the network, as well as some she'd learned since and some she'd picked up from Vera in France.

She developed one-time-pad ciphers to be distributed out to the crucial members of the network, a new one every week, so they could write uncrackable messages to each other. She printed the pads as small as she could and urged her friends to hide them in plain sight: Hugo and his sister stitched theirs into handkerchiefs, Vano and his roommates etched them behind the dust covers of books. Others kept the keys on tiny scraps of paper or on the underside of children's toys. Alice made sure they understood the value of secrecy. With those keys they wrote unintelligible messages to be slipped into a letterbox or left under a flowerpot, for another 'friend' to find and decrypt with their own hidden key.

Alice taught her friends how to arrange dead drops for information, food, and other materials – no more hand-to-hand deliveries, she urged. She taught them everything she'd learned from Vera about secrecy and disruption.

She also taught a select few how to cannibalize a radio and attach a telegraph key to it so they could send out bursts of static to unused frequencies. They didn't use morse code – too obvious to a casual listener – but used the radio sparingly to indicate drop zones and times. A single beep at ten o'clock meant go to drop zone E, two bursts at three in the afternoon meant meet me at the café on Deckergasse. They agreed on pre-arranged meanings to coordinate times. If Alice was preparing a food drop she'd put out a single burst of static on a certain frequency when the drop was ready. It was a simple way of coordinating people and times, and anyone idly flicking through channels would merely hear a slight shift in the crackly static of radio waves.

In reality Alice only taught around twenty to thirty people herself. Once she was sure they understood she instructed them to spread their newfound skills to their contacts, so they could learn as a system. Ciphers and drop site arrangements spread through Vienna like a whisper.

Another rule of Alice's was that no one exchanged names anymore. Alice knew more names than anyone else in the network, but she still didn't know everyone – this scared her, especially since she couldn't vet everyone, but she knew it was necessary to keep people safe.

She set down her list of rules and made sure everyone knew that breaking them meant putting themselves and everyone else at risk: Don't tell anyone your name. Never write anything down, unless it's encrypted. Restrict your illegal contact to two people at most, if you can. Never walk directly anywhere. Destroy your one time pad as soon as you get the updated version.

Alice coordinated it all from her bedroom in her uncle's house and on her feet, walking the streets of Vienna. She left messages under bricks, slid them through unlocked windows, and dropped them in the eaves of rooftops, sometimes marking the drop with a small chalk V. She left brown hessian bags full of food or money in similar drops. She did it all with cold, certain precision. Now that Jilí was gone she did not have room for whispered confessions or self doubt. Only accuracy.

She saved what little warmth she had left for when she met with hungry children hidden in basements, or when her friends needed someone to hold them as they cried. Alice didn't shed a tear.

She began to know people by codenames. She knew Scharlachrot [Scarlet] worked at the post office, and helped people get letters past the censors. Scharlachrot had helped Alice redirect all the mail to Jilí's house to a post office box, and passed back information about new policies at the office. 82 was in the catholic church, and Alice suspected he was part of a larger network, but he had useful international contacts. 82 was reliable for hiding people. Eichhörnchen [Squirrel] had a Jewish family living in their basement. Alice was working on escape routes for them. Gerste [Barley] she suspected was actually a group of people; they lived just outside Salzburg, and they ran small acts of sabotage against the German army: slashing tires, pouring sugar into fuel supplies and ripping up train tracks. They chose their targets based on information that trickled through the network.

When Alice went to a performance in Salzburg there was a box full of money waiting for her from 154. Alice had never met 154. She took the money with her to the next town over for her next performance and left it for Y8, who was going to take it to a group of young people living underground.

It was all small acts of resistance. Alice didn't fool herself that they were in any way chipping away at Hitler's empire, but they were making a difference in people's lives: feeding them, hiding them, getting them out. And the information gathered was going somewhere. Alice knew that it wasn't sabotage that would bring down the Nazis - it would be information.

Of course it was still necessary for pockets of people to meet in secret to get things done. Alice met regularly with Vano (he was Schloss [Castle] to their friends), Hugo (Strauß [Ostrich]), and some other Austrian-based 'friends', though more often than not she dressed as 'Al'. To those who didn't know her she never revealed herself as the spider at the center of the web. If they asked, she said she knew the 'man in charge'.

Her name became (though she wasn't sure who first came up with it), Steinkauz, a kind of small owl that sometimes haunted the eaves of the older buildings in Vienna's outskirts. Whenever Alice heard the name it reminded her of the time she'd taped up a cut on Steve's forehead and asked 'You think I'm a bird of prey?' He'd looked up at her, his eyes wide, and swallowed. 'A little bit, yes.'

Alice didn't mind being called Steinkauz at all.

Three weeks after Jilí vanished, as Hugo and Alice sat on a bench overlooking the Wien river, Hugo suggested that they should name themselves like the Swingjugend had.

"There's a reason the Swingjugend were brought down," Alice murmured to him. "If we give ourselves a name, then they have a name for us. We already know that sergeant in the police force was sniffing around after the food shortages at the military canteen. He didn't find anything, thank god, but that's because there wasn't anything to find."

Hugo nodded slowly, his dark eyes on the river. "If we're nameless, we don't exist."

Alice eyed him, reflecting that though she'd met him as a boy, Hugo had become a man. He still looked much the same as always with his lanky limbs and dark curly hair, but he didn't traipse across the ground as if the world belonged to him anymore. He didn't laugh so freely. It made her cold, frozen heart ache. "If we're nameless," she murmured. "They can't find us."

For all her newfound commitment to secrecy, Alice could not stop writing to Steve and her brother. Her letters to her brother stayed as normal as ever: checking up on his schoolwork, talking to him about his friends, telling him the most sanitized version of her life that she could. On his thirteenth birthday at the start of November, she sent him a finely carved Viennese chess set since he'd mentioned he'd joined the chess club at school. Alice paid attention.

In her letters to Steve… she began to feel as if she were lying to him.

She told him nothing of what she'd been doing. She didn't even tell him that Jilí had disappeared. She had gone beyond the realm of even attempting to write anything important down, even in code. If just one censor or postman happened to see… it would put dozens of people in danger.

So Alice wrote to Steve about her performances, about how her uncle continued to frustrate her, about how she was afraid – but she didn't write specifics. In return Steve told her normal things about New York that gave her the sensation of rising through a layer of smog and dust and finally taking a breath of fresh air. Because no matter how insane her world became, there were still kids running down the streets of Brooklyn and jazz playing on the radio.

Steve knew that Alice was hiding things from him. She had been for a while, but since September something had changed. It felt like writing to a memory of an old friend who with every passing month drifted further and further away.

He understood. It was hard enough to send letters to the US at all, let alone write potentially dangerous things in them. As he worked his low-paying jobs and followed Bucky around the dance halls of Brooklyn, he wondered what Alice was doing. He wondered if she was safe. He wondered if one day a letter would never arrive, and he'd never know what happened.

Steve found himself waking up in cold sweats some nights. He'd had the same nightmare since he was small: he saw a rain-drenched trench in the mud. He moved in closer, rain in his eyes, and he'd see a man writhing there in the shadowed hole in the ground. He'd move closer and see his father, like in the portrait on the wall of the living room, but in the nightmare his father choked and scrabbled in a cloud of billowing gas until he fell still.

He still had the same nightmare, but sometimes the figure writhing in the poison gas turned into Alice: her eyes red with swollen veins and her lips a choked purple-blue. When she fell still the mud seeped across her pale blonde hair and over her wide, blank green eyes.

To escape the dreams that made his heart race dangerously Steve crept out of bed and out into the dawn light breaking over Brooklyn. He walked the streets until his breath grew slow again, wishing he was strong enough to run.

Alice stopped pushing back against her uncle when he suggested performances for Nazi generals and troops. She let him negotiate with Goebbels's propaganda department again. She also went with him to all the old parties – not with any specific plan in mind, but she'd had the old saying on her mind recently: keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Alice danced with Nazi officers and laughed at their jokes, and they were flattered at how she hung onto their every word.

Alice kept in touch with Vera Izard in Paris, learning new things to pass on and passing on information and advice in her turn. She had a wide range of contacts in other countries now, at least one in every occupied Axis country. Not all of them knew exactly what Alice got up to in her free time, but all of them were useful.

She had a small net in Vienna with spidery connections to other countries, gradually expanding. Alice sent out information and supplies, and like an echo information trickled back. M7 says the Gestapo are planning to raid Josefstadt. Alice and some others went to Josefstadt and warned everyone they could. Hours later the Gestapo tore through the district like druden on the Wild Hunt, to limited success. An officer in the Emigration Department is offering Jews voluntary emigration west instead of deportation to the East. Alice and the others quietly arranged for the Jews who wanted an immediate escape to find this officer. Milan and 34 say that the Italian diplomat to Germany will be visiting Vienna in two days time. Alice… didn't know what to do with that. She told Vera just in case her foreign connections might find it interesting.

Those from blue collar backgrounds brought back rumors about the new science installations in the Austrian mountains, and Alice sent out questions. She didn't learn much: the places were secretive, she knew that much, all anyone knew was that they were almost finished construction and were manned by soldiers in strange faceless uniforms. No one seemed to know exactly where they were, since laborers were driven up into the mountains in blacked-out trucks.

Alice quickly realized that the people like her in Austria wanted to get information to people who could do something with it, so inevitably it all made its way back to her, because she was the one at the root of this strange network. But Alice didn't know what to do.

She learned more and more information, some of which she could make use of in Vienna, but more which felt important elsewhere. She learned things of her own volition too. At parties and after performances, soldiers and generals and politicians told her things almost inadvertently. They weren't afraid of sharing with the dim, airy singer with pretty eyes. They had conversations amongst themselves that they thought no one else could hear.

She'd been eavesdropping on powerful men pretty much since she arrived in Europe, but Alice learned to fish.

She engaged with the generals and officers who wanted the chance to speak to Die Sirene, chatting with them and using every conversational skill she'd learned. She got them to speak about what was bothering them or causing them stress. She smiled and nodded and furrowed her eyebrows appropriately. She was surprised at how much they were willing to tell her.

Alice heard talk of troop movements, strategies, final solutions. Each time she learned something new she felt a chill down her spine. I don't know what to do with this information. It was too large, too much for her chain of whispers and secretive food drops. What could they do against nations?

She was pretty sure some people in the church had outside contacts, but she couldn't trust them. So she thought of the other countries she'd been to, and their outside connections. She knew the Allies had sent spies into France and Poland. But no one would be stupid enough to send a spy into Austria.

Alice pondered the problem as she spent her days going from glittering performance dresses to grimy clothes that concealed her true identity as she committed hundreds of small crimes. She thought of a story she'd heard about a French man who sneaked into England, spoke to General de Gaulle, and came back with resources and tricks and followed by Allied agents. She thought about the whispers she'd heard of Allied intelligence organisations set up to wreak havoc in Europe. Vera Izard had certainly hinted that she was in contact with some of those organisations.

By October Alice realized her network of friends would have to truly cross borders. So she spread her wings.

Alice began to travel again. Only this time, instead of sneaking out at night to wander the streets aimlessly, she had purpose. In France she met with Vera again.

Vera's eyes widened as Alice spoke to her, her voice a low murmur as they both sat in the darkened sitting room they'd first met in.

"You've been busier than you let on," Vera eventually said.

Alice merely shrugged. "I'm trusting you with this information, Vera, because I don't know what to do with it." She met Vera's almost violet dark eyes. "Do you?"

She knew the resistance in France was changing – it had even started to seep into the German news. They were training, acting: every now and then Alice would hear about an assassinated informer or official, or a sabotaged train. She had no way of knowing if Vera and the OCM had anything to do with that but she was willing to bet they were part of it.

Vera took a drag of her cigarette and eyed Alice with an assessing look. "Yes," she eventually said. "Yes, I do."

Alice began to funnel information out of Austria. Whenever she or someone she trusted went travelling they'd bring their information with them, and sometimes she entrusted it to letters. She didn't just go through France; she performed in neutral Switzerland, Axis Italy, occupied Poland. Wherever she went she talked to the important people as the Siren. But then she sneaked out in disguise and found the other important people. At first, it had been about curiosity: a sick hope that she wasn't alone. But it had become more than that.

As the game of trust and suspicion played out, her new contacts were rightly suspicious of the slight young man telling them information he had no right to know. But when they found out the value of her words (in Poland she warned them of a new general who intended to arrive in Warsaw next week, to crack down on resistance in the ghetto), they began to trust the Steinkauz. Alice learned from them in turn: how to hide, how to fight back.

Each time she returned to Vienna she found that the network had grown just that little bit stronger, had learned to grow without her. It scared her sometimes. But she supposed every parent was surprised by their child's growth.

Excerpt from German Propaganda Department memorandum 'Progress Report - Vienna', October 20 1941 [translated]

Excitement for the progress of the war is at an all-time high thanks to our efforts, though the Gestapo have reported incidences of vandalism, theft, and fugitives disappearing, likely abetted by accomplices. There are many criminals at large. The glorious Reich has enemies even in the heart of Vienna, it seems. But public expressions against the Reich have declined.  Sergeant Wilhelm believes that there is little resistance to worry about, and our propaganda will turn any loyal Austrian against traitors.

If our budget is increased in the next month, we expect to be able to inspire further love and fervor for victory in the hearts of Austrians through film, advertisements, and music...

...

...additionally, HYDRA failed to communicate with our Department before undertaking activities in the country, for which reason we will be filing a formal complaint...

Around November, Alice realized that this wasn't enough. She was helping people and funneling information and people out of the country, learning more and more as she ingratiated herself with the people her uncle loved to seek out, but she still had no idea where her information was going. She trusted Vera, more or less, but her contacts in other countries were murkier.

Alice was good at finding information. But all she had was a one-way line with who-knew-what at the end of it. Alice didn't know what those faceless generals across the sea needed. She needed to do something more.

When she wrote to Vera about it, using not a one-time-pad but a code they'd set up so it only appeared they were talking about a mutual sick friend, Vera's reply was short.

I'll think about it.

Alice, frustrated with Vera's obfuscation and reticence, enjoyed burning that letter.

On the first Sunday of December, Alice sat massaging her feet by the fire at her uncle's house after a long day of chasing down a rumor about a young Jewish boy living on the streets in an effort to avoid the Gestapo. She'd found the boy stealing scraps from the bins out the back of the Schönbrunn zoo after hours of searching as 'Al'. The boy had cheeks so gaunt he looked like a ghost, and a filthy yellow star on his coat. He hadn't trusted her, but she'd managed to find her friend Liesl, whose father had been a rabbi when he was still alive, who convinced the boy to come home with her. Tomorrow Alice intended to set about getting the boy papers.

She glanced out the window at the darkening sky. She was glad the boy was inside.

With a crackle, the crooning operetta on the radio cut out. Alice glanced up with a frown. The radio tubes had been replaced a week ago, perhaps the technician had misaligned something? But then the staticky silence was replaced by a crisp voice:

"Apologies for the interruption to our regular programming," said the German newsreader, "Word has just come in that the Empire of Japan has carried out a surprise disabling attack against the United States Pacific Fleet in Hawaii."

Alice's foot dropped to the floor with a clunk.

"…in two waves, hundreds of Japanese aircraft bombed and torpedoed the American fleet at 7:48AM GST. Early reports indicate that four U.S. battleships have been sunk as well as many other naval craft, and casualties are in the hundreds…"

Alice didn't realize that her mouth had fallen open until a new voice spoke behind her:

"This is wonderful."

Her mouth snapped shut and she glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. It was her uncle, of course; he stood in his pajamas and dressing gown with a cigarette in his mouth and a gleam in his eyes. He came over and set a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't you see, Alice? Our allies have crippled the Americans in one stroke and may finally coax the cowards into an honest fight. They've been feigning neutrality so long." He took a long drag from his cigarette and curled his fingers away from Alice. She shifted in her seat. "This is the birth of the true German Reich. Finally."

Alice's shoulder burned where he'd touched her. Her head swiveled numbly back to the radio.

"… Japanese diplomats are yet to deliver a formal declaration of war to the United States, though it is certain this will cause the entry of that country into the glorious war-"

Alice stood up abruptly and strode out of the room.

"Where are you going?" her uncle called with a bite in his voice. "I'm calling for our friends, let's celebrate!"

She ignored him.

As soon as her bedroom door shut behind her, Alice sat down at her dresser table, tore a few sheets of paper from her drawer and began to write.

Excerpt from 'Pearl Harbor and the American Plunge into World War II' by Harry Toach (1998), p44

The attack on Pearl Harbor took the German commanders by surprise, as it did the rest of the world. But four days after Pearl Harbor and the outbreak of hostilities between the US and Japan, Germany declared war on the Americans. This wasn't necessary, as through their alliance with Japan they were already technically at war, but Hitler had actually been eager to begin making war on the United States. This may seem strange given the American military force and the fact that Germany was already viciously battling on the Eastern Front, but America had been in Hitler's sights since before the war broke out - since, some might argue, since the very end of World War I.

Hitler was eager to declare war on the Americans before they declared war on Germany, as one of his ministers explained: "A great power does not allow itself to be declared war upon; it declares war on others."

Whatever Hitler's reasons, the formal German declaration against the United States was a great relief to the British Prime Minister Churchill, who had been concerned that America would turn its forces only toward the Pacific, and not to Europe. But war had been declared, and so the Americans would come to Europe. Consequently, the entire face of the war changed in a day.

Three weeks later, Steve hurried up the stairs to his apartment, fumbled his keys until he opened the door, and fell inside in a tangle of coat, scarf, and bag. He shrugged out of all of it and went straight to his table where the letter opener rested. His cheeks were burning from the cold outside and his fingers clutched a thick envelope with a Lisbon return address.

He'd just slit open the newly arrived envelope when he heard a thudding knock at the door.

Alice's letter slid out onto the table. Another knock.

Steve glanced from what he could see of Alice's flowing handwriting, to the door, and back again. With a sigh he turned away and went to the door.

He yanked it open to Bucky's flustered face and mussed hair.

"Buck," he said in surprise, "I thought you were already gone."

"My train's in an hour, pal, don't be so keen to get rid of me." Bucky brushed his hair back into place. "Did you get a letter from Alice?"

Steve blinked. "Yeah, just got home and found it in the mail. I'm reading it now."

Bucky slid his hand into his pocket, retrieved a folded piece of paper and waved it at him. "Well if yours is anything like mine…" he blew out a breath. "She's not messing around."

Steve's eyebrows rose and without another word he waved Bucky in. Bucky traipsed in after him, cocking an eyebrow at the pile of coat-scarf-bag in the entryway, then flung himself into a chair at the table.

"Hurry up and read," he urged.

"I'm reading, I'm reading." Steve swiped up Alice's letter.

December 7, 1941
Vienna
Dear Steve,

Just heard the news about the attack on Hawaii. It's early hours yet but no one's pretending that the US won't enter the war now. And if they go to war against Japan, they go to war against Germany.

I know you're going to try to enlist.

I don't know how quickly things are moving, but before you go anywhere I want to make sure you understand some things if you get sent to Europe. Some of it will apply if you get a Pacific posting.

Keep your head down.  Literally and metaphorically. If you're captured, don't fight them or mouth off. They won't hesitate to kill you. Train your hardest so you have the skills you need once you get here. Be near a gas mask, always. Geneva might have banned chemical weapons but the rules mean nothing here.

The German Army doesn't rely entirely on carefully planning out an attack beforehand – they adjust, adapt, and are therefore ready for anything. You need to be ready for anything too. Don't underestimate them.

If you get stranded without your company, take off your uniform. They don't think twice about shooting at uniforms, and I've heard too many soldiers brag about picking off lost soldiers.

I'm sure you've heard of the term 'blitzkrieg' by now. It means 'lightning war'. They'll come at you with everything they have – infantry, tanks, Luftwaffe – in a lightning-fast blow that drives you back so fast it'll send you reeling. Be ready for this. As far as I can see, the best defense is to not be  where they think you are.

They're investing in science and technology for this war. Don't assume you know what kind of weapons you'll be facing, because it might be nothing the world has ever seen before.

The Germans fight a battle of annihilation, which means they seek victory by totally eliminating the opposing army. That means you. Don't expect mercy.

Keep your equipment clean and functional. Take care of that before you eat, even. It'll keep you alive longer than food will.

Never trust the locals completely, wherever you are. There are local informants in every country and they won't hesitate to sell you out for a loaf of bread or a bit of safety for their family.

Learn German.  If you don't remember what you learned from me, pick up a phrasebook. Learning how to say 'don't shoot' may save your life.

(nicht schießen)

If you end up on the front, wherever they send you… tell everyone you can to get out. I mean the people who live there. Staying where they are is not sustainable, especially if they're Jewish. Tell them to get as far as they can.

I'm writing all this in a panic in my room, I'm sure there's lots more advice I could give you but for the life of me this is all I can think of right now. I…

I wish this was a letter convincing you not to enlist. I wish I could do that. When we were growing up I wanted nothing more than for you to become a soldier like your dad. I wished I could be one too, most days. But I've grown up, Steve, and I've seen what war is like. I don't want you anywhere near this.

And at the same time, I know this is a war that must be fought. I think I'm relieved that the US will be joining. What does that make me? I'm relieved that soldiers from America are going to come here to fight the Nazis, and inevitably die for the cause. Because it means we might have a chance. But then I see your face and Bucky's in those uniforms. I see Finn Neri's face, and our teachers from school, and maybe even Tom's if this war stretches on much longer.

I shouldn't be writing any of this down.

I have to go. Please, Steve, stay safe. Stay smart . For me.

Yours,
Alice.

Steve let out a long breath as he finished the letter and put it back on the table. He sank into the seat across from Bucky.

The moment Alice had heard about Pearl Harbor, her first thought had been of him. Steve's first thought had been of her. He'd been at an art class at Times Square with Bucky, and the news had rippled through the room like an earthquake. The teacher had said we're going to war, then, and Steve had pictured faceless GIs marching into Vienna. His stomach twisted.

"From the look on your face," Bucky said, "I assume your letter was pretty much like mine. I suppose... I guess it's better to know than not?"

Steve looked up at his friend's face and saw the worry there. "What're you gonna write back?"

Bucky shrugged. "I guess I'll tell her I enlisted."

Bucky and Steve had gone to the same enlistment center. Bucky had been given a pat on the shoulder and the details of his training, including a train ticket. The train he was due to get on in… fifty minutes now.

Steve had gotten a pitying look and a red stamped 4F on his form.

Steve ran a finger over Alice's words. I wanted nothing more than for you to become a soldier like your dad. His jaw tightened and he pushed down the twist of jealousy he felt toward Bucky. Guess you don't have to worry, Alice.

He took a deep breath and looked up at Bucky again, who was off in his thoughts.

"And," Bucky continued, "I'm gonna tell her I'll take her advice." He ran a hand through his hair. "Seems like she knows what she's talking about."

"It sure does," Steve murmured. He had an unsettled, disturbed feeling in his stomach. Tell everyone you can to get out. Tell them to get as far as they can. She'd been keeping things from him.

Steve shook himself and set down the letter. "C'mon, private," he said in a lighter tone. "Let's go get your stuff, and I'll walk 'ya to the train station. Gotta see you leave Brooklyn myself or I won't believe it."

"Place won't be the same without me," Bucky said with a dramatic sigh as he stood up.

"It won't," Steve agreed. "Peace and quiet, at last."

They tumbled out the front door with Steve's head locked under Bucky's arm, tussling back and forth until Steve's elderly neighbor stuck her head out the door and snapped "Cut it out, boys, you're old enough to know better!"

They meekly ducked their heads and made their way downstairs.

Alice and her uncle did not get along. They never had. But over the six years that she had been living with him, Alice had gotten to know him very well. So she knew that if she dropped precisely two hints that she was concerned about travelling abroad because of resistance activity, and left his newspaper open one morning to an article about the assassination of a Nazi collaborator in Poland, that he would invite one of his officer friends in the SS over for tea.

When the morning of the visit came, Alice sat in her housedress in the sitting room with her uncle and the SS-Oberführer [Senior Leader] for Vienna, her fingers gentle on her teacup and her expression bored. For a few minutes the men talked about things that Alice genuinely didn't care about: sport, the likelihood of a good fishing season this coming spring. They laughed together about how their bodies seemed to be falling apart now they'd hit fifty.

Finally though, Alice's uncle leaned back and said "Friedrich… I am a little concerned about how safe it is to travel these days."

The chestnut-haired SS officer cocked his head. "What do you mean? You're worried about the Allied planes?"

"Not so much, I mean the resistance in countries like France and Poland. It seems as the war progresses they are only getting more dangerous." Her uncle leaned back and stroked his jaw. "We travel often, you know."

Friedrich waved a hand. "You needn't worry about them anymore, we're taking stricter measures."

"Such as?" asked her uncle with a frown. Alice almost felt grateful to him for anticipating the questions she most wanted to ask.

Friedrich leaned forward. "It's called the Night and Fog decree – no more wasting time and lives on drawn out trials and hostage-taking to quash the terrorist groups. We can imprison them without the mess of judicial proceedings." He gave her uncle a reassuring smile. "As of this month, anyone who endangers German security will just" – he snapped a finger – "disappear."

Alice's uncle let out a heavy sigh. "Well. That is a relief." He looked over. "You hear that, Alice? We'll be safe to travel after all."

Alice had been carefully perusing a magazine on the coffee table, but when her uncle called her name she looked up with an absent smile. "Oh? That's excellent news." She turned back to the magazine as the two men began discussing the new rationing in Venice. Neither of them noticed her fingers shake as she reached out to turn the page.

Alice did not tell the news to everyone she saw, as she longed to do, but let the information slip out into the network like an oil slick spreading over water.

Arrest is no longer on the line. Anyone involved in any form of resistance – smuggling, deceit, fugitive activities – will be killed. No trial or jury. You will disappear into the night and the fog. If you want to get out now, get out. No one will judge you.

Alice lost a dispatcher or two, but it seemed most people knew the consequences already. For herself, Alice allowed herself a moment of fear: she had no illusions that her status would give her safety if the SS found out what she'd been up to. She wondered how she'd feel if the chains closed over her wrists. She wondered what she would think if she found herself on one of those crowded, fear-soaked trains bound east.

It'd be worth it.

Alice shook off her fear for herself and got back to work. Hugo's sister Marie was visiting Paris midway through the month, so Alice instructed her to pass on the information about the Night and Fog decree to Vera, as she suspected the decree was specifically directed at the French resistance.

Four days before Christmas, the German newspapers crowed over a victory: Jacques Arthuys, a Great War veteran, had been arrested in Paris on suspicion of being a resistance organizer. Alice saw the headline and set it down with a sour taste in her mouth, but thought nothing more of it until Marie returned from Paris with wide eyes and a hushed tone to her voice.

"Arthuys was the head of the OCM," she told Alice as the two of them met in the back of a darkened cinema. Alice stiffened in her seat but didn't face Marie directly. "The Gestapo had their eye on him for a while but they finally snapped him up. You were right, Alice – he's not going to have a trial. No one's heard of him since he was arrested."

Alice watched the black-and-white drama on screen unfold. "And the OCM?" she murmured.

"They have a new leader already. I heard he used to be a Colonel in the army."

"Don't tell me anything else about him," Alice warned. Though she was glad to hear it; with army connections, the new OCM head likely had connections with the Free French in Britain. "Are we safe? What did Arthuys know about us?" She was sure he was a very trustworthy man, but she trusted no man under torture.

Marie shook her head. "Vera said he was hiding in the provinces when she met you, and she never told him anything specific when he came back. She says we're fine." Marie glanced sideways. "She did say she wanted to talk to you again, though. Gave me this for you-" Marie leaned forward and with a mutter of discomfort pulled a small letter out from where she'd tucked it down the back of her skirt.

Alice took the letter with a wry look and cast a quick glance over it. In code – she'd expected no less. "Thank you." She leaned back in her seat and propped her chin in her hand. "I s'pose we'd better see the rest of this movie, then."

Marie laughed in the darkness. "It's not very good."

It was some propaganda flick about a Germanic hero on the front. Right now he was valiantly fighting a cowering US Army GI. "No," Alice sighed. "No, it isn't."

Excerpt from 'Night and Fog Decree', the Holocaust Encyclopedia

The "Night and Fog" decree was directed against persons in occupied territories engaging in activities intended to undermine the security of German troops. They were, upon capture, to be brought to Germany "by night and fog" for trial by special courts. This circumvented military procedure and various conventions governing the treatment of prisoners.

...

After capture, interrogation, and, frequently, torture, Night and Fog prisoners might face special courts (Sondergerichte) which handed down death and prison sentences. After acquittal or the termination of the sentence, German authorities often transferred these prisoners directly to concentration camps, typically to Gross-Rosen and Natzweiler-Struthof concentration camps. Once registered in the concentration camp, "Nacht und Nebel" ("Night and Fog") prisoners wore uniform jackets marked with the acronym "N.N." to explicitly identify their status. The death rate among "N.N" prisoners was very high.

Christmas Day, 1941

Alice used to be the first to wake up on Christmas mornings when she'd lived in Brooklyn. She liked to creep through the house to the small pile of presents that had appeared in front of the rickety old heater overnight, and shake her own present to figure out what it was before anyone else woke up.

She'd lost her excitement for the day after coming to Austria.

So she didn't wake up of her own accord in the silence before the sun peeked over the horizon. Instead, she woke up to the shrill terror of Julia's scream.

Alice's eyes snapped open as the maid's scream curdled into silence, followed by thundering footsteps. She looked up at the canopy of her bed and thought: they've found me.

She closed her eyes, fighting back a bitter well of tears. If I'd only had more time, she thought, I could have escaped. Fled out of Austria just like I've helped others do. Her fists clenched in the sheets. She wished she could apologize to Steve, Bucky, and her brother somehow.

But when her door burst open it wasn't a heavy-booted SS soldier. Only Julia, her stricken face glistening with tears. Her chest heaved.

Alice slowly sat up.

"Fräulein," Julia breathed. Her brows furrowed as she looked at Alice's sleep-mussed face.

"What is it, Julia?" Alice climbed out of bed and padded over to her distraught maid. She set a hand on her shoulder.

"Fräulein, I'm so… so sorry." She shook her head and began weeping again. Alice frowned. "Your uncle… he's… passed on."

Alice's hand on Julia's shoulder went rigid.

Julia put her face in her hands and began to weep in earnest. "I'm so sorry," she kept crying between gasps. After a few moments Alice blinked, and looked out the open door to see the house manservant on the telephone.

"Need a doctor," she saw him mouth, "… death overnight… the body's cold."

Alice blinked once more, and suddenly there were tears rolling down her cheeks. Julia had taken that moment to peek between her hands, and at the sight she looped her arms around her mistress and pulled her into a hug. Alice let herself cry, and be held.

But it wasn't grief that she felt.

~ Death visits ~

Alice barely had a moment to think the rest of the day and the next, too busy with morgue forms and funeral arrangements and visitors offering their condolences.

"The poor dear," she heard an acquaintance of her uncle's at the production company whisper to her husband as they left the house. "She's in shock."

Alice sat down with her uncle's lawyers and stared numbly at financial documents. She'd become independently wealthy of her uncle since becoming the Siren, but surprise stirred in her chest when she saw that he'd left pretty much everything to her: the house, his cars, his money. She supposed he didn't have anyone else.

Alice didn't sleep that night. Some housewives in the area had taken it upon themselves to cook her Christmas dinner and stayed with her long into the evening, plying her with cups of tea and wine. Alice cried some more, because it felt rude not to, and the women fussed and dabbed at her eyes with handkerchiefs. When they finally left Alice didn't return to her cold, unmade bed. She paced the empty rooms of her uncle's house and peered out the dark windows into the night. She finally came to settle in the armchair by the fire in the dining room, her uncle's chair. She sat in the middle of all his gathered splendor with her hands folded in her lap and her eyes dry, waiting for the sun to rise.

The next day the bustle of arrangements continued. Mid-afternoon, once the funeral director had left, leaving Alice blessedly alone, she let out a sigh and went to turn on the radio for a moment, rubbing her scratchy eyes.

With a furtive glance around, even though she knew all the servants were out for the day, Alice tuned in to one of the long-range British channels she knew of. She couldn't stomach the harsh German propaganda today. She wanted the comforting sounds of English.

When the crackly static resolved itself into the smooth voice of a British radio presenter Alice closed her eyes and smiled, even before she understood the words.

"… seems the leaders of the two nations spent Christmas together reviewing strategy for the war, and earlier this afternoon Churchill gave a rousing address to Congress."

"What?" Alice said in the emptiness of the house. She turned up the radio volume.

"Just after noon in the U.S. Capitol, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill attended the joint Congress gathering, after almost a week spent in the country coordinating military strategy. We will now play his address in whole."

Alice gripped the mantelpiece of the fireplace with wide eyes. A moment later, her eyes widened further when the distinctive crisp voice of none other than Winston Churchill spoke into her uncle's – her – living room. For the first half of the speech Alice listened dumbly, trying to understand why she felt so overwhelmed at the idea of the British Prime Minister speaking in the nation's capital. Churchill spoke of his gratitude to the U.S., his love of democracy, his admiration of the American spirit, his thoughts on the war.

"For the best part of twenty years," Churchill said as Alice clutched her mantelpiece, "the youth of Britain and America have been taught that war was evil, which is true, and that it would never come again, which has been proved false. For the best part of twenty years the youth of Germany, of Japan and Italy, have been taught that aggressive war is the noblest duty of the citizen and that it should be begun as soon as the necessary weapons and organizations have been made."

Alice clenched her jaw and listened to the British Prime Minister lay out the facts of the war and the offensives they had undertaken in Europe, Africa, and the Pacific. Hearing it laid out on such a global scale made her heart pound.

"The United States, united as never before, has drawn the sword for freedom and cast away the scabbard. All these tremendous facts have led the subjugated peoples of Europe to lift up their heads again in hope. They have put aside forever the shameful temptation of resigning themselves to the conqueror's will. Hope has returned to the hearts of scores of millions of men and women, and with that hope there burns the flame of anger against the brutal, corrupt invader."

Alice's scalp tingled almost painfully, a thrill that shot down her spine and made her body prickle like she'd been electrified. Her heartbeat roared in her ears.

"If you will allow me to use other language," Churchill said in the tone of a man coming to the end of his point, "I will say that he must indeed have a blind soul who cannot see that some great purpose and design is being worked out here below of which we have the honor to be faithful servants. It is not given to us to peer into the mysteries of the future. Still, I avow my hope and faith, sure and inviolate, that in the days to come the British and American peoples will, for their own safety and for the good of all, walk together in majesty, in justice and in peace."

Tinny, uproarious applause flooded into Alice's living room, and she turned off the radio with a shiver. Her whole body was shaking, as if she'd been the one speaking to Congress instead of Churchill.

She'd heard words like his since the war began a year ago. But something about hearing those words, today, straight from the U.S., had sparked something deep in her chest. Up until now the war had just been what she saw of it. But Churchill's words had made it clear that there was a whole world bleeding from this.

And she was right here, arranging her uncle's funeral, not doing anything to stop it.

A knock echoed into the living room from the front door. Alice sniffed, wiped her eyes even though they were dry, and after a moment to take a deep breath she went to let in the latest flood of commiserating guests.

Throughout all of it, in the back of her mind she pondered the letter Marie had brought her back from Vera. She'd decoded it right away and then burned it, but was yet to compose a reply. When she lay awake at night, staring at the underside of her bed's canopy, she recalled what Vera had written and her heart pounded.

They buried her uncle on New Years Day. The church was packed despite the holiday season, with officials from every branch of government, the top strata of the Austrian and German music industry, social elites, and a smattering of distant family members. Alice sat alone on the front row and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief as each speaker spoke of her uncle's dedication to music, his support of the national cause, his passion and moral steadfastness.

When they walked outside to the pre-dug hole in the ground, Alice was reminded of her mother's funeral. It had been a wintry, snowy day like this one. There hadn't been so many people at her mom's funeral.

Alice stood and watched as the men lowered her uncle's coffin into the hole in the ground. She stepped forward, took a spade, and cast down the first shower of cold dirt, then stepped back to let everyone else finish the job. She stood by and watched as the dirt gradually swallowed him up.

His gravestone read: Josef Huber. Beloved pioneer. Alice stared at the words so hard that her eyes burned and teared up.

She kept staring, standing silently in her long dark coat, until one by one everyone who'd come to the funeral walked back to the church. It was too cold outside to pay respects for too long. Even the priest wandered back inside after a sad smile to Alice.

Alone with the grave, Alice let out a breath of vapor and watched it rise into the crisp, clear air and vanish. She looked back down at her uncle's headstone.

"It was this," she said to the empty air, "Or I would have killed you, uncle."

The words felt as sharp as a knife. Alice lifted her chin. "I would have." She stared at the ground, wishing she could look into her uncle's indifferent dark eyes. "Not because you despised my mother, or because you tore me away from my only remaining family in the world, or because you made my life here a living nightmare. Not even because you're a coward willing to step on the weak to make yourself strong."

She took in a deep breath that seared her lungs. "I'd have killed you because you were getting in my way."

With that, she turned and walked back toward the church. She knew she'd never return.

Alice returned home to hear that nearly thirty Allied nations had signed an alliance called the Declaration of the United Nations. Alice felt a thrill down the back of her neck at the news – there was a united front now.

Alice finally knew how to respond to Vera's letter.

Her first move as an heiress was to fire her uncle's household servants. She felt guilty for putting them out of work, but she couldn't have them watching her any longer. Julia didn't seem all that surprised, and even offered Alice a parting hug. Alice wondered what Julia would do if she knew what Alice had been up to all these years. They'd never liked each other, but Julia had always looked at Alice with… not quite fear, or respect, but something bordering on both.

Alice's second move as an heiress was to reinforce her uncle's connections in the music industry and the government. There was once a time when she couldn't wait to be rid of them all, but now she invited them for tea and commiserated with them over the loss of her uncle, drawing them closer.

Instead of listening to and passing on rumors, Alice put out a rumor of her own: she was deep in grief over her uncle's sudden death. His loss had shaken her to her core. She was considering taking a hiatus from society to heal. Her contacts in the music industry weren't happy, neither was Goebbels's propaganda department, but everyone seemed to understand.

At the same time Alice put out feelers in her network. Not for specific information, but to check that it worked. To see how much it had grown. She spent two days with Hugo, giving him instructions and warnings. At the end of the two days she was certain that the network had grown strong enough to survive without her, at least for a time. It was a strange feeling: for months she'd felt like she'd been carrying this strange, secret responsibility on her back like a tortoise shell – a burden and a shield. But it carried itself now. Others ran food drops, passed information to contacts in attics and on trains to France and Poland, fed false rumors to police. Hugo started putting out codes of his own.

One morning before the sun had risen over the stretching buildings of Vienna, Alice walked out of her uncle's house with a trunk in her hand and a heavy coat on her shoulders. She started up the only car of her uncle's she hadn't sold and drove out of the city. In Linz she parked the car at a friend's house and got on a train bound west.

She left behind her friends and the people under her protection. It made her heart stutter, but she knew they would be able to continue on without her, at least for a short while.

Vera looked surprised when Alice appeared at her doorway in Paris that afternoon, though the surprise only lasted for a moment. They sat down together for three hours, discussing plans and paperwork and contacts.

"Are you sure about this?" Vera asked when she stood up to leave.

Alice met her eyes and nodded. "I'm sure. We need this."

Vera ran a hand through her thick dark hair and sighed. "I don't disagree with you. But this will put you in much more danger, Moser. I hope you realize that."

Alice laced her fingers together. "Even if this ends up with the Germans spreading across the globe, and with me in some camp in the east starving to death…" her hard eyes flickered for a moment, and Vera sighed. "I'd want to know, even then, that I did everything I could. Because if I didn't, then I'm no better than the people who put up a Nazi flag out the front of their house and salute when the Führer marches past."

Vera bowed her head. "I'll gladly join you in that camp then, Moser." She looked up with steely eyes. "Get yourself ready. You'll have to leave soon."

The next night at midnight, Alice sat on the back of a tiny wooden rowing boat as two rough-jawed men rowed it out to sea across the dark water. Her travel trunk was tucked under her legs. Alice could just see the beach of the unnamed French coastal town she'd left behind as Vera, alone on the moonlit sand, raised a hand.

Freezing wind blew off the dark water and made Alice shiver. Vera was swallowed up by the night.

Ten minutes later the rowing boat thunked against the side of a larger ferry. Pale faces glanced down at Alice as she shakily climbed the rope ladder on the side.

"Welcome aboard, young man," said a man whose cap and body language identified him as the captain. He spoke English with a Scottish accent.

Alice tipped her own cap, careful not to dislodge her hair. "I appreciate you having me." She was careful to add a low French lilt to her accent.

"Your bunk's below deck, settle in and we'll be off in no time. Got to get out of these waters, we know where the mines are but it ain't safe to hang around."

Alice inclined her head, but didn't head below deck. As the sailors quietly hoisted up the rowboat and set the engine to its lowest setting to set away from the French coast, she walked to the front of the ship.

The ship pressed west, away from the battle-torn shores of Europe and away from everything Alice had known for the last six years. Her trunk felt heavy in her hands.

She looked out into the waiting darkness and felt the wind whisper against her face.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from article 'Music in Wartime: stories from ten remarkable lives,' by Holly Blackwood, 1989

The Siren dropped out of public life following her uncle's death at the end of 1941. There is a sharp drop in reports about her in the Austrian and German papers, save for discussions of her pre-existing music and in memorials for Josef Huber.

At the time, and in consequent analyses of her life, some theorized a descent into substance abuse (reports vary between alcohol and opiates) that led to her being institutionalized at a medical center in the Austrian or French countryside. One reporter claimed, in full confidence, to have seen the Siren singing at a tavern of low repute outside Linz.

The general consensus at the time seems to have been that the singer had become a recluse. This wasn't uncommon mid-war, with many artists disappearing from the public eye due to a myriad of circumstances. The Siren would have been just another casualty in an unfortunate series of musical talent fading away.

Many likely expected her to never return.

January, 1942

The pier at the New York Passenger Terminal smelled just the way Alice remembered it: sea salt, engine fumes, and rotting garbage. The smell made her smile.

She remembered visiting this place while it was under construction, when Bucky had been working labor. A couple of times she and Steve had caught the train out here with a packed box of food for Bucky, and the three of them had sat on the seawall overlooking the harbor, admiring the reflection of New York City in the Hudson and wrinkling their noses at the wafting smells from the water.

Seven years later, Alice stood alone at the pier and stared up at the glinting towers of Manhattan. She turned slowly, her trunk in her hands, until she spied the Brooklyn Bridge reaching over the East River. Brooklyn was a dim and distant haze across the water, with the bustling Navy Yard a hazy flurry of activity.

Alice took in a deep breath. This wasn't how she'd imagined coming back. She'd dreamed this moment so many times: she'd step off the passenger ship and look up to see three beaming figures before her: Tom, Bucky, and Steve.

She looked down the pier but it was already emptying out, her fellow passengers keen to get into the city and away from the docks. No one waited for Alice.

"There a problem, miss?"

Alice glanced over her shoulder to see one of the dock workers looking over at her as he coiled a thick slimy rope around a bollard. His brow quirked.

"No," Alice said in a New York accent. She hoisted her trunk and shot the man a thin smile. "Everything's fine."

She lifted her chin and strode down the pier and into New York City.

It turned out that Vera had agreed with Alice when she said she needed to do more than just funnel information down a murky one-way line. Vera had been reaching out to contacts for a few months, unknown to Alice, and just before Christmas had received a message in reply.

One of the OCM's contacts across the ocean had responded with some interest on behalf of an organization called the 'SSR'. Alice didn't know anything about the organization beyond their acronym, and that they had offered (through Vera) to meet with Alice (who'd only been referred to as 'an interested party from Austria') to discuss 'cooperation'. Alice had packed up her things and gotten on board an illicit ferry across the Atlantic on the basis of these vague communications, banking everything on a hope.

She could have gone to the British; she knew of the British Special Operations Executive, who had sent agents into France, but there was something in her that called to the mysterious offer from New York. If only to see the city once more.

No one aside from Vera and the mystery organization in New York knew where Alice had gone. No one back in Austria knew anything apart from the fact that she was 'taking personal time to grieve', and all Hugo knew was that she was chasing down an idea and that she'd return soon. All her network knew was that the Steinkauz had gone silent.

Alice hadn't written to Steve, Bucky, or her brother about her plans. As far as they knew she was still in Vienna. It was far too dangerous to put her plans to paper, even through the Lisbon line. On the ship over she'd agonized about what to do. It seemed cruel to reappear in their lives, only to leave for the war again who knew how soon. She wouldn't be able to tell them anything.

Standing on the deck of the ship as she watched the tossing waves, Alice had told herself that her brother and the boys need never know that she was in New York. This is business, she told herself. You'll only put them in danger if they know you're in town.

As Alice stood on the side of a busy Hells Kitchen street with her hand out, she took another deep breath of New York air and felt alarmed when tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. It wasn't just that she was back in New York after half believing that she would never return – for the first time in years, no one knew who she was. No one knew where she was. She could do whatever she liked and it wouldn't put her or anyone else at risk of death. It felt like stepping out from underneath a heavy weight that teetered precariously, threatening to fall and crush her at any moment. It felt like stepping into sunlight.

A taxi screeched over to the side of the road and she climbed in.

"Where to, sweetheart?" called the brisk-voiced driver.

"Brooklyn," Alice murmured as she tried to fight back her tears (and her annoyance at being called sweetheart).

"Where in Brooklyn?"

She wanted so badly to give him her old address. Matthias's family still ran the tailor shop, but the apartment over it had been rented out years ago. She shook away the thought. "A hotel. Any hotel."

"You got it." The driver stomped on the gas pedal and Alice leaned back against the headrest as she was whisked toward Brooklyn.

The ship had made good time across the Atlantic, and Alice's scheduled meet with Vera's contact wasn't for another two days. She booked a hotel room, unpacked her things (a few outfits, the letters and records she'd dug out of the back garden of her uncle's house, and money), and then sat down on the edge of her bed.

Her hotel was mid-range, nicer than anywhere she'd lived before Austria, with a paisley green bedspread, dark wooden furniture, electric heating and a view over the street below. They'd even had a bellhop to help her carry her trunk upstairs. Alice slowly got to her feet and looked out the window.

Brooklyn hadn't changed. Cars rumbled up and down the street, dodging the rattly Brownsville trolley, and on the sidewalks thronged the people: young women with smart skirts and hats, groups of kids skidding around street corners, harried families, elderly women coughing into their handkerchiefs. The early January chill hadn't put these people off from going about their business. The only difference was the number of men and women in uniform - mostly navy, thanks to the nearby ship yard. Seeing English on the signs and advertisements up and down the street did something funny to Alice's heart.

She pressed her palm against the cold glass. It rattled under her hand when the trolley rolled past. She could just hear the muffled sounds from outside: engines purring, children laughing.

What to do for two days?

Alice turned away from the glass and eyed the inside of her hotel room. There was nothing here for her but old letters from Steve, Bucky, and Tom, and her heart wasn't strong enough to reread those right now.

Alice ran her hands through her hair. The concept of spare time was unnatural to her. If this were Vienna she'd be heading out to be useful, or making a new cipher, or calling up contacts for information or to invite them to a party. She always had something going on. But now all she had left to do was to wait until her scheduled meeting time with the SSR contact in two days.

She looked over her shoulder out the window and caught a glimpse of five children chasing each other down the sidewalk before darting into an alley. Alice knew exactly where that alley led. She knew it had once had a large trashcan halfway down that the electronics store tossed their unsaleable parts into.

Alice blew out a breath. Can't stay in here.

Advertisement for Museum of the City of New York exhibit 'Life in Wartime', 2005

This Sunday, the museum is unveiling its latest exhibit, a photographic tour through New York City in World War II. Journey from the pre-Pearl Harbor days of relative peace, to the sudden explosion of industry and mobilization following the United States' entry into the war. World War II dramatically changed the way people lived in New York: those going about their daily lives received updates about the war in Europe over the radio and in the newspaper every day, survived through mandated food rationing, and participated in the growing civilian war effort.

New York become one of the major navy hubs of the war, with a ship leaving New York Harbor every 15 minutes (the busiest that port has been throughout its long history), and the Brooklyn Navy Yard doubling in size and employing over 70,000 people, many of them civilian or military women (WAVES). People and materials flowed through the city.

See photographs and artworks depicting this momentous time in New York's history, and from 2-3PM stay to hear testimonies from contemporary veterans and residents of the city. As one former resident of Manhattan puts it: "It was an extraordinary time. So New Yorkers, as they always do, became extraordinary to meet it."

For the first time in six years Alice walked the streets of Brooklyn. There was a bite in the air that threatened snow, but she had a heavy coat and thick boots, and had no desire to huddle up by a fire.

At first she stayed away from the neighborhoods she knew. She walked down the busy streets packed with new stores and busy shoppers, and lost herself in the crowd. Then she started edging her way into familiar territory: she strode past the first dance hall she'd performed in, past Brooklyn Bridge park with its view of the looming bridge and its crowd of memories. She walked down the road past Brooklyn Junior High, then walked the few blocks to Brooklyn Senior High. The buildings seemed… strange, after her years away. They seemed much smaller, somehow more ordinary than her memories. She circled back and found the stoop where she'd first really met Steve and Bucky: the time Billy Russel threw her book in the puddle. Alice smiled at the memory.

She didn't dare go past Steve and Bucky's houses. She was too afraid they'd see her on the street and… well. She wasn't sure what she'd do if that happened.

At first, Alice felt strange. Like she was trying to put on a shoe that didn't fit any more. She felt like Gulliver on the island of Lilliput, too large and too strange to truly fit in. But with each familiar place she passed Alice felt the hard, cold shell she'd constructed around herself begin to slide away. She passed the police station, and realized that she didn't need to fear it. She spotted familiar faces: the same elderly Polish baker with flour on his hands, the postman on his bicycle, the surly-faced man at the newspaper stall. Alice's heart warmed at the sight of them but she slid past before they could see her. She eyed the film titles advertised at the cinema and only felt warm nostalgia, instead of resentment.

Alice had grown to love Austria in her time there, she realized. But she had also learned to fear it. Now, as she strode an inch taller and a lifetime older down the streets she knew by heart, she realized that she had come home. And yet it didn't feel quite real. It felt as if she were walking a dreamscape of her childhood. Brooklyn, to her, wasn't made up of its buildings and streets. It was made up of people.

Her thoughts preoccupied her so much that she didn't realize where her feet were taking her until she heard the familiar tinkle of a bell over a doorway.

Her feet stalled and she glanced up with wide eyes.

JOHNSON TAILOR SHOP, read the sign over the door. Not many people would notice, but there was a spot of brown paint on the corner of the sign; Alice still remembered her mom telling her off for spilling the paint. Matthias had sided with her mom that Alice needed to be more careful, but then had gathered them both up under his arms (this had been before Tom, even) and said: No need to worry. No one's ever going to notice but us.

Alice let out a shaky breath. She could see herself in the dim reflection of the glass windows: a pale-faced blonde woman with wide green eyes, swallowed up in a thick winter coat. The last time she'd seen this shop she'd just been a girl who thought she understood how the world worked.

Alice swallowed and realized her throat had become uncomfortably dry.

The bell over the door chimed again as it opened from the inside, and on seeing Alice standing there the customer on his way out held it open for her, smiling.

"Thank you," Alice rasped, and walked inside without thinking. She couldn't very well stand outside in the cold and stare at the shop like a criminal.

Inside, the shop was warm. If she'd thought her school seemed small it was nothing to Matthias's store: she remembered it being cozy, but now she looked at the narrow walls and racks of clothing and thought is this it?

She realized she was standing dumbly in the doorway, so she took a few paces in and ran her hand over a pile of folded fabrics, letting out a slow breath as the cloth brushed her skin. The shop was reasonably busy, with about eight customers perusing the racks or lining up to talk to the man behind the register (Alice recognized him as Matthias's cousin, but he hadn't known her well enough to recognize her now).

I used to know every square inch of this place.

Alice ached to go to the back room. She wondered if her old comics were still back there; she hadn't had enough time to pack them after her mom and Matthias died. The idea of reading Buck Rogers and Famous Funnies again made her smile.

The smile vanished from her face when she heard the squeaky hinge to the back room door as it swung open. Her eyes flew up.

A young man walked through the door from the back room, calling to the man at the register in a teasing manner. He strolled over to speak in a lower tone, gesturing to the back room with a wry smile.

And Alice couldn't move. Because that was Tom.

He wasn't a little boy anymore. She knew exactly how old he was – thirteen – but he looked like a young man. He must be as tall as her shoulder now, and she could see signs of a growth spurt: his long limbs were gangly as he gestured to the man at the register, and he was losing the baby fat around his face. His dark hair grew thick and wild, and he had an easy grace about him that reminded her of Matthias. And yet she saw her mother in the quirk of his brow and the lighter tone to his skin.

Tom must have sensed eyes boring into him, because he looked up to see the white lady at the other end of the store staring at him. Alice couldn't look away. She couldn't even move: she was half twisted toward the back of the shop with her hands frozen on a pile of fabric. Her eyes were bone dry, which she knew meant she was about to burst into tears.

Tom's eyes narrowed, then widened. He took a step back. "Alice?" he mouthed. No sound came out.

Alice's shaky hand rose to her mouth. This wasn't meant to happen. She'd been hoping, deep down, but it was a stupid, foolish hope. Wetness at her fingers told her she'd started crying. It felt like someone had taken a deep gouge out of her chest. She wanted to double over, hold herself and gasp for breath.

Tom paced slowly towards her. Alice still couldn't move.

"Alice," he breathed when he was close enough to touch. His voice wasn't quite a man's yet but it was deeper than she remembered; close to breaking. His eyes were wide. "It's you, isn't it?"

Alice met her little brother's eyes, and nodded silently because she couldn't speak. His eyes welled with tears to match hers and his breath whooshed out of him. He didn't seem to know what to do.

Feeling zinged back through Alice's limbs and she reached out to land a fumbling touch on Tom's shoulder. He was warm, and shaking slightly.

Tom blinked, and seemed to realize that this should not be a public moment. "Come to the back with me," he murmured.

He grabbed the end of her sleeve (like he used to when he was little, Alice remembered), and pulled her through to the back of the store. "I need to speak with this customer," he told his relative at the register, and then they were walking through the back door into the room Alice knew so well.

It looked slightly different, but it was still clearly a private haven; the radio on the bench played soft jazz, and there were comic books and cards strewn around on piles of fabric and half-finished clothes.

When Tom shut the door behind them Alice grabbed his shoulders and held him at arms length, trying to fight back tears. He looked back at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. She was right: he was just a head shorter than her.

"You're so big," she finally said, and then properly burst into tears.

She caught a glimpse of gleaming tears on his face as well just before he darted forward to wrap his arms around her so tight that she could barely breathe. He was strong.

For a long time the two of them just held each other tightly and cried. Tom shook in her arms, and Alice didn't know how she'd ever thought she could be in New York and not find him. She'd forgotten a lot of her heart overseas.

Alice laid a hand on the back of his head and held him to her.

Eventually they sat down, tired from crying, and Tom pulled away with red eyes and a sniffly nose to ask: "How are you here? Why are you here? Are you staying?"

Alice wiped her eyes then reached out to mess up his hair like she used to do. She couldn't stop staring at him. "I… there's a lot I can't tell you, Tom. You can't tell anyone else that I'm in Brooklyn. Not even Molly."

"Why?"

"I… can't tell you." She grimaced, but Tom just nodded trustingly (despite a little frustration). He had the same triad of dark freckles by his ear. "I won't be here for long."

"Where are you going? Back to Austria?" His mouth turned down. "Even with the war?"

Alice let out a deep sigh and then smiled at him. "I promise that one day, I will tell you everything." She looked into his eyes to make sure he knew how serious she was. "But I'm here, Tom. I…" she opened and closed her mouth a few times, drinking him in. "I want to learn everything about you. Letters can only say so much. Who are your friends? What are you doing at school? Where are your favorite places to hang out?"

As she spoke she felt his excitement rising, as if it had just sunk in that she was here and right in front of him. For a moment he looked back at her with wet eyes and shaky fingers. Then he opened his mouth and began to tell her everything.

She and Tom spent the rest of the day together. After a few minutes in the back room they went out again (Alice bought a blue silk scarf just for cover, feeling strange about being a customer at the shop for the first time ever), then met Tom across the street. They went to a café which Tom proclaimed was his favorite in Brooklyn (it was new, Alice remembered when it used to be a bookstore), and Alice treated her little brother to anything he wanted.

Over two tall chocolate sundaes, she learned about his life. His school in Harlem was bigger than the one in Brooklyn, but it sounded like he had a good group of friends and even a few girls he hung out with from time to time. Alice didn't ask directly, but something inside her unwound when she realized that the war had barely touched his life. Tom was safe here.

When she reached the bottom of her sundae, her gaze flicked around the mostly empty booths of the café and the grimy windows. "Do you… do you see Steve and Bucky often?"

"They still check up on me about once a month," Tom said with a look that reminded Alice of the look she used to wear when Matthias got overprotective. It made her lips quirk. "Bucky's at basic training right now I think, and Steve's got a job at the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. They've been just as curious about you lately as I have." Tom hesitated, then looked at her with a keen glance. "Did you and Steve… were you ever…?" he trailed off, scrunching his nose.

Alice laughed. "What?"

"I dunno," Tom said. "I guess I've always thought he was sweet on you."

"You did?" she asked smoothly. "When?"

He eyed her over his sundae. "Oh my god, you're sweet on him too!" he accused. "I knew it!"

Alice laughed at his teenage horror, even as her cheeks went pink. Was this the life I could have had if I stayed? This all felt… alarmingly normal.

Tom settled back in his seat. "Do they know you're back?"

She shook her head.

He frowned. "Really?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I just… pretty much every memory of you that I have has them in it. Find it hard to think of you keeping secrets from them."

"You'd be surprised," she said heavily.

Tom slurped his sundae. "Why won't you tell 'em you're back? They'd lose their minds."

Alice pointedly did not think about how it would feel to see Steve and Bucky again. "Because I can't stay."

"You came to see me."

She almost said I didn't mean to, but that would be cruel, so she didn't. "I… it's complicated, Tom."

"That's just what adults say when they mean I don't know," he accused.

She shot him a sharp look. "When did you get so smart?"

They traded teasing and old memories back and forth, and Alice realized as the minutes flew by that she was smiling easier, laughing more often. And it wasn't just from seeing her brother again. Tom had become his own person, and she liked him. He was funny, quick with a joke or a clever comment, and seemed to understand her quiet façade almost instantly. He filled the silences with ease.

Patrons at the café came and went. Someone turned on the jukebox, which started belting out old hits. Tom started tapping his fingers on the countertop when the faster-paced Doug the Jitterbug started playing, and about halfway through he interrupted his own story about his math teacher to start singing along.

"Young and wild with lots of style, that's Doug the Jitterbug!"

With delight, Alice joined him. Tom was good, with a mellow voice that she could sense maturing into something deeper. He had a good ear for tune and he harmonized with her effortlessly. Her high, clear voice weaved in and out of his lower one as they sang along to the trumpets. Their fingers tapped on the table and they bounced their knees, grinning as they sang. The few other people in the café looked over, and when they finished the last lyric they got a smattering of applause before everyone turned back to their drinks.

"You can sing," Alice said breathlessly, her heart bursting. She'd been singing in public for five years now, for princes and politicians and generals, but nothing had come close to that impromptu duet over a Brooklyn café countertop.

Tom shrugged. "Started when you started sending me those records. I've been going to the halls around Harlem, learning a lot there. I remember… I kinda remember mom and dad. I remember dad singing me to sleep." Alice's smile instantly dropped. Tom had only been seven when their mom and Matthias died. The same age she had been when her own father died, and she barely remembered him.

Alice reached across the table and laid her hand over his. "They'd be so proud of you, Tom."

He didn't look away from their hands. "You think so?"

"I know so. Mom would say…" Alice's breath hitched. "Mom would be so amazed at how tall you've gotten, and how handsome." Tom blushed and looked away. "I mean it. She was a touchy person, you know, she'd be all over you. Kissing your cheeks, mussing your hair, you wouldn't be able to get away from her." Tom smiled. Alice kept going: "Matth- your dad was a bit of a crier. He'd take one look at you and burst into tears."

"Kinda like you did," Tom said teasingly.

Alice laughingly acknowledged him. "That's true. He'd want to sing with you too. He'd dance you around the room like he used to when you were small. He'd want to hear every up and down of your life, and…" Alice shook her head in fond reminiscence. It felt like warmth trickling back into her chest after years of freezing cold. "He'd give you that look, like you're the most important person in the universe. Because you are, Tom. You were their world."

She'd brought Tom to the brink of tears. He took in a sharp breath, his gleaming eyes avoiding her own. "I… I love Molly. She's like my second mom. But… I miss them."

"I know." Alice's eyes burned. "I miss them too. Every day."

Tom looked up at her with red eyes. "Can you… can you tell me more about them?"

"Of course," she breathed. "I'll tell you anything you want."

They kept talking until it got dark out, and Tom realized that he'd be missed at home soon. As they were collecting their things to leave, the elderly gentleman who'd been sitting at the booth across from them got up to go to the bathroom. Alice sensed his eyes on them a moment before he spoke, and she tensed.

"Oughta be ashamed of yourselves," she heard him mutter as he strode past.

Alice's muscles locked. She watched the man as he strode across the café toward the bathroom, and caught the disgusted look he shot over his shoulder at them before he disappeared. For a moment she saw herself and Tom through his eyes: a young white woman with a young black (appearing) man, laughing and talking like they'd known each other for years. Clearly the man couldn't see the youth in Tom's face, or the true nature of their love for each other.

A quick glance at Tom showed that his eyes had gone weary and his shoulders stiff. He picked up his coat and stood. Turn the other cheek.

Alice wanted to follow the old man into the bathroom and drown him in a toilet bowl.

As if sensing the sharp, glittering anger cutting Alice up from the inside, Tom hunched his shoulders. "C'mon," he said. "Let's get out of here."

Alice stood smoothly from the booth. "I just have one last thing to do."

"Alice-"

But she'd already moved across to the booth the old man had just left. He had a half finished coffee and a newspaper open on the counter, and he'd left his briefcase on the booth seat. With a quick glance around, Alice swiped the salt up from his table and started shaking it into his coffee.

"Alice," Tom repeated, but there was a smile in his voice.

She looked over her shoulder as she selected a teaspoon and started stirring the salt into the coffee. "What?"

He grinned at her, though his eyes kept darting toward the bathroom. "Hurry up."

"Just one moment."

She set the salt and teaspoon back, then grabbed the pot of cream, flipped open the man's briefcase and poured the white liquid liberally over the papers inside. Tom snorted behind her.

She heard the bathroom door open. She flipped the briefcase closed, returned the cream pot, then turned away to take Tom's arm and walk him out of the café. As she held the door open for him, the elderly man walked into the main room of the café and narrowed his eyes at the sight of them. Alice shot him a sweet smile and then walked out onto the street.

Tom was waiting for her with an incredulous look on his laughing face. "I see now why Bucky calls you a troublemaker."

Alice lifted her chin. "Do as I say, Tom, and not as I do – and you should never do anything like that."

"I ain't crazy enough to-"

Alice glimpsed the old man through the window as he reached for his coffee, and she reached out to take Tom's arm again. "Hurry now."

Tom had to get on the train back home, but they agreed to meet the next morning in Harlem.

"I've got Sunday school in the afternoon," he said apologetically. "But I can show you around before that."

They clung to each other at the train station as if they'd never see each other again. They hadn't gotten a proper goodbye, last time. Tom had been too young to understand death or how far away Austria truly was. He hadn't understood why Alice was crying when she hugged him at the port.

Alice recalled how her uncle had looked on at their last farewell with poorly concealed disgust in his eyes, and hugged Tom all the harder.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she promised.

She walked home in the sharp cold of January under the yellow streetlights, her hands in her pockets and her breath coming out as vapor.

That night she lay sleepless in bed, staring at the ceiling. When sleeplessness itched at her eyes and the shadows of the room seemed hazy, she began to whisper into the silence. She whispered about Tom: how much he'd grown, what he liked and what he didn't like, the future she could see glinting just out of reach for him. She whispered as if her mom and Matthias might hear. As if they were sitting just out of sight on the edge of her bed, like they used to do when nightmares kept her up.

"I wish you could meet him," she whispered, and her tears trickled into the soft cotton of her pillow.

Letter from Maureen Higgins (Brooklyn Senior High School senior administrative assistant) to Principal Wallace, October 2 1946

Dear David,

Regarding your last letter, I agree that the upcoming 10 year reunion ought to be combined with a memorial. I've just started chasing up the graduating year of 1936 and I've discovered from newspaper obituaries that at least twenty of them so far died in the war. Most notably, of course, Captain Steve Rogers (his friend, James Barnes, would have graduated in 1935 but left the school in 1934 to pursue employment).

I've included a list below of those former students who have passed, and those who I've been unable to track down.

Best,
Maureen

Excerpt from Principal Wallace's reply, October 3 1946

Maureen,

Agreed. Let's set up a memorial service in the early afternoon, and have the standard reunion afterwards. I'll talk to Connie about arrangements. We can time the memorial with the unveiling of the plaque for Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes, if we ask the caretaker to get a move on.

I've responded to the list of missing alumni with my suggestions below.

...

... similarly, regarding #15 (Alice Moser), if your records indicate that she moved before graduating, I wouldn't expend too much effort in attempting to contact her. You said there was no forwarding address and that she hasn't been in contact with the school since then, so we'll count that as a no-show.

The next morning, Tom cocked an eyebrow at the canvas bag Alice had brought with her to the Harlem train station.

"What's that?"

Alice didn't answer the question until they were wrapped in the bustle of the pedestrians on the side of the road, walking down the street past a park. She held the bag to her chest, then looked over at her little brother.

"Can you keep this safe for me?"

Tom raised a second eyebrow. "What is it?"

"Nothing, really. Letters, records, a few photos." Alice decided not to tell him that they'd been buried in her garden for months. "But I can't keep them in Austria. Could you… keep them somewhere safe?" She flipped open the canvas flap and showed him the corner of cardboard-bound records. "You can listen to the records. But don't read my letters."

Tom laughed and took the bag from her. "What are they, love letters?"

Alice's ears burned. They were letters from Steve, but to call them that… she shook herself. "Can you look after them or not?"

Tom waved a hand at her. "I can, don't worry." He slung the bag over his shoulder, then cocked his head to the side as they walked. "So what're you in New York for?" Alice opened her mouth and he added: "I know you can't tell me, but just… give me a hint?"

She sighed. It was an unseasonably warm day for January, and she'd woken up with a strange prickling across her skin: a sense of purpose. "I… I'm here to help people." She looked straight ahead. "I think I might… maybe have a chance at a new kind of job. Something big." But I won't find out until tomorrow.

"You're going to stop singing?"

"No. Probably not. It's-"

"Complicated, I know." Tom rolled his eyes at her, but a few minutes later his expression went sharp. "Is this job dangerous?"

Alice fought not to let her surprise show on her face – Tom was quick. "Maybe," she said in a moment of rare honesty. It felt good.

Tom's face fell.

"But I'm hoping to learn how to be safer," she added. Her lips pursed. "Now don't ask me any more questions about it."

"Alright, bossy." He hiked the bag further up on his shoulder then nodded across the road. "Here we are, this is the jazz club I wanted to show you."

They walked around Tom's neighborhood for the rest of the morning as he pointed out his school, his favorite haunts, and the places he wanted to perform at one day. Alice pointed out the clubs and dance halls she remembered Matthias singing at, and the two of them beamed over their memories of the light-hearted, hard working tailor.

After lunch Alice walked Tom to his Sunday school, and found herself alone once more.

She turned around and made her way back to Brooklyn.

Alice wound up, as she had so many times before, at Brooklyn Bridge Park. She sat on a wooden park bench with her chin in her hand and the sun in her eyes as she looked across the water. There were a few families in the park, filling the air with the sound of laughter and children playing. Seagulls squawked in the distance.

If the buildings of Brooklyn had seemed smaller, the bridge seemed somehow larger and more imposing than ever – she traced the stone and cables with her eyes to the other side of the river. Then her gaze flicked up to the Manhattan skyline, with the Empire State soaring over it all.

Alice had dreamed this moment so many times. But it wasn't right.

She ran a hand over her face and let out a sigh as she eyed the Manhattan skyline. She'd come over with so many firm ideas about secrecy and keeping business separate from personal. You'll only put them in danger, she told herself again.

But she'd seen Tom, and nothing bad had happened. Nothing bad would happen, since there was no way anyone would find out about him.

You can't tell them anything.

Tom hadn't minded.

It would be cruel to appear, only to leave again.

Alice dropped her head in her hands. She couldn't argue with that one.

Five minutes later, Alice stood up from the park bench and dusted off her skirt. Then she turned on her heel and started walking. She strode down familiar streets and turned corners she knew like the back of her hand, and her heart slowly rose up her throat into her mouth.

A block away from her destination, she tugged at her winter coat. She wasn't dressed very fashionably, but she'd never have been able to afford even these clothes before. They were clean, and tidy, and –

Get a grip, she told herself crossly. It doesn't matter what you're wearing.

She came to a stumbling halt outside a dull brick tenement building with rattly metal stairs out the front. She'd climbed those stairs who knew how many times. She set her foot on the first step and began to climb.

Finally she found herself at the door to what she used to think of Steve and his mom's apartment. Now it was just Steve's. She swallowed dryly.

He might not be home.

Her heart was pounding so hard that she thought she might be sick. Her legs felt shivery. She raised a fist.

If he's not home, you turn around, walk away, and never come back.

Her fist fell against the door in a sharp knock.

For a few moments all she heard was the sound of her own sharp, shallow breathing.

She knocked again.

Nothing. Her heart clenched painfully. Maybe he moved.

She shuffled to the side to peer through a window, but it was obscured by an off-yellow curtain. Surely he'd have told me if he moved. She chewed her lip and thought.

Alice eventually settled on walking back downstairs, but with the open street before her and the world beyond, she couldn't make herself walk away. In her head was a short, blonde, stubborn boy who'd somehow worked his way deep into her heart and could not be removed no matter how hard she tried.

She let out a breath and settled on the stoop outside the tenement, where she must have spent hours of her childhood waiting for Steve. She was happy to wait as long as it took now.

~ I will wait ~

"All I'm saying, pal, is that if you make me see Gone With the Wind one more goddamned time-"

"I didn't know that's all they'd have on!" Bucky protested as he laughed at the sour look on Steve's face. They both walked with their hands stuffed in their pockets and their scarves pulled tight against the chill wind down the Brooklyn streets. "Besides, this is only what, the third time?"

"Three times too many," Steve muttered as he squinted against another bitter wind. He cocked his head. "At least this time you didn't try to trick me into another disaster date."

"Some fellas would pay to be tricked into spending an evening with a beautiful woman," Bucky pointed out with a grin.

"That's prostitution, Buck."

"That it is," he said with a considering nod. "You're a punk, Steve."

Steve squinted across at Bucky with an unimpressed gaze for a few moments longer before he broke, grinned, and shoved his shoulder into Bucky's. "Jerk."

It was good to have Bucky back. He'd been at basic training ever since he enlisted, save for Christmas, but he'd finally gotten a weekend break. Steve got so wrapped up in his own head without someone to pull him outside to get some sun (what little of it there was to be had in January), and seeing Bucky healthy and happy helped ease the slight sting of envy. He'd had another 4F stamp in the Bronx a few days ago.

They walked and bickered for a few more minutes, weaving to dodge piles of slush and trash and to throw each other off balance with their shoulders.

Bucky was the first to notice. He laughed at one of Steve's quietly muttered jokes, then glanced up for a moment as they rounded a corner. Half a second later he stopped in his tracks.

Could be anyone, was Bucky's first, numb thought. But he knew it wasn't.

Steve walked a few more steps before looking back with a frown at Bucky's sudden stop. "Buck?" His frown deepened, and he followed Bucky's gaze to the front of the tenement building.

He saw the blonde woman sitting on the stoop outside the building with her chin on her fist, her face turned away, and his stomach bottomed out.

"Bucky," he croaked. They were hundreds of yards up the street. "Is it…"

"I dunno, pal," Bucky said in a strangely hoarse voice. "But we're having the same hallucination if it isn't." The woman's hair shifted a little in the breeze, but she didn't turn her head. She wore a dark winter coat and her heeled shoe was propped against the curb.

"But she's not…" They'd started walking again, their footsteps slow and wary. Steve slowly picked up the pace until he was almost jogging. He almost tripped over his own feet and Bucky had to reach out to steady him. He pressed forward, unblinking.

And then the young woman sitting outside the tenement turned toward the oncoming footsteps and the weak January sunlight streaming through the buildings fell on her face, and Steve thought that he might be having his first heart attack.

He stopped dead again. Bucky stopped a few paces behind him.

Alice Moser slowly rose from her seated position on the stoop, staring. Her wide eyes drank in the sight of them. She wasn't quite smiling, but her face wasn't blank either. Her chest rose and fell as if she was the one who'd been running.

The three of them stood there on the street, staring at each other.

"Is it over?" Steve asked. Because he'd dreamed about this moment: the war is over, and Alice had come back to Brooklyn like she always promised.

Alice's eyes shadowed and she shook her head, but Steve didn't care, because suddenly it didn't matter if the whole world was at war because Alice was just twenty, ten, five feet away from him. They were both moving, he realized, and then they collided in an awkward tangle of limbs and laughing and crying. Bucky was half a second behind and scooped them both into his arms, squeezing so tight that Steve thought he might die.

Alice's skin was cold as she shook in their arms. Steve's ears were filled with laughter and crying, mostly from Alice, and he tried to hold her tighter. He realized that even without the heels she wore she was taller than him.

"You came back," he breathed. For some reason that made Bucky laugh. He got a glimpse of Alice's gleaming green eyes, just inches away from his own as Bucky squeezed them tighter. There was hurt in those eyes, but so much joy as well.

A shaky smile lifted her lips. "I promised I would, didn't I?"

Chapter Text

Clipping from Good Morning America show April 14th, 2005:

"Today, renowned Russian composer Dmitri Mager-Loginov would have turned 137! The composer, best known for his operas in the Romantic period, was lost at sea on a crossing to England…"

Alice, Steve and Bucky bundled up to the apartment in a rush of adrenaline-fueled conversation. At the foot of the stairs Alice told them about her uncle, and had to repress a smile at the unsure way Steve and Bucky offered their condolences.

"It's alright," she said eventually, trying not to smile too widely at the thought of her dead uncle. Bucky and Steve each let out a relieved breath and then they thundered up the stairs. They all exclaimed at least three times how good it was to see each other again, and how different they'd all become. Because they were, Alice realized: Bucky was taller than she remembered, with a thick head of dark hair and a sense of stillness and watchfulness that Alice didn't remember noticing in him before. Steve was still small, but he'd grown too. Since she'd left he'd become a man with serious eyes and a strong well of determination. He opened the door to his house with his key, set down his wallet on the counter inside the door and then gestured them inside.

Alice tried not to stare too obviously at him as she walked in. That first glimpse of him on the street had… it had frozen the breath in her chest and the blood in her veins and set her every hair on end. And then he'd run to her, and…

She hadn't cried so much in a long time. And now she couldn't take her eyes off him.

The boys bustled inside in a rush of noise, and after toeing off her shoes Alice came to a halt just at the end of the entry hall, staring around at the familiar apartment. Her childhood home might belong to someone else now, but this place was so familiar to her heart that it ached: the radio on the counter with the telegraph key still wired up to the back of it, the photo of Steve's dad on the wall (now accompanied by a portrait of his mom, she saw with a pang). She spotted a pile of letters with her handwriting on them on the table and just like that she was crying again; silent, wide-eyed tears that slid down her face.

Bucky and Steve were fussing, tidying the table and the couch and ducking into the kitchen to get Alice something to drink, but after a moment Steve stopped in his tracks long enough to look up and see Alice: a woman now, standing in nice clothes with so much hurt in her eyes, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

His heart seized. Steve grabbed a clean handkerchief from the coffee table and rushed over to her. Panic tweaked at his chest – he'd never known how to handle crying women – but this was Alice.

"Hey there," he said softly as Bucky clinked around in the kitchen. "S'alright, Alice. You're home now."

That made something in her expression crack, and he wasn't sure it was a good thing. But Alice took the handkerchief. Their fingers brushed and Steve's cheeks went pink at the electric crackle that sparked across his skin. He flexed his fingers and shoved his hand in his pocket.

Alice dabbed at her face, then beamed at him. "I am home," she said warmly.

Alice Moser. In his apartment. After five years of missing her. Steve stared stupidly at her.

A moment later Alice's smile grew a little wider, and then she swooped in to wrap her arms around him before Steve could do anything about it. Her collarbone slotted in above his, their shoulders bumped, and he swallowed at the feeling of her pressed against him before he raised his shaking arms to hold her.

"Thank you, Steve," Alice breathed. Her breath tickled the back of his neck.

For the life of him he couldn't think of what to say.

Bucky walked back in from the kitchen, carrying three water glasses. "Aw, Steve, you made her cry already."

Steve jerked away. "I didn't!" he glanced back at Alice, who was still smiling as she dabbed at her eyes again. "Did I?"

She flapped a hand at him. "You didn't. Guess I've just been… holding it in."

"Just for us? You shouldn't have," Bucky said drily. "Sit down before you fall down, Moser."

"I see you're just as much a charmer as ever," she replied primly as she took a seat on the couch. Bucky took the armchair, and Steve dithered a moment before sitting beside Alice.

Alice let out a shaky breath. She hadn't planned for all this… emotion. What a fool she was.

Bucky set his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. "So you're back, right Al? For good?"

The handkerchief fell to her lap as she hesitated. That old nickname, Al, reminded her of what she had been doing – and what more she had yet to do – back across the ocean.

Steve stiffened. "Alice-"

"I don't know," she said. "I can't… no one knows that I'm here, and I… I haven't decided what I'll do." A clunky half truth that felt exactly like a lie.

"You're safe here," Bucky said firmly.

"I know." But that wasn't a final answer.

A tense, awkward silence reigned for a few moments. It felt overwhelming to finally be in the same room as Steve and Bucky after years of half-believing she'd never see them again. She didn't often think she was dreaming, but today was an exception. Bucky and Steve traded glances while they thought she wasn't looking. The clock on the wall ticked obnoxiously.

Finally, Alice took in a deep breath, smiled, and then said: "So. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes." They looked up, and their worry fell away at the vibrant grin on her face. Alice leaned forward. "Tell me everything."

For the next hour the three of them caught up on everything they'd missed in each other's lives in the past five years. At first it was strange, like looking at a childhood photograph and not quite recognizing the person in it. Steve didn't say so much out loud as he did in his letters. But all it took was a few teasing barbs from Bucky and that same old wry half-smile on Steve's face as he looked at her, and Alice fell back into the easy rhythm of sharing her mind with her closest friends in the world.

They mostly repeated stuff they'd told her in their letters, along with jokes and arguments about whose account of an event was most accurate. Alice listened to it all with delight. When it came her turn to relate what she'd been up to, she stuck with the same half-truths and vague sentences that she had with Tom. Nothing about her network back in Austria, nothing about what she'd been doing. Just the singing, and funeral arrangements, and how it had been hard.

As Alice spoke about some friends she'd been to coffee with recently (leaving out all names and identifying information, of course), Steve cocked his head. "How's Jilí?"

Alice's smile dropped. Her face became rigid stone, and Steve and Bucky instantly knew. But she told them anyway. "She… went missing. She's probably dead."

Steve looked so heartbroken that it broke her heart all over again, that he would grieve for a woman he never knew. Bucky's face fell.

A long, sad moment passed. Alice realized that she had not really dealt with the aching void of losing Jilí. She'd just filled the hole with ice and kept on. But something about being around Steve made the ice inside her thaw. She wasn't sure it was a good thing.

Steve cleared his throat, shooting her a concerned look from under his fringe. "I'm sorry, Alice."

Alice swallowed thickly. "So am I."

His brow furrowed. "I'll… I'm going to go make some tea. Like mom used to." He got to his feet, knees creaking, and padded into the kitchen. He walked closely past Alice, so she could feel the warmth of his body as he went past.

Alice closed her eyes. She could feel Bucky's eyes on her, so after another moment of listening to Steve clatter and rustle in the kitchen she stood up and began pacing around the room. That's the book Steve lent me in middle school, she noted as she walked past the bookshelf. This is the patch of carpet where we almost kissed, that winter morning before I went away. She went to inspect the dried flowers on the windowsill. Restlessness rolled off her like static energy.

"How are you doing, Alice?" came Bucky's voice from the armchair.

Alice eyed the brown, flaking petals of a lavender stalk. "I'm alright."

He made a low sound at the back of his throat. "And exactly how long are you planning on staying in Brooklyn?"

Her head snapped around. "Bucky-"

He spread his hands. "I get it, you don't want to talk about it. But if you are going back…"

"What?" she asked bluntly.

He sighed. "I dunno. Guess I don't know why you'd want to go back. Seems to me both you and Steve want you to be in Brooklyn."

"Seems to me you want to get over to Europe," she replied, arching an eyebrow at him.

Bucky shrugged and leaned back in the armchair. In the kitchen the kettle whistled. "Guess you've got me there. I'm on weekend furlough from training."

"And how is that going?" she asked evenly. Her last letter hung in the air between them. She realized now how scary her words must have been for Bucky and Steve – here in Brooklyn the war felt distant, like something in stories. Her raw, frightened letter must have been a shock.

"I'm in marksmanship training at the moment, commanders reckon I've got a knack for it." He shrugged again. "Might be looking at a promotion to Sergeant by the time I get my orders."

Alice tried not to let the news hurt her. She just nodded silently, wishing she could lock them both up somewhere and hide them away from the world.

Clinking echoed out of the kitchen and Alice's head turned toward it. With a sigh, Bucky got to his feet and walked over to Alice. "I just…" he jerked his head toward the kitchen before turning warm eyes on her. His voice was low. "Steve's tried to enlist three times already, doll. Go easy on him." Alice could tell he was talking about so much more about the enlistment attempts, but it was the easiest thing to speak aloud.

"Of course," she said softly. "And if you ever call me doll again I'll hamstring you."

Bucky grinned. "She's back. Missed you, troublemaker." He slung an arm around her shoulder and they both leaned in for a hug. Alice closed her eyes.

At that moment Steve walked back in with three mugs of tea, and he went soft and warm at the sight of his two friends embracing – save for a glint of something like worry in his eyes.

"Don't worry, punk," Bucky laughed as he released Alice. "I'm not moving in on your girl."

Both Steve and Alice blushed.

"Jerk," Steve huffed at Bucky. His eyes flickered toward Alice. She could sense unspoken questions on his tongue.

Bucky looked between them, huffed a sigh, and then rolled his eyes heavenward. "So, Al." She glanced over to him. He rolled his eyes heavily as he glanced away from Steve. "Meet anyone nice over in Austria? Any boys chasing you?"

She eyed Bucky for a few dangerous seconds. She could feel every iota of Steve's attention on her, the drinks in his hands almost forgotten. "They might be chasing me," she eventually said. "But I'm too fast."

Bucky laughed, and when Alice glanced over to Steve he gave her a smile, then blushed, then tried to make the smile seem less relieved. He brought the tea over.

"Missed you, Alice," he said quietly as he handed her a mug.

Alice took the mug between her cold palms and felt herself thaw a little more. She looked into Steve's serious blue eyes and smiled. "I missed you too."

The next morning found Alice shivering and breathing vapor with her gloved hands pressed between her knees as she sat on an icy wooden bench in Central Park. She'd been sitting there only five minutes, not wanting to be too early nor too late, but the cold was already nipping at her exposed skin. It was just approaching ten in the morning, and the park was surprisingly busy. Students strode down the footpaths in long winter coats, and young men on leave from the army strolled with their sweethearts. Most people were moving about to get their blood moving. Alice had to sit there as the cold gnawed at her bones and tiredness itched at her eyes.

She'd stayed up far too late with Steve and Bucky, as mugs of tea turned into mugs of cheap brown liquor. They'd laughed at old memories for so long that Alice's sides had ached and her lungs had wheezed for air. She couldn't remember the last time that happened.

She'd insisted on going back to her hotel, more to clear her head than out of any sense of social propriety, and Bucky and Steve had walked her there in the early hours of the morning. When they'd said farewell at the door, Alice had promised she'd see them again today. It wasn't a good idea.

But now. The whole reason she'd come here. She'd memorized the instructions Vera had given her on the darkened shore in France, knowing they were too important to write down: when and where to meet the representative from the mysterious SSR.

Alice blew out a white breath and rubbed her hands together. A headache was grinding to life behind her eyes, no doubt thanks to Steve's bottom-shelf liquor.

Alice generally had pretty good situational awareness. She watched people and places, searching for clues and secrets all around her. So she blamed her budding hangover and lack of sleep for not noticing the person approaching her until they appeared on the seat beside her like magic.

Alice caught a glimpse of color out of the corner of her eye and flinched, skidding on the icy seat.

Quickly composing her face, she stared at the newcomer: a woman with sharp dark eyes and dark curls, wearing a white blouse, olive green pencil skirt over stockings and a thick brown overcoat. She wore heels and a dark red shade of lipstick that made Alice want to shiver. This was a dangerously capable woman.

More than that, Alice realized as the other woman eyed her up and down: she looked familiar. But she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

The woman's eyes narrowed and Alice's heart pounded. Does this woman know who I am?

She swallowed, unsticking the lump in her throat. "Do you have a newspaper?"

The woman's eyes remained sharp, assessing. "No, I get my news on the radio."

Alice did not show an iota of surprise at the woman's smooth British accent, but she certainly felt it. What's an Englishwoman doing all the way over here? She cocked her head and said the final line of the code: "What a pity, I don't have a radio."

A shivering wind blew across the park, picking up fine ice crystals from the lawns and flinging them into the air. Alice and the woman continued to look at each other, neither one willing to break eye contact first. The woman's dark gaze was focused, and she held herself like a soldier.

Where do I know you from? Alice wanted to ask. But she didn't feel like that should be her first question. Plus, she was pretty sure the woman wouldn't tell her.

The woman stayed silent, staring, and Alice realized she would have to be the first to speak.

She drew a steadying breath. "I'd like to work with you."

The woman stayed silent. A tactic: get the other person to blab and fill the silence, revealing all their cards. Normally that was Alice's move.

Alice sighed. How to do this without putting people in danger. "I have… friends in Europe. All over the place. I know lots of other people, but I'm not friends with them." A pause. Lips pressed together. She cast her eyes heavenward, feeling the woman's gaze like a brand. You've come this far, why not go the whole hog. She turned and faced the woman directly. "I would like to give the Allies ongoing information about the workings of the Nazi government, the movements of their generals and troops, supply lines, and ongoing plans."

The woman's gaze didn't waver. "How do you have such information?"

Alice swallowed. "Obviously I don't have all of it. But I know a lot. And I'm good at finding things out. I have been finding things out. I want a secure, direct way to get that information to the people who can do something with it. Let me know what you need and I'll get it. I'd also like help with getting endangered people to safety."

Slowly, the woman's eyes dragged over Alice's face. It reminded Alice of the jewelry appraiser her uncle used to visit in Vienna: keen, trained eyes searching for the smallest flaw or blemish. For a few long moments the two of them sat in silence.

Finally, the woman straightened her shoulders. "Come to Ratner's dairy restaurant tomorrow at 0800." Then she stood, turned, and strode away down the path before Alice could speak another word.

Alice let her go. She watched the woman's straight back and perfectly-curled hair fade into a crowd of tourists and then disappear. She knew this game: trust, suspicion.

She let out a sigh of vapor and got to her feet.

SSR Inter-office memo #18011942, Agent PC to File Room.  Archived by Catherine Laurey, SHIELD Archivist

Patricia. Please send up all the files we have on Alice Moser (alias: Siren). I believe we started a file on her following the incident at Castle Kauffman. Send the files into Phillips' office, I'll meet you there.

- Carter

On her way back to her hotel, Alice noticed a dark car shadowing each turn she took through Manhattan. She supposed it was probably the agency the British woman belonged to, but she didn't want to bet on that, so she slipped into a mall to lose them. She emerged out a staff exit twenty minutes later in a completely different outfit and booked a taxi to Brooklyn.

Alice couldn't get the British woman's silent, assessing gaze out of her head for the rest of the day. She'd never met anyone quite so difficult to read.

That evening Alice went out for dinner with Steve, Bucky, and Tom at a Gowanus Italian restaurant which had been there since before any of them were born. Alice had expected some awkwardness, but when they all took their seats and started butchering the pronunciations of the items on the menu, she felt startled at how easy this was. Tom, Steve, and Bucky had in jokes she didn't understand, which felt bizarre but made her smile. There was always a funny story to be told, a piece of news to be given, a teasing joke.

Somehow she and Steve ended up sitting side by side, and though they only cast fleeting glances at each other sometimes their knuckles brushed, or their shoulders bumped, and it made Alice's guts twist so hard that she thought she might be sick. She wondered with alarm: Did it feel like this before? She'd been cold for so many years. No one else had ever made her feel like this. It almost made her want to push Steve away.

Tom and Bucky started arguing about baseball, and Steve lifted his gaze to Alice. "This must seem strange."

She took another bite of her pasta and met his eyes. Her stomach jolted. "Hm?"

Steve gestured to Tom and Bucky across the table, and then awkwardly between them. "Being back. Must feel weird."

Alice let her eyes track across the people around her. "Not really. This… feels like the way life is meant to be." Her expression shuttered. "It's my other life that's strange."

Steve's eyes darkened and he opened his mouth, but at that moment the waitress came over with their second round of drinks on a tray. Alice looked up with a bland smile, but something about the image of the woman approaching with the condensation-covered drinks sparked a memory at the back of her mind.

Of course.

A castle in the Bavarian Alps. A room full of men in uniforms watching her sing, and after the song faded a push through the crowd–

A dark haired maid. Would you care for a drink, Frau Siren?

In the restaurant in Brooklyn, the waitress set Alice's whisky in front of her with a smile and then whisked away. Alice stared at the drink with wide eyes. The woman from this morning… had been in Europe? In Johann Schmidt's castle, no less?

A moment later she thought of the sad-eyed doctor – Erskine – and the rumors that a doctor had escaped to the Allies, and her heart leaped. Could it be…?

A pale, skinny hand landed on Alice's wrist and she almost flinched. Her eyes flicked to Steve's to find him shooting her a concerned glance.

"Alice?"

"I'm alright," she said, pasting a smile over her shock. Steve saw through her – remarkable, even after all these years, but drew his hand away from her wrist.

"As I was saying," came Bucky's warm voice, "let's have a toast!" he raised his beer and nudged Tom to lift his juice. Alice and Steve shared a wry glance before mimicking him.

"What're we toasting to?" Steve asked, moving almost unconsciously a little closer into Alice's space.

Bucky looked at them seriously over his bottle. "To Alice! And…" he looked around. "To Tom passing his test, and to military furlough, and to Steve losing his title as the most stubborn occupant of Brooklyn."

"What? Who did I – oh." Steve's ears flushed as he looked at Alice, and she rolled her eyes at him.

Tom cleared his throat. "Are we toasting?"

As one they leaned in to clink their drinks together, and the three boys cried: "To Alice!"

Alice's cheeks went pink and she smiled into her drink. By her side, Steve watched her with a warm smile.

Once Tom was on his train back to Harlem, Steve and Bucky walked Alice back to her hotel again. A block away from the hotel Bucky fell to a stop, cursing his shoelaces, and waved for them to go on ahead.

Alice shot him a sharp, knowing look, but walked ahead with Steve all the same.

For the first few moments they walked in silence in the orange streetlight. Their footsteps echoed in time. Alice wondered how long they'd spent walking the streets like this together, side by side.

Her mind still swirled with thoughts of the SSR woman from that morning, and the jarring sense of suddenly returning to a world that felt normal, so she couldn't think of what to say to Steve. Everything she considered was too earnest, to full of feeling for people who had only just re-met each other yesterday.

She thought of all those letters. Yours, Alice. She'd meant every word.

Steve opened his mouth first, his voice a surprise in the quiet of the night. "I don't know what kind of life you had over there," he said solemnly. Alice peeked at him out of the corner of her eye and saw him looking down at the pavement as he walked. His hands were in his pockets. "I know you couldn't tell me everything. But I know… I know you were scared. I know you lost people." His eyes flicked to hers, and Alice couldn't look away. Her breath caught in her chest.

"You don't have to tell me about it if you don't want to," he murmured. "But you and I…" he searched for the words for a moment. "We're friends, Alice. We have been for years. We still are, right?"

"Of course," she breathed, almost tripping over her own tongue in her haste to get the words out. "That's never changed, Steve. Never." The thought of Steve not being her friend felt like having the breath pressed out of her chest.

Steve's eyes were hard to see in the lamplight. "But you have changed."

Alice's throat constricted and her head jerked away, turning straight ahead. She fought to keep her breath steady.

Steve let out a frustrated noise. "I don't mean-" he stopped walking, so Alice had to stop and turn to face him. He was small but it was easy for Alice to forget that, given how much of her attention he always seemed to take up. Standing on the footpath in the dark, she couldn't look at anything else aside from the boy – man, now – with his hair in his eyes and his hands gesturing helplessly.

Steve met her eyes. "What I mean to say is… you've changed, of course you have, and so've I. I'd like to…" something like desperation flitted across his gaze. "I'd like to get to know you."

Alice blinked. "But we've been writing each other letters for-"

"I know," a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. "And I've liked that. But can you honestly say that you know everything about me now?"

Alice's gaze turned assessing. She eyed Steve, little Steve Rogers who had grown up while she was away in a country tearing itself apart. At first, she understood Bucky's ever-pervasive instinct to protect him: Steve had skinny arms and hunched shoulders, and looked like a strong wind would carry him off. But in the next moment she saw, as she always had, that deep drive inside him that pushed for the world to be better. The stubborn jut of his jaw, the look in his dark blue eyes. He was nervous, that was plain to see, but under that was determination; as if this was a moment he had been thinking about for a long time.

Alice knew him, she thought. But looking into his eyes at that moment, she thought that maybe she had never understood him at all.

She used to be good at navigating this strange space that she and Steve shared, like a held breath or the shimmering swell of a cloud before it began to rain.

It made her head ache. She couldn't wheedle out information or eavesdrop on a conversation to sort out whatever was going on here. She realized, very quickly, that she had no experience here.

The thought sent a thrill from the soles of her feet to the top of her scalp.

"I guess not," she eventually answered. She let out a breath and smiled at him. "But I'd very much like to find out."

An answering grin lifted his lips.

A moment later Bucky strolled up, moaning about his shoelaces and the early train he had to take back to camp tomorrow morning, and slung his arms around both of their shoulders when he reached them. Alice huffed under the weight of his arm – he'd grown too, into muscle and sinew – and met Steve's suffering gaze. He rolled his eyes at her, and it didn't feel like an echo of an old memory. It felt like the start of a brand new one.

Excerpt from article 'A Friendship for the Ages,' by Yumi Miyagi, 1989

No biography of Steve Rogers is complete without an in-depth analysis of his long-time friendship with Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, and likewise no story about Barnes can omit Steve Rogers.

The two met in their childhood and formed a friendship that saw them through the Great Depression, numerous spats on the playgrounds and streets of Brooklyn, and eventually through the fires of war. They would come to save each other's lives multiple times over, leading one of the most famous and most effective tactical units of the entire European campaign, until the war finally claimed them both.

Their friendship is one which has made a mark upon the face of history, one of those famous duos which exist beyond death and time like Julius Caesar and Mark Antony, Ella Fitzgerald and Marilyn Monroe, C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. Their stories are entwined together so firmly that one will never be thought of without the other by his side.

The next morning, at 7:45, Alice pushed open the narrow door underneath the sign which read in stylish font: RATNER'S. She smiled as she entered. You couldn't tell from the outside, but she knew that around the corner down the alley was a nondescript door which lead to a smoky staircase, which lead to a secret (or perhaps not so secret anymore) speakeasy. The very same that Bucky had taken her and Steve to for her fourteenth birthday. She supposed it was still there; Prohibition was over, which would only make a lovely bar like that all the more popular. Though wartime wasn't exactly the best time to be going out on the town.

Alice cast her eyes around the dairy restaurant, but there was only one other woman sitting at the long counter and she looked to be bordering on ninety years old. Unsurprised, Alice smiled at the server behind the counter and then sat down at one of the small tables in the back corner, facing away from the door. Ratner's was smaller than she expected, with dark wooden furniture and a low hum of conversation and clinking cutlery. It smelled like fresh bread.

A finely-dressed waiter approached Alice, and she ordered a coffee and a bagel. Just before he turned away she added: "Actually, make that two cups."

She sat and very pointedly did not fidget, and when the coffee came she sipped hers without turning around to look at the door once.

The door opened at precisely 8AM, letting in a gust of cold air and the sound of clicking footsteps. Alice caught a glimpse of a dark coat out of the corner of her eye a moment before the woman from yesterday pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. Their eyes met.

"Why," said the woman by way of greeting. Her cheeks were pinked from the cold.

Alice sipped her coffee as she slid the other steaming mug toward the woman. "You're asking a question you already know the answer to."

"Why would I do that?" She didn't touch the coffee.

"Because you're smart." Alice smiled thinly. "But I'll play along." She took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. The woman's eyes narrowed. "I'm doing this because my mother raised me to turn the other cheek when someone was cruel to me, but to act when I saw injustice being done to others. She taught me that if you saw a man being kicked and you stood by, then you may as well throw another boot into his side."

Alice sat back, thinking of the men who had beat Matthias in the street that night. "I'm doing this because although Austria will always be my first home, I grew up here. In Brooklyn. Which I'm sure you know, as you'll have done your research. I'm sure you also know that I was a part of this community. That I love it. That I have friends and family here. I'm sure you know that my family was ripped away from me when my mother and stepfather were killed by someone who hated them because of who they chose to love."

Alice took a sharp breath. "I'm sure you know about my uncle, about the views he espoused and the people he chose to grow close to." She bit her lip. "I'm not here because I think that Germany is full of villains and America is full of heroes. I'm here because too many in Germany and Austria have stood by while powerful men kick others to the ground. I won't stand by any longer."

She tightened her fingers around her coffee mug and leveled her gaze at the other woman. "Let me help."

For a few moments, silence stretched between them. Alice had spoken softly, conversationally, matching the tone of the dairy restaurant around them.

The other woman's dark eyes flicked over her appraisingly. "I believe you. But I don't trust you."

"That's smart. Again." Alice quirked a brow. "I like to think that anyone who wants to protect lives can trust me, but it's foolish to trust anyone on the basis of a single conversation."

The woman rested a hand on the outside of the coffee mug Alice had ordered for her, but did not drink. Her eyes were unwavering from Alice's face. "So I take it you don't trust me."

"Not yet," Alice said simply.

"That's smart," the woman shot back. Her eyes narrowed again. "We've got no record of you entering the United States, Ms Moser."

It was the first time the woman had acknowledged that she knew Alice's name, but Alice just shrugged. "There's a war on. Identities… are not as concrete as they are in peacetime. What's your name?"

"You can call me Agent Carter." Agent Carter eyed Alice for another long moment. "Be outside your hotel at this time tomorrow morning. We'll discuss your future with us further then."

Alice's eyes narrowed. She shouldn't be surprised that they'd figured out where she was staying, but it made her nervous all the same. "I can't tell if you've decided to give me a chance or if there'll be a black van and a set of handcuffs waiting for me tomorrow."

Agent Carter raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I haven't decided yet."

Alice smiled at that. "Well, whatever your decision, I'll be there. If I can't help, I may as well be in chains."

Agent Carter eyed her for another moment longer, then got up to leave without having even sipped from her coffee.

"Wait," Alice called. Carter paused beside the table and looked over with an arched eyebrow. Alice swallowed. "You were the maid."

That fine, dark eyebrow just arched further. Alice knew that look, she'd perfected it: it meant what on earth are you talking about? It didn't fool her.

"At Castle Kauffman. Herr Schmidt's gathering."

Carter slowly eyed Alice. "I hadn't thought you would remember me."

"I didn't at first. But I never forget a face." It had taken her a while to place Carter's dark, watchful eyes, but she remembered her now: she'd offered Alice a drink. Carter just arched her eyebrow again in silence. Alice fidgeted slightly. "Is… is Herr Erskine alright?"

For the first time, Carter betrayed a hint of surprise: her eyes widened incrementally.

"We only spoke once," Alice clarified, "but I heard later that he… that someone might have escaped. I was hoping it was him."

"That's classified," said Carter, and Alice burst out in a brilliant grin. Because that meant yes, and that meant that the kind man who she'd bonded with for barely a moment was alive and free.

She glanced down for a moment to conceal her relief, then looked up again. Carter was watching her closely. "I'll see you tomorrow, Agent Carter."

"Perhaps," she replied. Then Agent Carter turned and strode away.

Excerpt from article 'An Evening with Margaret Carter,' by Lauren Hart, 1983

Margaret "Peggy" Carter is one of the most influential foreign-born agents of United States history, with a much-shrouded history of working within this country's intelligence system. Carter, or as she was known then, 'Agent Carter', first traveled to America during WWII as a transplant from the British counter-intelligence agency MI5.  She was only twenty years old when she first joined.  She joined the newly-created Strategic Scientific Reserve, in which capacity she worked as an adviser, field agent, recruit assessor, instructor, and analyst.

When I asked Carter about her initial work with the SSR, she informed me that much of it remained classified. I asked what skills she brought to the table, for her to be given such a unique transfer.

"Oh, this and that," the now sixty-two year old told me with a flap of her hand. "I started off as a code-breaker in Bletchley Park, you know, before taking on an assignment to train as a field agent. I picked things up pretty quickly."

"Can you tell us a little about your work during the war?" I asked.

"Probably not," Carter returned. "But I assure you I was very impressive."

It was at this point that I recalled that Carter had only agreed to this interview in exchange for my newspaper releasing some documents to her agency for an ongoing investigation.  Margaret Carter is a whip-smart woman, perhaps more so now with experience than she was in the war, and she still protects her secrets, even the ones that have been long-declassified by the government. Openness is not her forte.

When I asked her about the recruits she oversaw at the SSR in those war years, Carter shot me a coy look.

"Are there any specific recruits you'd like to discuss?"

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was quiet on a Tuesday morning, with most of the city's population busy at work or war.

It was quiet enough that Steve could hear two sets of footsteps clearly: his own and Alice's, falling in step as they strolled through the galleries. He listened to the soft inhale and exhale of her breath as they paused in front of an arching Greek alabaster statue: a rendering of an ancient bard. A moment later they turned and continued on.

He tried not to look at her too much, despite the fact that he'd much rather be doing that than looking at the centuries-old art. He caught glimpses of her out of the corner of his eye: wisps of blonde hair, a flash of green eyes, the soft darkness of her coat.

Sometimes she fell out of his line of vision and he snapped around, afraid that she'd be gone for good.

It was surreal for Steve to have Alice back. He'd had an image of her in his head for so long: distant, suffering and sad, just words in a letter. She'd occupied his thoughts every day but she was just that: a thought.

But then she arrived back into his life with warmth and a soft voice and green eyes that made his chest ache, and he didn't know what to do with her. They'd barely had a chance to be alone at first, save for that moment when Bucky had hung back to tie his shoe.

But after that first weekend Bucky had gone back to basic training (after wrapping Alice up in a bone-popping hug and murmuring something into her ear that made her scowl). Tom had gone back to school, and Alice and Steve were left with just each other for company.

It had taken days for it to properly sink in: Alice was back.

But even as Steve got used to seeing Alice physically there in front of him, he realized that she wasn't back. Not completely.

It was easy to miss: sadness that flitted across her eyes when she thought no one was looking, her silence when it came to talk of the future. The way she looked at Tom, Bucky, and Steve as if she was preserving the image of them in her mind like a photograph. She'd asked Bucky and Steve not to tell anyone that she was back. Not even Edith and Finn, who'd just gotten married.

And there was something else going on. It took Steve about a week to notice, but there were hours missing out of Alice's day. She never missed meet ups or appointments, but when he asked what she'd gotten up to while he was at work she'd shrug off the question or lie. He could spot her lies – couldn't explain how, which had irritated her when they were kids, but he just knew.

So he didn't push. He'd only just gotten her back, he didn't want to scare her away by asking questions she wasn't ready to answer.

More that, Steve pondered as they moved from the Greek and Roman gallery into the European sculpture and decorative arts wing. He was… distracted. Steve had confronted his feelings for Alice when he was just sixteen, and he'd known since then that if Alice asked, he would be hers in a heartbeat. Alice had been so close to asking that day when they'd nursed their colds in his apartment. Then the world had taken the choice away.

Alice strode a few paces ahead of Steve into the hall of sculptures, gazing up at a statue of a faceless woman on her knees, her arm raised as if to shield against an incoming blow.

Alice was back, Steve realized, and he didn't know what to do. She wasn't the same girl she'd been when she left, that was for sure, but he felt he still understood the person she'd become. She'd become somehow even more closed off, full of secrets and silences, but he could still see the same genuine, open kindness hiding under all that. He could see the same girl who used to close her eyes and smile when she sang. The same razor-sharp intelligence waited behind her eyes. He could see her thinking even as she gazed at the finely-detailed statue, as if it were a problem to be worked out.

Steve's pulse fluttered at his throat as he approached. "I don't know how good this artist could've been, he forgot to do the face."

Alice's eyes closed and her head tilted back as she laughed, and when she opened her eyes again Steve caught a glimpse of surprise – surprise that she had it within herself to laugh? Steve's heart juddered, stuttered, and then pounded.

She shook her head at him. "Guess they'll let any old rot into the museum these days." Her clear green eyes rested on him. "You know, you're funny, Steve."

His shoulders hunched. "That's not usually the first word people use to describe me."

"And yet," she said lightly as they continued through the hall, "you are. You just keep it secret."

You keep bigger secrets, he thought, but didn't say. He settled for rolling his eyes at her. Alice drifted closer to him as they made their way through the ancient busts and sculptures. Their elbows were almost brushing.

"You've got questions," Alice said after a minute of silence.

Steve looked up at a sculpture whose face had fallen into shadow, and didn't meet Alice's eye. "Yeah, I… yes."

He felt rather than heard her sigh. "Go on."

He took a deep breath and turned to her. He had so many questions: How did you get here? What happened in Austria? What happened to Jilí? Why does it feel like you're not going to stay?

But he just sighed and asked: "Are you happy?"

Her eyes went round. She hadn't expected that. "That's… a complicated question."

Steve's face shuttered and he moved to turn aside, but Alice's hand darted out to catch his arm.

"Steve." He met her gaze again. "I…" she huffed. "I'm no good at… this. But I… when I'm with you, I am. Happy." Her eyes were almost desperate, searching his own, hoping he understood. Alice so often seemed intangible, as if she was caught between two worlds, but very suddenly she became real and present. Human.

And he believed her. Alice had clearly grown unaccustomed to joy, but he knew happiness in her face when he saw it. He'd seen it when she first arrived outside his house, and he caught glimpses of it whenever they met.

Alice must have seen something in his face because she smiled softly and let go of his arm as she glanced away. The tips of her ears were red.

"What about you?"

Steve blinked stupidly. "What?"

"Are you happy?"

He thought about his life. The going-nowhere jobs that he kept getting fired from, the late nights spent drawing with only the hope of pennies in return, living alone in an apartment he could barely afford. Bucky off to war and Steve told to stay behind.

"I am," he said quietly. "When I'm with you."

The tips of Alice's ears went even redder and she couldn't resist, for an instant, an impossibly pleased smile. A moment later she ducked her head and gestured for them to keep walking. Steve followed her and tried to settle his racing heart.

I have no idea what we're doing, he thought. But I like where we're going.

Chapter Text

Cornelius a Lapide, about a woman: "Her glance is that of the fabled basilisk, her voice is a siren's voice – with her voice she enchants, with her beauty she deprives of reason – voice and sight alike deal destruction and death."

The morning after Alice's meeting with Agent Carter at Ratner's, she walked out of her hotel and found a black car idling on the curb. She climbed in to see Agent Carter waiting for her in a perfectly-pressed olive military uniform.

A short drive took them to a re-purposed warehouse in Queens. At first, as Agent Carter led her through a hidden back entrance, Alice thought she was being taken into SSR headquarters, but the near-empty state of the building soon proved her wrong. Agent Carter brought her into an office up the back, empty save for a desk and two wooden chairs. Piles of dust sat in the corners and on the windowsills, and the single electric light shone dimly.

What followed over the course of that day and the next was a series of interrogations. Agent Carter asked most of the questions, but on the second day two grim-faced men in dark suits who Carter only introduced as "Agents" added to her questioning. They asked Alice everything she knew, and she told them: her acquaintances in the Austrian and German governments, her social circle, her access to high-security buildings, her underground network in Austria, her actions in France, everything she had ever done to subvert the Nazi occupation.

Alice noticed that they asked a lot of questions about her trip to Castle Kauffman and her interactions with Herr Schmidt.

Alice gave her impression of every Nazi official she had ever spoken with and everything she'd found out about their private lives. Agent Carter was ever-vigilant in her unblinking, unsurprised façade, but her hard-faced colleagues occasionally raised their eyebrows at the extent of the information Alice provided. They scribbled in their notepads as she spoke.

As the questioning progressed, Agent Carter began to speak more. When Alice told them about her visits to other countries and the people she'd met there, Carter said: "We'll have you keep your travel. But we'll have to find a way to give you more autonomy than a performance tour provides, in case we need you in a specific location at a specific time." Alice raised an eyebrow at the implication that they were ready take Alice on as a… as a spy, but continued on.

In this strange, question-and-answer format, Alice and Agent Carter began to set up arrangements for her return to Europe. They agreed she'd take up singing again, with an SSR handler stepping in as her new music agent now that her uncle was gone. They agreed that she ought to strengthen her connections in France to give the SSR better access there, and that the SSR would send agents into Austria to be a part of Alice's quiet network. Agent Carter told Alice which generals they wanted her to get closer to, and what specific information to look for – "Don't worry, I'll show you how to find out what you need".

They took the conversation out of the empty office. They pored over maps of Europe and flipped through files on Nazi generals. Agent Carter informed Alice that she was "woefully under-trained, but we'll fix that up in no time". Alice met very few other people who were a part of this elusive 'SSR', but from what Carter said about agents and handlers it was clear they had a wide reach.

After a few days of this back-and-forth in the nearly abandoned warehouse, Alice pulled a sheaf of papers out of her bag and set them on the table in front of Agent Carter. Carter gave her a narrow, assessing gaze.

Alice stood with her hands behind her back as Carter leafed through the papers: a hand-drawn map of an intercontinental train line the Nazis were planning on building (Alice had copied it from memory after seeing the plans in the home of a general who had invited her and her uncle for a party), a set of blueprints for a new kind of panzer tank (in a fit of fury and desperation, she'd snatched that right out of a visiting scientist's briefcase), and a series of lists and diagrams she'd drawn up: German officials posted in Austria, rumors of new construction in the Austrian mountains, suspected French civilians spying for the Nazis; anything and everything Alice could think of that she'd discovered over the past year.

Agent Carter scanned the last page and then looked up. "You trust me."

Alice inclined her head. "Am I wrong?"

"No." Carter shook her head slowly, and let out a slow breath. "No. We'll know just what to do with these." She slid the sheaf of papers into a folder and fastened it tightly. Her eyes flicked back up to Alice. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

This time the black sedan took them to a nondescript office building in Manhattan. Carter led Alice into an elevator, and the doors dinged open on the thirtieth floor to reveal a bored-looking receptionist leaning on her elbow at a desk beside a door with a sign over it that read Accounting.

"Got any gum?" the receptionist drawled when she spotted the two newcomers. Alice cocked an eyebrow, but Carter didn't seem fazed.

"No, my grandmother told me I ran the risk of choking," she replied. At her even tone, Alice almost smiled. Another code.

"More's the pity," said the receptionist with a quirk of her mouth, then pulled open a drawer at her desk and touched something. There was a click, and suddenly the wall to her right was moving – oh. A hidden door. Alice's eyes went round as the section of wall popped out with a pneumatic hiss, and then slid aside.

"You trust me," she murmured to Carter.

"Is he in?" Carter called to the receptionist as she strode toward the door.

"Yes ma'am." The receptionist slumped back onto her elbow and pulled a newspaper toward herself. "He just got back from the Brooklyn faci-"

Carter shot a warning glance and the woman shut her mouth.

Alice's mouth quirked. "You trust me a bit," she corrected.

"You don't need to know everything the SSR gets up to, Ms Homer," Carter replied over her shoulder as they strode through the hidden door. The space beyond was almost disappointing: a tiled corridor lined with offices, and what looked almost like a police bullpen at the end. As Alice followed Carter's clipping footsteps down the corridor she frowned.

"Sorry, Ms Homer?"

A pair of uniformed soldiers walked out of an office and made for the elevator without casting Carter or Alice a second glance.

"I've decided that'll be your alias while you're with us," Carter explained. "Homer."

They strode past the bullpen, which had maps on the walls and people with the look of analysts bent over desks covered in paper. The blinds were closed and the lights turned on to compensate, giving the space a warm yellow glow. Carter cleared her throat and Alice drew her eyes away. This didn't feel like the SSR's main headquarters to her, maybe just an analysis department, but it was a large show of faith to invite Alice into it.

"Homer," Alice echoed, thinking about it as she eyed the corridor ahead. "Oh, I see. Homer wrote the Odyssey, in which Odysseus comes across the-"

"Sirens," Carter said with a hint of a smile. They reached the end of the long corridor, where she tapped her knuckles on the furthest door. A gruff voice called 'What?' and Carter swung the door open.

Inside a cramped, yellow-lit office at a desk covered in stacks of paperwork sat a grim-faced man in a dark olive military uniform. Alice's gaze swept over his medals and insignia. A colonel. He looked up at the intruders to his office and a frown settled over his brow. The colonel had sturdy, serious features and his eyes were uncannily sharp as he looked from Carter to Alice.

"Carter, what have I said about bothering me while I'm in my office?"

Agent Carter closed the door once Alice had entered and drew her heels together. "Colonel Phillips, this is Homer."

"I figured," the man said gruffly. His gaze turned back to Alice and his jaw tightened. "Thought you'd be taller."

Alice felt small in the office, standing in her winter coat amongst these two in their crisp uniforms. But she just lifted her chin a little and held the colonel's gaze.

"She's not a soldier, Colonel," Carter pointed out.

"And yet you're asking me to trust her like one," Colonel Phillips said without taking his eyes off Alice. He had a brisk way of talking that kept Alice on her guard. He tipped his chin at her. "Why'd you come all the way to New York?"

"Pardon?"

His eyes narrowed. "You had your contacts in France, wouldn't it have been easier to join up with agencies in Britain? Why us?"

Ah. Alice looked into his narrowed eyes and realized he suspected her to be a plant of some kind, maybe from Herr Schmidt's science division.

She cleared her throat. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to see my childhood home again," she said. "But it's more than that. My contacts in France said that the SSR was an agency willing to take risks."

The Colonel shot her an unimpressed look. "You really want us to be taking risks with you?"

"I want you to help me." Alice fought not to clench her hands. "I've been working in the dark all this time trying to help, I need someone… someone to tell me which direction to turn. I know what I'm asking, I know what I'm going to become." A double agent. The look in Phillips' eyes shifted. "And I want to help you. It's not easy to get into Germany's inner circles – you need an ethnic German with deep-rooted connections, someone with money, who won't be out of place in the halls of power. Someone they won't see coming." Alice straightened her shoulders and her gaze bored into Colonel Phillips's. "They won't see me coming."

The uniformed man leaned back in his seat and reached up to scratch his chin, not taking his eyes off Alice. Carter stood to the side, watching them both with her usual calm poise.

Alice felt Phillips take her measure as he watched her.

Eventually, he spread his hand. "What the hell, I've heard worse ideas." His eyes flicked toward Carter. "You got what you wanted, Agent Carter, I'm greenlighting the Homer Project." Out of the corner of her eye Alice spotted Carter dip her chin in a nod with a not-quite smile on her face.

Phillips set his hands on his desk and rose to his feet, making the piles of paper shiver. "Ms Moser." Alice flinched at the use of her real name and met his eyes. "This is the one and only time we're going to acknowledge this out loud, so listen up. From this point on, you are a spy handled by the SSR."

He paused a moment, letting that sink in. Alice drew in a slow breath and didn't break eye contact.

"Because of your usual location and position we're going to have to coordinate with other agencies. That's annoying to me." Alice had no way to tell from the flat look on his face if he was attempting to be humorous. She guessed not. "And I don't trust you."

They held each other's gazes for a few moments longer. Alice could feel her heart pounding against her ribcage, though she wasn't sure why. Isn't this what I wanted? She supposed that having it spoken so plainly was nervewracking.

Phillips cleared his throat. "Agent Carter is in charge of your training until we're ready to send you back into the field." The field. Vienna, Austria – the field. "You're to make yourself available at her convenience, and we'll continue strategizing how to best utilize you as a resource as you train."

"Understood," Alice murmured.

Colonel Phillips's jaw tightened. "I want you to understand something else, Homer. If you turn out to be anything other than what you claim, the SSR will not suffer you to continue on. If we get the slightest inkling of a betrayal we won't just drop you – we'll eliminate you. This is a war for the fate of entire nations and the entire world, and we do not have the time for young, scheming women. You help us win, or you cease to be important. Do you understand?"

Alice fought not to let her eyes slide to Agent Carter. Carter might not have put it in the same way, but Alice knew she felt the same: Alice had taken another step in the game of trust and suspicion, had become a very valuable thread in the complex tapestry of the war, and her life was very much on the line. She knew what she'd signed up for.

"I understand," she replied in a softer tone than he had used. "I've taken a risk on you," she added. "Thank you for extending the same courtesy."

Phillips's gaze was iron, but she could see him measuring her words. "You're dismissed."

Alice nodded, finally breaking eye contact with the man, and turned for the door. She sensed a silence pass between Carter and Phillips before she heard Carter's clicking footsteps following her.

"And don't go telling your brother or any of your friends in Brooklyn about any of this, either," Phillips called as Alice opened the door. She flinched, but didn't look back at him. The SSR have done their research.

Alice strode numbly through the door and fell still in the corridor beyond. Carter followed her through and closed the door.

Alice let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"He's a taskmaster," came Carter's crisp voice, followed by a softer tone: "But he's not a bully."

Alice turned to her with raised eyebrows.

Carter's face softened. "He's on board with taking a chance on you, but he wanted to make sure you knew what was at stake."

Alice drew herself up. "I've been living under Nazi rule for three years, Agent Carter." Her eyes flashed. "I know what's at stake."

Carter nodded slowly, her eyes roving over Alice's face. "Yes, I believe you do." She cleared her throat. "Let's get started."

Laura Phillips's speech at the Colonel Chester Phillips Forty-Year Memorial Service, 2010

"My grandfather could be a real monster sometimes. He was hard-headed, blunt, and often struggled to break away from his more traditional ideas. In his personal life, for example, he struggled with the idea of his daughter, my mother, becoming a single mother. But, and this was one of the wonderful things about him, he did have an open mind in the end. He knew he wasn't always right. He supported my mother, and became the strongest and most inspiring male influence in my life.

This translated to his career, I believe. My grandfather's rigid determination was just what the Army and the SSR needed at that crucial moment in the war: decisive action and bold choices. But it was his openness, no matter how reluctant, that I believe made him a truly extraordinary commander. He made decisions and allowed unique ideas to go ahead that changed the face of the war and the world. It allowed him to become one of the three co-founders of S.H.I.E.L.D, which has become one of this country's most important defenses against unusual threats.

When, nearly twenty years after the founding of S.H.I.E.L.D., Colonel Phillips learned that his only granddaughter was signing up to become an agent, he threw what I believe to be one of the most enormous fits of his lifetime. But after a few weeks passed, granddad came and pulled me out of basic training. I was furious, thought he was going to try and convince me to go home like he had been for weeks. But he just put his hand on my shoulder and said 'I wasn't angry because I thought you couldn't do it, Laura. I was scared because I knew that you could. Now get back out there and give 'em hell.'

Granddad might not have been able to judge a person's potential accurately when he first met them, but he sure as hell paid attention when someone proved him wrong."

Alice began her training that day. She and Carter drove back to the warehouse complex in Queens, and Carter put her to work.

She started with physical training: running laps around the warehouse, thundering up and down stairs, lifting herself over fences and balustrades. About an hour in, Alice asked for a change of clothes. Carter pursed her lips as she looked down from an upper level of the warehouse and replied: "You won't have time for a change of clothes when you need these skills. Keep going." Alice let out a sigh, wiped her sweaty forehead and went right back to running around in her skirt and pumps.

For a couple of days all Alice did was run, jump, climb and sweat under Carter's steely-eyed instruction, and then spent her free time with Tom and Steve. A few days into her training, after Carter had blessedly cut down on the exercise schedule to start teaching Alice fieldcraft and orienteering, Steve and Alice went to go see a film.

Steve seemed excited about Alice finally seeing a non-censored movie, but when they walked into the warm dark of the theater Alice wasn't completely sure what the name of the film even was. She and Steve took their seats, and if it wasn't for the box of popcorn between them their legs would be pressed against one another. The side of Alice's body facing Steve prickled. When the lights dimmed and the audience fell silent, the darkness vibrated with possibility.

Alice didn't notice much of the film. On the way home, Steve made her laugh so hard that he had to take her elbow to keep her from running into a light post.

When Alice fell into her hotel bed she finally felt the tiredness and soreness in her limbs, and the lessons about map reading and using terrain to hide oneself began to swirl through her brain again. For a few blessed hours, it had all disappeared. Alice smiled to herself and rolled to press her face into the pillow, thinking of Steve's quiet humor and brilliant laugh, and most of all, the way that he had been looking at her tonight. As if she was the only person in the universe.