Velvet Waltz [An Inglourious Basterds fic]

The Hunter

Lipstick-smeared cigarettes. A scrawled-on bar napkin. A crusted fork. A dark curly hair. And piles and piles of reports, mostly worthless.

Vexingly, they didn't know who had thrown the grenade. No action had been planned that night. Not a single Gestapo unit took responsibility. Which meant someone on their side had exclusive intel, and was withholding.

Hans Landa steepled his fingers. The constellation of evidence scattered across his desk had been painstakingly gathered by his best men. The intelligence reports had been extracted, some violently, from prisoners across France and the Vichy. Yes, there was useful information about Resistance operations, the kind of intel that, typically, he would act on right away. But there was precious little about her.

Her.

At least now he knew her real name.

"Sylvia," he said out loud in his plush office, enjoying the delicate consonants on his tongue. "Syl-vi-a."

Born an hour west of Chicago, last known address some dingy little hole on the Lower East Side. He tried to imagine the wild-eyed, feral creature he'd wrestled into his car that night typing in some New York office block.

She was, in fact, Jewish. On her father's side, at least. Surnames didn't lie.

A week had now passed. He had made multiple excuses to visit the fifth floor prison wing just to stroll by her cell. She glared at him from the shadows like a caged animal.

He should not have broken her down that night, he now realized. It was so easy for him to crack people open that he sometimes did it carelessly. It would be hard work to gain her trust now. And he was running out of time. Although his authority was untouchable, the Gestapo upstairs were antsy to free up space for more prisoners. Hans knew if she were sent to Drancy or some other internment camp it would be impossible to find her again.

He needed insight. Exactly one of these reports offered a promising, and convenient, lead. And all he had to do was take a stroll down the avenue, to the cafeteria at Gestapo headquarters.

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One skill had served Sylvia well all her life, and especially in her life as an agent: her ability to sleep anywhere. The exhaustion of the previous 24 hours knocked her out for most of the next day. Her cell was dank and cold, and the flimsy bunk would leave bruises on her hips by day 3, but she had been trained to expect much worse.

The guards didn't bother her much. She was given water and stale bread, but generally left alone. She could sometimes whisper at the bars with the neighboring cell for ten minutes before anyone came to yell at them.

No news from her unit. She assumed no news was good news.

She found if she stood on the little bunk, she could peek through the tiny window at the top of the wall and see across the courtyard to the interrogation room. Not well enough to recognize anyone, but it was something.

Prisoners before her had carved messages into the decaying plaster. One right above her bunk read: "JAMAIS PARLER"..."never talk." She stared at it for hours, and waited for the real interrogation that was sure to come.

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Landa slurped the dregs of his coffee, and brought the little cup and saucer to the dishwashers' window at the back of the cafeteria.

"Pardon," he called in immaculate French. "May I speak with Alain Fournier, please?"

A tall young man in a grungy apron appeared at the window. He looked Landa up and down. "I am Alain."

"I don't mean to distract you from your duties, but I wondered if we might have a little chat?" Landa said pleasantly.

Alain opened the door to the kitchen, several feet away. "Right this way, Standartenführer."

He led the officer through the busy kitchen to the dishwashing station, where Landa flipped a bucket and sat before being asked. Alain perched on the edge of the basin, one leg swinging nonchalantly.

"What can I do for you, Oberst?" the young man ventured.

"Mr. Fournier, I'm afraid the purpose of my visit is...mm. I am led to believe you know a woman named Sylvia Leventhal."

"Afraid you're mistaken, sir. I don't know a Sylvia."

Landa smiled pleasantly. "Perhaps you know her better as Greta."

Alain's leg stopped swinging.

"No, sir, doesn't ring a bell."

Landa was not in the mood. "Young man, we arrested her last week. She has been in my custody since we found her in the cafe. She was trapped under a piece of the ceiling while the rest of you escaped. But I see you were unharmed."

The young man blinked once, as he processed this new information.

"I'm not going to arrest you," Landa finally said. "That's not why I'm here. Please, what can you tell me about Sylvia?"

"First of all," Alain said with a slight quaver in his voice. "I didn't know her name was Sylvia. Second, if she's in your custody, you're the one I feel sorry for."

"She is a most unusual woman."

"Yes, she is."

A pause while another soldier dropped off dishes under the window. After they had left, Landa continued.

"I have no intentions of harming her, Mr. Fournier. Nothing you tell me will be used against her, or any of your operation. I merely find her...interesting."

Alain swallowed. "I'm glad to hear that. Sylvia is pretty interesting. But I don't think you're her type."

Landa frowned. "Explain, please."

"You know her full name, it's fairly obvious."

Alain stood, and began to untie the apron.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Well, Standartenführer," he chirped. "Seems that I don't work here anymore."

"Yes, Mr. Fournier, I don't believe you do." Landa stood. "But the SS could always use young men of your intelligence. We offer a competitive pay rate."

"That's very generous of you, Herr Landa, but my dance card is full."

He set the apron on the counter, then turned back to Landa. "You swear on your life you won't hurt her?"

Landa raised his hand solemnly. "I swear on my life and all I hold dear."

Alain nodded, and backed slowly away. Landa watched from the dishwashing window as a known enemy agent walked free.

What was this girl doing to him?

As he walked back to 84 Avenue Foch, a plan took shape in his mind, murky, but thrilling. Unorthodox, perhaps. And certainly stretching the rules if not outright breaking them. But she was a special case.

An interrogation of a different sort. Long-form. Teasing out her secrets. Gaining her trust, wearing her down with his charm. Hans had no shortage of that, as his long trail of conquests proved. No woman had ever resisted him for long. Even a fierce half-Jew from America would succumb. He smiled at the thought of the proud resistance fighter willingly coming to his bed. Whimpering his name. Wanting him. The same mouth that left tooth marks in the sleeve of his leather coat that night would beg him for permission to come. Mm. Exquisite.

The ghost of a thought flickered at the edge of this fantasy – what to do with her after? He pushed it away for later, and asked the elevator bellhop for the fifth floor.