Chapter Text
They were late.
He, conversely, was never late and almost insulted; they had deemed him unimportant enough to simply meander, without any consideration of his own time.
Dieter had been informed that three very important men were on their way and that he would be responsible for two of them as a bodyguard, or escort of sorts. He—and all of Nazi Germany—knew of the first two men. Reichsminister Joseph Goebbels was the right-hand man of the Führer himself, while a young Schütze named Fredrick Zoller had been labeled a ‘hero’ by many.
But not to Dieter. It was the third man who was more of a hero than Zoller would ever be: the legendary “Jew Hunter”, and Dieter's superior, Standartenführer Hans Landa, a highly respected officer among the entirety of the Gestapo and SS.
Dieter would be lying if he said he wasn’t honored to finally be working with the acclaimed Standartenführer again. And who else but me to deserve such an honor? His chest puffed slightly at the notion.
As Dieter checked his watch again, the growl of a Mercedes crept through the nearby alley. Blaring white lights appeared, staring down harshly at him.
At last, the famous trio had arrived.
From the sleek black Mercedes, the men, along with one woman, piled out of the vehicle one by one. The small congregation of Germans were conversing gleefully, and Dieter breathed in the crisp air as he neared them, his boot heels clicking against the concrete. While he understood the importance of an excellent first impression on the Reichsminister, Dieter found himself more interested in speaking to Standartenführer Landa.
Dieter stood at attention and offered a suave smile to Goebbels when the Reichsminister’s dominating gaze met his.
“Ah, Sturmbannführer Hellstrom. What a pleasure it is to finally meet you!” Goebbels outstretched his hand, which Dieter swiftly took with his own, and they politely shook. Dieter was surprised, but also flattered that a man of Goebbels’s status knew who he was.
“The pleasure is mine, Doktor.”
Hands still locked, Goebbels aggressively pulled Dieter towards him, using the empty one to give Dieter’s shoulder a hefty pat. “Unsinn my boy! I have heard of your deeds and what you have done for the Reich. I insist: the pleasure is mine!” Goebbels grinned widely as he spoke, finally releasing Dieter from his grasp.
“Danke, Doktor,” Dieter stated in his usual flat tone. Though he knew Goebbels was indeed being dramatic, he felt quite pleased with himself. Pride lit up Dieter’s face as Goebbels led his translator—and mistress—Francesca Mondino towards the golden gates of the grand ivory-colored hotel towering behind the company. Though he’d been standing in front of its gates for a good while now, Dieter hadn’t even bothered taking in the building’s appearance.
With Goebbels gone, it was time to speak to Landa, who was chatting with young Zoller. They seemed engrossed in conversation and Dieter felt irritation run up his spine. The way Landa addressed the Schütze by his name and not his rank immediately stood out as strange, if not suspicious, to Dieter. He silently questioned what, precisely, the boy had done to earn Landa’s respect so quickly, but he kept his mouth shut.
It felt like they were ignoring him, which made Dieter uneasy.
Before he could think any harder on the matter, Landa turned his head to Dieter and abruptly introduced the Schütze. “Sturmbannführer Hellstrom, a pleasure as always! I do not believe you’ve met our esteemed Fredrick yet.”
Dieter raised his brows and smiled at Zoller as a knot formed in his stomach. Landa had addressed him by rank and the boy by name, a contrast that irked Dieter to the core. Perhaps he was overthinking it, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but notice Zoller was around the same age Dieter had been when he’d met Landa. To Dieter, it was simply preposterous: a mere soldat garnering the same respect that he, a Sturmbannführer who had worked for his position, did.
“I was discussing our famous hero’s future as an actor. Perhaps a film about the SS is in order. I’m sure this handsome devil could play me; he certainly has the looks!”
Steely-eyed, Dieter looked the boy up and down, head to toe. He was certainly Landa’s type, which infuriated Dieter even further, his face straining in a pursuit to hide his anger. But as usual, he knew his attempts were in vain; that Landa could see what was hidden behind the calm facade. Landa smiled wickedly, disguising it with a hearty chuckle.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hellstrom,” Zoller said, breaking the silence between them.
At that point, Dieter’s rage boiled over. “That would be Sturmbannführer to you, Soldat,” he hissed. The boy had let the celebrity status go to his head, forgetting his place as a Schütze.
Zoller flinched, awkwardly correcting himself. “Es tut mir leid, Sturmbannführer, I meant no disrespect.”
Tch, calm and collected war hero, indeed.
“I do not care what you ‘meant’, Soldat. Your status as a famous figure is void to rank. Am I clear?”
Zoller swallowed and nodded. “Ja, Sturmbannführer.”
“Good.” Dieter smiled sarcastically at the boy, about ready to slap him across the face. “Run along with the Reichsminister now. I’m sure he’s waiting for you inside. You’re dismissed.”
Zoller had gotten the message. With a stiff smile, he bid the two men goodbye in proper military fashion before turning and following Goebbels, who had disappeared into the building.
Landa cleared his throat from behind Dieter, his tone playful and implying a smirk as he leaned forwards. “Desperate to get me alone, are you?”
The hotel’s interior was even more opulent than the outside, lavishly decorated with silky red velvet and an abundance of twinkling gold. It was a lovely place, and undoubtedly expensive, but to Dieter, it reeked of snobbery. The band of Germans had sat themselves down at a comfortable table just a few meters away from the hotel’s bar.
“Isn’t it wonderful here?” Zoller asked excitedly over a glass of whiskey, gesturing to the room they were seated in.
The company agreed and lazily chatted about topics Dieter couldn't care less about. Sitting quietly between Landa and Francesca, he slowly drew from his cigarette and exhaled calmly.
Landa's words echoed in his head.
Desperate to get me alone, are you?
Of course he wasn’t, he told himself. Just because they occasionally slept together meant nothing. Other than the first time, which had been years ago and nothing but a tactic to gain Landa’s approval, the Standartenführer had always been the one seeking Dieter out for sex.
While he found Landa physically attractive and respected his work greatly, Dieter was not interested in him. Their relationship was strictly business, just like the many other men Dieter exchanged favors for.
It wasn’t long before Zoller’s insufferable voice impeded on his thoughts.
The boy was speaking animatedly of his family back in Munich. “My sisters will be thrilled to hear the premiere will be held at the Ritz. They’ve always dreamed of attending a screening there!”
“Remind me, Fredrick: how many sisters do you have, again?” Landa gave him a curious smile.
“Six, Standartenführer. All older.”
“Six sisters? Well, isn’t that lovely!” Landa said with a jovial grin, before leaning in as if he was going to tell Zoller a great secret. “Perhaps you could put in a good word with one of them for our Sturmbannführer friend?”
The men laughed as Dieter felt their eyes rest on him. The topic of women always irritated him, and Landa knew this, taking any chance he could to insert a veiled quip about Dieter’s sexual deviancy. He forced a smile, biting on his bottom lip and giving a false chuckle to hide his growing displeasure.
“Alternatively, you could put in a good word to your mother for the esteemed Standartenführer,” Dieter said, laced with sarcasm.
Immediately, the pathetic Schütze’s eyes filled with sorrow. He fidgeted uncomfortably and avoided meeting Dieter’s gaze as a heavy silence filled the table.
The sole noise was so quiet that only Dieter could hear: Francesca beside him, laughing lightly behind her drink.
Goebbels forcefully cleared his throat, breaking the silence. Dieter had forgotten he was there in the first place, and when he looked away from Zoller and to the Reichsminister, he was met with a foul glare.
Landa was the first to speak. “Doktor Goebbels, I can assure you I will speak to Sturmbannführer Hellstrom later about his social decorum. My apologies, on both of our behalfs.” He turned to Schütze Zoller and rested a hand on his shoulder. “My condolences, Fredrick; I’m sure your mother is watching you proudly from the heavens.”
Dieter flushed, realizing what he’d said. Of course Landa, of all people, would goad him into humiliating himself in front of the Reichsminister. At once, the focus of his rage had shifted; he might have been annoyed by Zoller, but he was furious with Landa.
At long last, after what felt like hours of chatting, the group began saying their goodnights and going their separate ways. Dieter started to wonder if he had even been required to attend. Playing bodyguard was never his preferred assignment, and the infuriating Standartenführer was not making his position any more enjoyable. What was originally simple guard duty had turned into Dieter being treated like a lowly Schütze himself.
“It has truly been an honor, gentlemen,” Landa said with a friendly grin as Zoller stood from his cushy red leather seat. Remaining seated, he politely extended his arm and gave the boy a rough pat on the back.
Dieter rolled his eyes. This did not go unnoticed by Landa. After a nearly imperceptible glimpse at Dieter, he told Zoller, “I do hope to see you again, Fredrick. You are truly a delightful fellow!”
Zoller’s response was, predictably, a stupid smile. “Danke, Hans—Standartenführer Landa,” he corrected himself mid-sentence, giving Dieter an insolent glare out of the corner of his eye before turning to leave.
Dieter was dangerously close to giving the smug little Schütze a solid blow to the jaw. It was good that he’d left.
As he went to stand, a warm hand settled onto his shoulder. Turning his head, he recognized the hand as Landa’s.
While they waited for the Goebbels and Zoller to disappear, their gazes met. Without breaking eye contact, Landa smiled amiably and removed his hand from Dieter’s tense shoulder.
“Well, now that we’re alone—”
“You plan on reprimanding me?”
“Nein, not right now, Sturmbannführer.” Landa paused before continuing, with exaggerated quizzical expression, “I was curious as to what you have to report?”
When met with confused silence from Dieter, he barely hid a sly smirk by feigning perplexity. “That is why you wanted a private moment with me, is it not?”
Dieter knew Landa wasn't expecting honesty—that he assumed whatever answer Dieter might give was only masking deeply-buried jealousy. Landa's confidence in this assumption was evident in his smile, in the way he gestured with his hands.
“Well, you haven’t been stationed in France for as long as I have,” said Landa, “so I assume I can trust you to keep me up to date on what is happening in the Vaterland?”
Dieter responded with a nod, narrowing his eyes. He sensed something was up, but he could never be too sure with Landa.
Landa continued, “After all, I’m much more inclined to believe a Sturmbannführer of your reputation as far more trustworthy than any overzealous low-ranking officer. You know first-hand how prone to error they are.”
He couldn’t help but think Landa was referring to the errors he had made when he was a younger officer. Errors that had been easily expunged by bending the then-Obersturmbannführer over a desk for an hour.
Dieter paused, thinking. Finally, he replied, “You are correct, Standartenführer.” He reached into his jacket, going for another cigarette. “I assume we can skip over Munich, seeing as Schütze Zoller has already told us so much. At least we know his sisters are safe and sound.”
A sharp smile ended his sentence. Landa’s eyes followed his hand’s precise movements as he lit up a fag.
“You’re jealous, aren’t you, Dieter?” Landa said suddenly, that wicked smirk crossing his face.
Dieter scowled. “And why do you think that?” he asked, barely managing to suppress what had stirred within him throughout the night.
Landa chuckled, and Dieter could feel bitter anger creeping up his neck, his face.
“Well, you have reason to be. After all, has he not earned his place in society?"
”What are you insinuating?”
The two men stared silently at each other, Landa’s humorous smile fading into a stone-cold frown. “We both know how you’ve come to your current position, do we not?”
Internally, Dieter was fuming. But his words came out in his usual even tone. His focus moved to the distance as if Landa’s accusations bored him. “I fail to see your point.”
Landa leaned against the table, resting his arms. Dieter didn’t need to see Landa to feel his piercing gaze as he pushed forward and whispered, “Then I’ll make it plain: you’ve whored your way from a simple nobody to a big, bad, scary, wolf of a Sturmbannführer. Zoller, on the other hand, risked his very life for our nation.”
He paused, letting his words sink in.
“I can’t help but think your obvious distaste of the Schütze was birthed from the fact that he has earned his status legitimately, while you…” he paused again; scoffed. “You know exactly what you’ve done.”
“He’s nothing special,” Dieter said through a clenched jaw, eyes meeting Landa’s.
“Oh well…” Landa trailed off, his smile benign and making him seem agreeable for once this verdammte evening. “Neither were you.”