Velvet Waltz [An Inglourious Basterds fic]

Epilogue: Perfect From Now On

Late August, 1954

Hans could see her from the kitchen window. She was barefoot, in her usual spot on the sand, notebook on her lap, gazing out to sea.

Sylvia had been lukewarm about the Nantucket property when they first arrived in the states, skeptical of what the US government had picked out for them. After wordlessly touring the house, she had stepped out the back door, taken in the view of the open ocean, and sank to her knees. "I dreamed this, Hans! This view!" she gushed to him. "I dreamed this and it's right here!"

She had that same blissful expression now. It did his heart good to see her so serene.

It had been a whirlwind week for their little family, having just dropped Mirjam off for her freshman year of college in the Berkshires. She had grown into a fierce young woman, as brilliant as Hans, and as passionate about justice as Sylvia. She was so self-possessed, it was difficult to believe she had entered their lives as a deeply traumatized, nearly mute war orphan.

She had horrific nightmares of the bombings, the violence, the carnage. So many nights Hans had sat at her bedside, holding her, singing to her, until she felt safe. "Go back to sleep," he would say to Sylvia. "This is my responsibility." "Don't be ridiculous," she always retorted. But Hans was sure she knew what he meant.

Ten years later, Hans had set the last box down in her dorm room at Smith College, pathetically stalling for time, asking inane questions about her roommates, campus security, transportation. "Relax, Dad," Mirjam had said, rolling her dark eyes with irritation. "I've got this."

It had been years since her last nightmare. But who would sit up with her if they came back?

From Smith, they had driven to the coast to take that familiar ferry to the island, where they could unwind a little. They were in no great hurry to return to New York. Perhaps they could detour to Boston and visit the Donowitzes, who always seemed glad to have company. Sylvia would want to visit the little Jewish cemetery in Back Bay and lay flowers on Donny's marker. Hans always hung back, let her have her moment alone with 'him,' but he had to admit, he missed that brash young man, too.

They had stayed in touch with most of the Basterds' families, in fact. They sent a holiday card every December to Aldo's address in Tennessee, although they rarely got a response.

Hans glanced at the photo on the icebox door, pinned with a magnet shaped like a starfish: Hans, Sylvia, little Mirjam, and their good friends Alain and Smitty, all sunburnt and windblown on a pier. Alain and Smitty lived in New York as well, on the Upper East Side. Mirjam called both of them "uncle."

He looked back at her, careful to use his peripheral vision. When your wife was one of the most decorated wartime spies in America, there was only so much you could get away with.

Today was the day. He was going to show her the letter.

Hans slipped out of the kitchen, down the little hallway to their bedroom, where the curtains billowed in the sea breeze. He unzipped his suitcase, and pulled the now battered letter out of the inner pocket.

It wasn't that he wanted to hide anything from her. Heaven knew they made decisions as a team, and he deferred to her judgement more often than his own. But this was something else.

He had been tempted to burn it, independently investigate the author, write "no such person at this address" and return it, in hopes they wouldn't try again. It was only after a few days' rumination that he began to seriously consider its contents.

He returned to the dining room, packed his pipe with tobacco, and sat at the table to smoke. She'd be angry when she saw the postmark date, and he couldn't blame her. She'd be angry reading the rest of it as well, but perhaps...