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"They set the world on fire. It wasn't a war anymore; it was a remaking.
Some losses are inevitable. Some... unthinkable. Now they've built a new world.
Armies of steel and thunder. They're rewriting history."
The war-afflicted USA painted itself as the ideal; a colored landscape, a revival of the roaring twenties. It remained headed by an American spokesperson, though it served only as a facade, for Nazi influence had long injected itself into the Whitehouse and corrupted the very foundations of its power. Civilians were heavily regulated and were made to abide by listed zones and curfews, and the poor and war-torn populace were allocated rations and aid when their need was dire. Laws were pressed by martial standards; the SS patrolled the streets in frightening numbers, and the Gestapo raided suspect residences freely and without consequence.
Most had submitted to the New World Order, and had slowly settled into a sense of normalcy and routine. But there were few who still donned their duties and anger, manifesting in form of rebel movements across the globe. In 1955, the population held its breath at the assassination of General Heinrich Engel, former leader of the Nazi scientific movement and tyrant of the American Embassy. The victory was short-lived, however, for the death of one monster gave rise to many others. The incident provoked a mass shooting of civilians deemed suspicious of rebel involvement, the bodies of which hung upon the walls of the embassy 'til the crows began to claim them.
The concept of survival proved simple, albeit difficult to swallow. Silence, and obedience.
Obey, or die.
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Clear skies, clean air; each graced her senses and was met with deep gratitude. Lena's chin had lifted towards the clouds, having once forgotten what they had looked like, and she stepped from the boat ramp in vacant and bewildered thought. Her mind cast back to home, and she pictured the crumbling ruins of Warsaw, the barbed fences of its many work camps, and the thick grey fog which lingered eternally above them. Like the rest of Europe, Poland had been torn down by the war. Lena had admired the Americas on old stamps and postcards, and for the first time she was able to finally behold them in person. Normalcy became apparent to her, presented in vast crowds and neon signs which glowed even in the blue of the midday sky. Yet, there was a certain, uneasy weight to the air, and amidst the poster girls and bright billboards it didn't take long for her to notice the red banners which lined the harbor. Swastikas glared like the eyes of the beast. And beneath them, the grey demons themselves; devout members of the Schutstaffel, mingled among the harbor crowd.
Lena had long practiced the art of caution, and knew well to avoid attention when none was needed. But as she approached the gates to the feigned free world, a lump formed in her throat. Though she was still some fifty meters away from the gated checkpoint, the on-duty officer had already set an eye upon her, peering from beneath his peaked grey cap. She swallowed, and lifted her chin as to at least wear the mask of confidence. She had nothing to hide. Nothing to hide. Nothing to hide.
She was, perhaps, a peculiar sight; short-haired, as was the rule in her former station, and oddly clothed. Her lithe figure bore a plain white blouse and pleated navy skirt, falling a short ways past her knees in an elegant format. Atop this otherwise normal attire, however, was an olive-colored coat which seemed a few sizes too large. A coat intended for men, it seemed, with its padded shoulders and large breast pockets. Most strikingly was the presence of rouge lipstick on an otherwise pale and naked face; no doubt the marking of a poor girl who had been given her first cosmetic gift. She carried a cheap black purse over her shoulder, and hugged a dossier of type-written documents to her torso.
"FrΓ€ulein."
The man stood from his station as Lena approached, his arms folding loosely behind his pack. She peered up at him with a small nod in greeting, and from the dark look in his gaze, she knew he was already looking for a reason.
"Do you speak English?"
"Yes, sir." Lena's voice was small, bearing the subtle and almost-absent grace of her home accent. She held out her dossier, which the officer took, and his eyes lingered down upon her for a moment before dropping to her documents. The front-most page, headed by a read triangle stamped with the letter 'P,' covered her identity, and of course, her former address.
"... Aslau Stammlager. Gross-Rosen." His gaze lifted, and her lips parted. He was making her needlessly nervous.
"Yes, sir, I was granted amnesty from the Gross-Rosen camps only this February passed. The documentation is all in there."
Again, he read on. Gloved fingertips peeled the pages apart, and he ran his vision down the many given references in support of her release. His brow raised, and though his expression remained firm, she could tell he was amusing himself.
"Service and good behaviour." He exhaled sharply through his nose, his own accent thick with hints of his homeland. "What service would that be, might I ask?"
Her lip quivered. It was known that amnesty was scarcely given to those charged to live among comfort women, and so she did not know why he scrutinized her so. It took conscious effort to prevent herself from frowning in his direction, and the corners of her lips quivered in agitation.
"I was stationed in comms, sir," she began, withdrawing her breath, "I translated speeches and radio communications for intelligence and new arrivals." A deep scowl presented upon the officer's already rugged features, and her fingertips tingled in sudden nervousness.
"An interpreter. You speak German?" His tone was bitter as he returned to his native language. She nodded. "You might've told me this to begin with and spared me the effort. Show me your arm."
Her breath hitched in her throat. "Sir, with respect, I have done this on the ferry already --"
The officer clicked his tongue. She exhaled, reaching to lift her sleeve, but the material was stiff and would not bundle tightly enough for her to show him what he wanted. Her eyes glanced in either direction, conscious of on-lookers, and she resorted to shrugging off her coat completely. She dropped it along with her bag to the dry floor, and unbuttoned the cuff of her blouse sleeve. The cotton was rolled to her elbow and she held out her forearm. A numbered tattoo was present on the flesh; 3087980A. The officer gripped her arm, running a gloved thumb firmly across the ink to check that it was permanent before pulling away. She grimaced at the sensation, and was quick to return her coat to her shoulders.
Indeed, Nazi officers stationed in the Americas knew well to be wary of those claiming to hail from labour camps. Whilst many had been given the privilege to rejoin society in recent days, most prisoners - particularly those held in Europe - had no property nor funds registered to their name, and were thus forced to stay within the camps regardless. Lena, however, had been granted the will of her great uncle; a former cobbler, whose shoe-making aspirations had led him to purchase a small home in New England. That home now resided under the name of Lena Zielinski, a former Polish prisoner of war, whose home was reclaimed four years ago at the age of sixteen.
"Keep these on your person, and present them when asked." The officer spoke, still uneasy of her entry as he lifted the iron latch and allowed to gate to slide partways across. He handed back her dossier, allowing access to a new land. "Welcome to New England, FrΓ€ulein."
It had been easier than expected, no doubt, but she could still feel the weight of the Nazi's glare against the back of her skull as she departed from the ports. She preferred the authority of her homeland, somehow, for the threats there were blatant and easily recognized. Here, they were subtle, but frightfully potent -- like a pit of snakes, hidden 'neath a thin veil of attractive silk.
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