The Bear Jew Always Tops : Chapter One
Title: The Bear Jew Always Tops : Chapter 1/?
Characters: All The Basterds
Rating: R (as a cover-all for the following chapters to come)
Disclaimer: QT owns everything important. (in the fic, anyway)
Warnings: In this chapter: Violence and strong language.
Summary: "Since he didn’t speak French, he settled for breaking wind at her fancy lace towels and pocketing the second ball of soap in the dish."
French water smelled. Leastways, it smelled different than the water back home. Back home, the water smelled clean, like it was just pulled from a well. Here it smelled like it lived under the streets in rusty pipes. Which, maybe it did. Aldo Raine reached for one of the little soap balls in the dish and ran it under the smelly water.
Maybe that’s why the soap smelled so frilly, he thought, to cover up the smell of the water.
He lathered his hands and washed his face, frowning when he realized the damn soap didn’t easily fit in his palm like he was used to, and therefore took longer to use. He was dripping all over the place and he didn’t give a shit. Aldo reached blindly behind him and pulled one of the delicate lace towels off the bar. If French women were anything like American women, or at least the American women he knew, then he was using this one’s good soap and good towels when he should be reaching into the medicine cabinet for the real soap, or in the thing over the toilet for the real towels. He didn’t care. He was tired and he was pissed.
“You need to get in here?” he spoke to the lump on the bed, looking at her in the mirror over the sink, not bothering to turn around.
“Non,” he sneered as the Frenchie bitch rolled over lazily on the bed and reached for an open magazine on the bedside table. It was just rude, is what it was, crawlin’ all over a man in public, then going cold as soon as the door was shut and the clothes were off. She acted like there was something wrong with him. Like it was his fault she preferred a body in pristine condition with no scars to speak of.
He set about putting on the rest of his clothes, buttoning up, tucking in, and straightening. It was when he was tying his boots, bent half over the toilet, resting his heel on the rim, when he caught her poking the short stack of francs he left on her bedside table. She sneered at the money and he felt fire blow through him. He dared her, just dared her to tell him he short changed her.
When she caught his eye and realized what he saw her doing, she smiled wanly and made a point to flip a page of the magazine. Aldo wished he knew French so he could cuss her in her own language. Since he didn’t, he settled for breaking wind at her fancy lace towels and pocketing the second ball of soap in the dish. You never knew when you needed a good soap ball, did you?
“These balls supposed to be something particular?” he found himself asking, though God knew why.
“Pardon?” she didn’t even look up from her magazine and her tone told him exactly what she thought he could do with her fancy French shit.
“The soap. In the dish. It supposed to be something pretty or it made like ‘at so it’s useless like a French whore?”
She sneered and cut her eyes at him. Aldo kept his face blank, so she wouldn’t know he was laughing at her. Sometimes it was a gift, bein’ from Tennessee. Well, he figured it was always a gift bein’ from Tennessee, but what he meant was people were always assuming he was stupid, so he could get away with more. Not that it didn’t grate now and again, people thinkin’ you was simple, but sometimes it paid off.
“So?” he prompted, running his hands over his hair to make sure it wasn’t cowlicking anywhere. “It pretty or pretty useless?”
“They are cabbage roses you--” she let loose with a string of fancy French words he figured would have gotten him a good ear-boxin’ if he’d used ‘em in spitting distance of his Pa.
“Well, thanks for explaining it to me.” Aldo plopped his hat on his head and made a show of tipping it at her. “Next time I’m through this town I’ll have to look you up again, Simone, seein’ as how you’re so accommodating and all.”
She picked up an empty glass from the bedside table and he heard it shatter against the back of the door as he shut it behind him. That cow. Aldo shook his head and clattered down the stairs of the whore house. He had exactly twenty minutes to make it to the rendezvous point and he wanted to stop at that café on the corner, get himself a sandwich or some such since his squad was about to be roughing it. He wondered if anyone at a French café would know how to make a good American meal like shit on a shingle.
***
“Hey Sergeant, you gonna do anything with ‘at Natzi, or you just gonna stare at him all day?”
They had happened on them by accident. A group of Nazis around a broken down transport, hood up, tools spread out like they’d been there a while. There were only five of them but they did have something important to tell. They were coming back from some kind of furlough, probably went to the same whore house Aldo had.
They were returning to guard duty, they said. Very important prisoner, they said. What kind of prisoner would be so important, Aldo had wondered, needed five fresh guards at a time? The kind that was so dangerous he was being specially transported to Berlin in secret for a special trial. The kind who was a boogie man to bad little Aryan babies. The kind who had his own comrades so spooked that they wouldn’t even be alone in the same bunker with him if he was on the wrong side of the bars and they had the key. Hugo Stiglitz.
The Basterds might not have been in Germany very long, but they had heard of Hugo Stiglitz. Who hadn’t? The papers were lousy with tales of the guy. Granted, they didn’t see a lot of fresh newspapers, but you’d be surprised the news you find out when you take the time to look what your meat’s wrapped in. After hearing where the soldiers were headed, the Basterds made short work of them. This young one was the only one left. He had already obliged them with the bunker’s location, pass words, guard rotations, and a map. There were no other secrets for him to tell. So, he got to meet Donny.
Donny Donowitz stared down at the Nazi private and felt a split second of something akin to guilt. Well, he shifted, fingers tightening on his bat, guilt was the wrong word. Maybe pity. Here’s this kid, looking like he’s only three months shy of seventeen, and he’s all trussed up in a shiny suit and trying to act like he’s tough when Donny can tell just by looking at him the kid’s shitting his pants. “You hate Jews, kid?” He asked partly because he’d never thought to ask before, but also because he wanted to know. How does a kid like this decide to join up with a cause like that when he doesn’t even look old enough to shave?
The private grimaced and shifted on his knees. He couldn’t make a break for it before Donny hit him or he’d get shot. He pretty much just had to wait till he got clobbered. The kid opened his mouth like he’d say something, but he choked on his own snot and started sobbing instead. Donny heaved a long suffering sigh and shrugged over his shoulder at his Lieutenant. “How’m I supposed to hit him when he’s crying like a little girl?”
“Can’t hit girls, that’s for damn sure,” Aldo agreed, he was cleaning under his nails with his knife. Made the Germans go all titchy like when he did that. Made him look mean or something. “Want Hirschberg to shoot him?”
The kid sobbed, practically planting his face on the forest floor.
“Hey Hirschberg, you wanna shoot this Natzi since he’s gone all sissified?”
The kid straightened, hands clasped together as though in the act of saying a Hail Mary and choked out something in German. Donny didn’t need a translate to know he was begging. He rolled his eyes skyward. It wasn’t the first time one of them begged. It was the first time he didn’t just hit ‘em anyway, though. He stared down at the kid, considering. “You wanna give me a reason why I shouldn’t beat you brainless?”
The kid choked again and coughed, hacking snot down his chin. Donny backed up a pace to keep his boots clean. “I am a coward,” he sniveled. A growing stain on the kid’s uniform attested to that statement. “I am not like those other men.” He pointed at the pile of bodies on the side of the road.
“Oh,” Donny sneered, “you’re not like those other Jew-killers, huh?”
“I am not! I have been a good soldier, I have only followed orders!” The kid wiped his nose with the back of his hand. It only served to wipe the snot and spit around his face some more. “What do I care about the Jews? I don’t care, I swear!”
“Well then, this must really chap your piss-stained ass kid,” Donny spat, rage blossoming in his gut, “because I don’t care about you much either.” He swung the bat like they taught him, not just hitting the target, but hitting through it. It knocked the little Nazi right off his heels and even though he was kneeling, he spun a little, ending up face down on the roadside. He didn’t stop with just one; he hit the back of the kid’s head so hard he felt the gravel of the road underneath.
He beat the back of his head again and again and again until there was nothing left but skin and bone fragments and used-up brain matter oozing out of what was left of the kid’s ears. He could hear the guys cheering behind him, cheering mostly in awe he thought. Not so much at him, but at what he was willing to do.
He knew he was an animal and he didn’t particularly care.
There’s something about beating somebody to a bloody pulp with a stick. It’s scarier than just shooting them. It’s…more intimate. That’s why he did it. That, and he admitted to himself, because they fucking deserved it and it happened to be the most painful thing he could think of that didn’t require a table, a scalpel, and restraints. The bat was quick, it was easy, and it traveled well.
Plus, it made a great story: this great, big, mad-dog of a Jew beating the shit out of a bunch of sniveling Nazis. Even if it meant he was never going to be able to think of baseball the same way again.
“Good man, Donny,” The Lieutenant clapped appreciatively, his knife sandwiched under his armpit. “That’s the kinda enthusiasm I like to see.” He looked around at the rest of the squad, quickly making sure everybody was present and accounted for, and then he waved at the road, “Now, let’s move out, see if we can find this bunker before it gets too dark.”
They fell in like Aldo knew they would and he sidled up to his sergeant, holstering the big Bowie knife as he went. “You thinkin’ about addin’ around a twenty questions to your repertoire, son?”
Donny shrugged, slinging his weapon of choice over his shoulders, “Not especially. I don’t really care about their life stories, sir.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” Aldo glanced at Donny sidelong. He wasn’t sure how he managed it, but he was fairly certain the bigger man had put on more muscle since their arrival in Europe. “But you might wanna think about it. ‘Specially if there’s one of their comrades watchin’. Makes you seem scarier.”
“That right?” Donny figured it probably had to do with some kind of mental manipulation that he didn’t feel like thinking about right now. Freud was beneath him.
“Hell yeah that’s right, I know if I was one a’them Gerry fuckers on my knees listenin’ to this guy talk to my friend all civil like ‘fore he hit him with a fucking ball bat, I’d be shittin’ myself.” Aldo laughed, “Hell, I wouldn’t even have to be a German.”
Donny looked at him sidelong and grinned, “You tellin’ me I scare you, Lieutenant?”
“It’s a good kinda scared, soldier.” Aldo laughed with him and they fell into a kind of companionable silence until dark.
***
Thing about springin’ Stiglitz, Aldo thought, it went easier’n a three dollar whore. Which was pretty damn easy, all things considered. That little Nazi boy gave good information and they were able to sneak in and sneak right back out again. They had to dump the truck, though.
Between the two of them, Utivich and Hirschbirg were able to get it into a kind of running order so they could make it over the hill to the bunker. Afterward, they drove it a few miles down the road, but had to dump it when it looked like there was a road block ahead. Shame about that, a truck would have been a nice thing to have. But then, Aldo didn’t fancy traveling practically on somebody’s lap for miles at a time on a daily basis so maybe it was for the best.
He stared across the campfire at the newest recruit. The flames played across the German’s face, making it seem craggy and harsh. Aldo cocked his head, considering. “What makes a kraut hate another kraut?”
“That a kind of riddle, sir?” Somebody, Omar maybe, called across the fire. Aldo shook his head, his eyes not leaving Stiglitz.
“They rape your mama, boy?”
Stiglitz swiped his head first left then right.
“Set your dog on fire?”
Again, left, then right. This time he brought a flask of some kind of liquor to his lips. It came from a hidden pocket of his uniform.
“You gonna make me ask again, son?” Aldo’s voice held a hint of command, but just a hint. Anymore and he’d have to get up and make his point.
Stiglitz said something in German and returned the flask to his pocket. Aldo rolled his eyes.
“Wicki!”
“He said he’s insubordinate, sir.”
“Yeah, I got that,” Aldo scratched his chin, “killin’ thirteen officers’ll piss off a few people. They demote you before they try to ship you off to Berlin, sergeant?”
A quirk of the lips, but nothing more. Could be a yes, could be a no.
“So other than this authority problem, why go on a killing spree?” Aldo mused, “You one a’them ‘undesirables’ the Nazis’ is always goin’ on about?” Undesirable was a relative title, it could mean Jew, gypsy, queer, or any other type of person labeled ‘enemy of the state’.
Stiglitz barked a laugh and muttered something else in his native tongue. Wicki was quick with a translation this time. “He says he is not a gypsy and if he were a Jew he’d be dead already.”
Though it was not, Aldo thought, a complete answer. He shrugged, “You’re gonna have to stop with the German, Stiglitz. We don’t have time to make Wicki translate everything for no prima donnas, you hear?”
The German nodded and set about the complicated business of lighting a cigarette. It seemed like a good enough idea to Aldo, so he did the same. Stiglitz took a long draw from the cigarette and let the smoke curl lazily from his lips.
“You would prefer French?” He asked.
Characters: All The Basterds
Rating: R (as a cover-all for the following chapters to come)
Disclaimer: QT owns everything important. (in the fic, anyway)
Warnings: In this chapter: Violence and strong language.
Summary: "Since he didn’t speak French, he settled for breaking wind at her fancy lace towels and pocketing the second ball of soap in the dish."
French water smelled. Leastways, it smelled different than the water back home. Back home, the water smelled clean, like it was just pulled from a well. Here it smelled like it lived under the streets in rusty pipes. Which, maybe it did. Aldo Raine reached for one of the little soap balls in the dish and ran it under the smelly water.
Maybe that’s why the soap smelled so frilly, he thought, to cover up the smell of the water.
He lathered his hands and washed his face, frowning when he realized the damn soap didn’t easily fit in his palm like he was used to, and therefore took longer to use. He was dripping all over the place and he didn’t give a shit. Aldo reached blindly behind him and pulled one of the delicate lace towels off the bar. If French women were anything like American women, or at least the American women he knew, then he was using this one’s good soap and good towels when he should be reaching into the medicine cabinet for the real soap, or in the thing over the toilet for the real towels. He didn’t care. He was tired and he was pissed.
“You need to get in here?” he spoke to the lump on the bed, looking at her in the mirror over the sink, not bothering to turn around.
“Non,” he sneered as the Frenchie bitch rolled over lazily on the bed and reached for an open magazine on the bedside table. It was just rude, is what it was, crawlin’ all over a man in public, then going cold as soon as the door was shut and the clothes were off. She acted like there was something wrong with him. Like it was his fault she preferred a body in pristine condition with no scars to speak of.
He set about putting on the rest of his clothes, buttoning up, tucking in, and straightening. It was when he was tying his boots, bent half over the toilet, resting his heel on the rim, when he caught her poking the short stack of francs he left on her bedside table. She sneered at the money and he felt fire blow through him. He dared her, just dared her to tell him he short changed her.
When she caught his eye and realized what he saw her doing, she smiled wanly and made a point to flip a page of the magazine. Aldo wished he knew French so he could cuss her in her own language. Since he didn’t, he settled for breaking wind at her fancy lace towels and pocketing the second ball of soap in the dish. You never knew when you needed a good soap ball, did you?
“These balls supposed to be something particular?” he found himself asking, though God knew why.
“Pardon?” she didn’t even look up from her magazine and her tone told him exactly what she thought he could do with her fancy French shit.
“The soap. In the dish. It supposed to be something pretty or it made like ‘at so it’s useless like a French whore?”
She sneered and cut her eyes at him. Aldo kept his face blank, so she wouldn’t know he was laughing at her. Sometimes it was a gift, bein’ from Tennessee. Well, he figured it was always a gift bein’ from Tennessee, but what he meant was people were always assuming he was stupid, so he could get away with more. Not that it didn’t grate now and again, people thinkin’ you was simple, but sometimes it paid off.
“So?” he prompted, running his hands over his hair to make sure it wasn’t cowlicking anywhere. “It pretty or pretty useless?”
“They are cabbage roses you--” she let loose with a string of fancy French words he figured would have gotten him a good ear-boxin’ if he’d used ‘em in spitting distance of his Pa.
“Well, thanks for explaining it to me.” Aldo plopped his hat on his head and made a show of tipping it at her. “Next time I’m through this town I’ll have to look you up again, Simone, seein’ as how you’re so accommodating and all.”
She picked up an empty glass from the bedside table and he heard it shatter against the back of the door as he shut it behind him. That cow. Aldo shook his head and clattered down the stairs of the whore house. He had exactly twenty minutes to make it to the rendezvous point and he wanted to stop at that café on the corner, get himself a sandwich or some such since his squad was about to be roughing it. He wondered if anyone at a French café would know how to make a good American meal like shit on a shingle.
***
“Hey Sergeant, you gonna do anything with ‘at Natzi, or you just gonna stare at him all day?”
They had happened on them by accident. A group of Nazis around a broken down transport, hood up, tools spread out like they’d been there a while. There were only five of them but they did have something important to tell. They were coming back from some kind of furlough, probably went to the same whore house Aldo had.
They were returning to guard duty, they said. Very important prisoner, they said. What kind of prisoner would be so important, Aldo had wondered, needed five fresh guards at a time? The kind that was so dangerous he was being specially transported to Berlin in secret for a special trial. The kind who was a boogie man to bad little Aryan babies. The kind who had his own comrades so spooked that they wouldn’t even be alone in the same bunker with him if he was on the wrong side of the bars and they had the key. Hugo Stiglitz.
The Basterds might not have been in Germany very long, but they had heard of Hugo Stiglitz. Who hadn’t? The papers were lousy with tales of the guy. Granted, they didn’t see a lot of fresh newspapers, but you’d be surprised the news you find out when you take the time to look what your meat’s wrapped in. After hearing where the soldiers were headed, the Basterds made short work of them. This young one was the only one left. He had already obliged them with the bunker’s location, pass words, guard rotations, and a map. There were no other secrets for him to tell. So, he got to meet Donny.
Donny Donowitz stared down at the Nazi private and felt a split second of something akin to guilt. Well, he shifted, fingers tightening on his bat, guilt was the wrong word. Maybe pity. Here’s this kid, looking like he’s only three months shy of seventeen, and he’s all trussed up in a shiny suit and trying to act like he’s tough when Donny can tell just by looking at him the kid’s shitting his pants. “You hate Jews, kid?” He asked partly because he’d never thought to ask before, but also because he wanted to know. How does a kid like this decide to join up with a cause like that when he doesn’t even look old enough to shave?
The private grimaced and shifted on his knees. He couldn’t make a break for it before Donny hit him or he’d get shot. He pretty much just had to wait till he got clobbered. The kid opened his mouth like he’d say something, but he choked on his own snot and started sobbing instead. Donny heaved a long suffering sigh and shrugged over his shoulder at his Lieutenant. “How’m I supposed to hit him when he’s crying like a little girl?”
“Can’t hit girls, that’s for damn sure,” Aldo agreed, he was cleaning under his nails with his knife. Made the Germans go all titchy like when he did that. Made him look mean or something. “Want Hirschberg to shoot him?”
The kid sobbed, practically planting his face on the forest floor.
“Hey Hirschberg, you wanna shoot this Natzi since he’s gone all sissified?”
The kid straightened, hands clasped together as though in the act of saying a Hail Mary and choked out something in German. Donny didn’t need a translate to know he was begging. He rolled his eyes skyward. It wasn’t the first time one of them begged. It was the first time he didn’t just hit ‘em anyway, though. He stared down at the kid, considering. “You wanna give me a reason why I shouldn’t beat you brainless?”
The kid choked again and coughed, hacking snot down his chin. Donny backed up a pace to keep his boots clean. “I am a coward,” he sniveled. A growing stain on the kid’s uniform attested to that statement. “I am not like those other men.” He pointed at the pile of bodies on the side of the road.
“Oh,” Donny sneered, “you’re not like those other Jew-killers, huh?”
“I am not! I have been a good soldier, I have only followed orders!” The kid wiped his nose with the back of his hand. It only served to wipe the snot and spit around his face some more. “What do I care about the Jews? I don’t care, I swear!”
“Well then, this must really chap your piss-stained ass kid,” Donny spat, rage blossoming in his gut, “because I don’t care about you much either.” He swung the bat like they taught him, not just hitting the target, but hitting through it. It knocked the little Nazi right off his heels and even though he was kneeling, he spun a little, ending up face down on the roadside. He didn’t stop with just one; he hit the back of the kid’s head so hard he felt the gravel of the road underneath.
He beat the back of his head again and again and again until there was nothing left but skin and bone fragments and used-up brain matter oozing out of what was left of the kid’s ears. He could hear the guys cheering behind him, cheering mostly in awe he thought. Not so much at him, but at what he was willing to do.
He knew he was an animal and he didn’t particularly care.
There’s something about beating somebody to a bloody pulp with a stick. It’s scarier than just shooting them. It’s…more intimate. That’s why he did it. That, and he admitted to himself, because they fucking deserved it and it happened to be the most painful thing he could think of that didn’t require a table, a scalpel, and restraints. The bat was quick, it was easy, and it traveled well.
Plus, it made a great story: this great, big, mad-dog of a Jew beating the shit out of a bunch of sniveling Nazis. Even if it meant he was never going to be able to think of baseball the same way again.
“Good man, Donny,” The Lieutenant clapped appreciatively, his knife sandwiched under his armpit. “That’s the kinda enthusiasm I like to see.” He looked around at the rest of the squad, quickly making sure everybody was present and accounted for, and then he waved at the road, “Now, let’s move out, see if we can find this bunker before it gets too dark.”
They fell in like Aldo knew they would and he sidled up to his sergeant, holstering the big Bowie knife as he went. “You thinkin’ about addin’ around a twenty questions to your repertoire, son?”
Donny shrugged, slinging his weapon of choice over his shoulders, “Not especially. I don’t really care about their life stories, sir.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” Aldo glanced at Donny sidelong. He wasn’t sure how he managed it, but he was fairly certain the bigger man had put on more muscle since their arrival in Europe. “But you might wanna think about it. ‘Specially if there’s one of their comrades watchin’. Makes you seem scarier.”
“That right?” Donny figured it probably had to do with some kind of mental manipulation that he didn’t feel like thinking about right now. Freud was beneath him.
“Hell yeah that’s right, I know if I was one a’them Gerry fuckers on my knees listenin’ to this guy talk to my friend all civil like ‘fore he hit him with a fucking ball bat, I’d be shittin’ myself.” Aldo laughed, “Hell, I wouldn’t even have to be a German.”
Donny looked at him sidelong and grinned, “You tellin’ me I scare you, Lieutenant?”
“It’s a good kinda scared, soldier.” Aldo laughed with him and they fell into a kind of companionable silence until dark.
***
Thing about springin’ Stiglitz, Aldo thought, it went easier’n a three dollar whore. Which was pretty damn easy, all things considered. That little Nazi boy gave good information and they were able to sneak in and sneak right back out again. They had to dump the truck, though.
Between the two of them, Utivich and Hirschbirg were able to get it into a kind of running order so they could make it over the hill to the bunker. Afterward, they drove it a few miles down the road, but had to dump it when it looked like there was a road block ahead. Shame about that, a truck would have been a nice thing to have. But then, Aldo didn’t fancy traveling practically on somebody’s lap for miles at a time on a daily basis so maybe it was for the best.
He stared across the campfire at the newest recruit. The flames played across the German’s face, making it seem craggy and harsh. Aldo cocked his head, considering. “What makes a kraut hate another kraut?”
“That a kind of riddle, sir?” Somebody, Omar maybe, called across the fire. Aldo shook his head, his eyes not leaving Stiglitz.
“They rape your mama, boy?”
Stiglitz swiped his head first left then right.
“Set your dog on fire?”
Again, left, then right. This time he brought a flask of some kind of liquor to his lips. It came from a hidden pocket of his uniform.
“You gonna make me ask again, son?” Aldo’s voice held a hint of command, but just a hint. Anymore and he’d have to get up and make his point.
Stiglitz said something in German and returned the flask to his pocket. Aldo rolled his eyes.
“Wicki!”
“He said he’s insubordinate, sir.”
“Yeah, I got that,” Aldo scratched his chin, “killin’ thirteen officers’ll piss off a few people. They demote you before they try to ship you off to Berlin, sergeant?”
A quirk of the lips, but nothing more. Could be a yes, could be a no.
“So other than this authority problem, why go on a killing spree?” Aldo mused, “You one a’them ‘undesirables’ the Nazis’ is always goin’ on about?” Undesirable was a relative title, it could mean Jew, gypsy, queer, or any other type of person labeled ‘enemy of the state’.
Stiglitz barked a laugh and muttered something else in his native tongue. Wicki was quick with a translation this time. “He says he is not a gypsy and if he were a Jew he’d be dead already.”
Though it was not, Aldo thought, a complete answer. He shrugged, “You’re gonna have to stop with the German, Stiglitz. We don’t have time to make Wicki translate everything for no prima donnas, you hear?”
The German nodded and set about the complicated business of lighting a cigarette. It seemed like a good enough idea to Aldo, so he did the same. Stiglitz took a long draw from the cigarette and let the smoke curl lazily from his lips.
“You would prefer French?” He asked.