Not another Nazi tale

TF2 OC fanfiction (and Constantine Biermann's prelude)
Author's note: His German accent isn't shown for most of the fic as he is speaking and thinking in German

3rd November 1964

Dresden, Deutsche Demokratische Republik (East Germany)
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He didn't know which smelt worse – the concentrated odor of stale sweat and old shoes, or the pungent tang of disinfectant that hung constantly in the air of the Faculty of Medicine, Technische Universität Dresden. The two scents combined to form an unsavory mixture that assaulted one's nostrils and resisted all attempts at desensitization, so young Constantine Biermann hurried briskly down the main corridor of the student's dormitories and out the door at the front. He finally paused to breathe in the cool evening air and reflected that he would have to endure the same smell for the next three years at least. Most students took advantage of the campus's sports facilities in their free time, but this was a luxury that he could not afford to indulge in. Between the scholarship and the savings his family had scraped together, he had barely enough for textbooks, let alone a tennis racquet. And he was too bloody short for most games. He kept walking towards the stony façade of Laboratory 2b. If he couldn't enjoy himself on the sports field, he at least enjoyed studying the corpses.

Fresh human cadavers awaited dissection and scrutiny on a near-weekly basis by the students and staff of the Faculty. Though still at the end of his first year and not yet allowed to conduct human dissections himself, Professor Dimitri Kruschev sensed an intense analytical acumen in the young Constantine and allowed the nineteen year old unofficial access to the bodies after hours – to keep him occupied when he shyly confessed to being teased out of the football team. The student was diligent and disciplined. He could sit beside them in the cold room as long as he liked, perhaps pick up a limb to flex every joint, as long as he did not damage anything.

The door swung open before Constantine could grab the handle. Professor Kruschev emerged and beamed down at him.

"Good evening Professor." Despite knowing he had special permission, Constantine still felt awkward about entering the morgue after hours and spoke meekly. "Ah, I see my most promising student has, as usual, arrived the night before everyone else," the professor replied with a grin. "There is a new cadaver tonight, an unclaimed pauper. I trust that you will treat even the poor with some dignity in death, yes?"

Constantine sputtered a quick but heartfelt agreement. Professor Kruschev was a Soviet and a reed-thin ex-army medic in his late forties. Despite his gentle demeanor, East Germans such as Constantine's family had learnt to be painfully wary of Russians such as Kruschev after the post-WWII social backlash. Common civilians, many of them not even born during the Third Reich, were still paying the price for Nazi atrocities two decades later. But the Professor was as egalitarian as he was kindly and the entire student body adored him.

"Very well, I will see you in class at 8:30am tomorrow." The professor drew his coat tighter about his shoulders and strode off, leaving Constantine at the door. There seemed to be a new air of weariness with each step the man took into the frosty night.

"Thank you Professor…" Constantine muttered after him. The student closed the door behind him and locked it. For a brief moment he reflected that the morgue smelt more pleasant to him than the boys' dormitories and was mildly disturbed at himself; before reasoning that at the very least the dead had been thoroughly washed. He made his way to the temperature-controlled room and turned the light on. There, resting on a chilled examination table that held off the ravages of decomposition for a day, was the dead man.

Constantine had been alone among the dead before and did not feel a slightest twinge of nervousness as he pulled up a chair and sat beside the table. The cadaver lay on his back, eyes closed. The man looked to be about as old as Kruschev, worn-looking with the scars and tanned complexion of someone who had spent too long living rough. Though he was naked, his groin was covered modestly with a folded piece of linen. His wavy auburn hair was neatly trimmed and combed back. Even his pallid chin had been shaved. The man had been treated with more care in death than in life, Constantine sadly pondered.

The cause of death was also painfully obvious. Deep purple bruises from some heavy, blunt object marred the man's torso, limbs and head. His nose was broken. Even if the vicious beating hadn't killed him, the crippling agony and probable internal wounds would have left him unable to crawl out of the encroaching winter snow. Though medical students were encouraged to depersonalize cadavers, the redhead could not help but think of each as a person prior to their passing.

Outside the cloistered walls of the university, people died in squalor and street violence amidst the ruins of Allied bombings and Soviet occupation. Constantine's own family was just scraping by. The forgotten elderly and terminally ill languished in state nursing homes until the end came. Neo-Nazi groups relived what to their minds were the glory days of the old Reich, while anti-German resentment also simmered and sometimes exploded into lethal vigilante attacks. Desperate parents sometimes sold the bodies of dead and stillborn children when they could not afford a burial. The unclaimed and unwanted dead of Dresden ultimately found their way to the morgue of the Faculty to be cut apart and studied in the name of science. This beggar was just another sad casualty among far too many. Constantine sighed.

In a few more years, he would become a doctor. He would work to make sure that everyone, no matter their ethnicity, wealth or status, would receive the best care he could possibly provide. He knew what it was like to grow up poor. Doctors earned a lot of money, and he would gladly and unselfishly donate whatever he could to help those who could not otherwise afford treatment. This was Socialism at its best – once Constantine started practicing he would be among the rich elite and therefore morally obligated to help the working classes. It did not matter that his efforts might go unnoticed or unappreciated in a city wracked with desolation. Far from causing emotional distress during dissection, thinking of the life and death of each person whose body lay in that room made Constantine swear himself towards ever loftier ideals of social justice.

But for now, he was an ambitious freshman in a threadbare jacket talking to a beggar's corpse. In the privacy of the morgue, Constantine could speak his mind aloud. The dead did not tease him about his dumpy stature or heed his benevolent tirades. As he did every evening that he got to spend with the cadavers, Constantine started by examining the man's limbs. After slipping on a pair of sterile latex gloves, he used both hands to gently lift the man's right arm and bent it slightly at the elbow.

How interesting, Constantine thought. The body was still extremely fresh and rigor mortis had only barely started. There was only a little stiffness as he moved the forearm up and down a few times. Usually the police needed at least a couple of hours to truly ascertain that nobody would claim the body. But the man's hand was still balled into a tight fist and seemed already stuck in that position. So by morning, even in the chill of the morgue, the body would have gone quite rigid. Professor Kruschev was gracious indeed to let Constantine examine him when he was still so supple.

The student knew that patient teasing and stretching of stiffened joints could finally loosen them. So he replaced the arm on the table and began manipulating the corpse's fist, pulling at each finger in turn. Death finally relinquished its frozen grip on the appendages and he managed to uncurl them. Then unexpectedly, the fingers straightened and closed again around Constantine's wrist.

The young man screamed and tore his hand away as the dead came to life with a low groan. He staggered backwards, knocking over a tray of dissecting instruments with a reverberating clatter. Later in life, he wouldn't be ashamed of recalling how he cringed and screamed in abject terror for what seemed like ages as the corpse turned out to be very much alive and struggled to rise from the table, only to sink down onto its back and flail weakly at thin air. It took a long time for visceral fear to give way to rational thought as Constantine steadied himself and finally stood up. The poor man must have been only unconscious when brought in!

Heart still thumping in his chest, Constantine snatched up the sheet covering the man's groin and unfolded it over his chest to keep him warm. Half-lidded eyes followed his movements with a pained expression as he slid one arm under the casualty's knees and another under his torso before lifting him off the table.

"Mein gott…you are still alive! Who are you? We've got to take you home…!"

"W-water…"

Without hesitation, he carried the man to an adjoining tea room, placed him gently on a couch and fetched a glass of water from the sink. When he tried to put the glass to the man's lips, the man lifted his arm and grasped the glass himself without dropping it – it seemed like he was quickly recovering. As he drank greedily, Constantine searched frantically around the room for something for him to wear – a forgotten labcoat, or perhaps a janitor's uniform. He finally found an old shirt being used as a kitchen rag in one drawer. It would have to do. On turning around, Constantine saw that the man had finished his drink and just slumped in his seat, nursing his wounds.

"I'm so sorry! Please put this on, Herr…"

The man closed his eyes as if to shut out the pain wracking his limbs and took the shirt.

"…Gottlieb."

"Gottlieb. I'm so sorry…"

"S-sorry?" He stammered weakly.

"I…we…well, we thought you were dead. By morning, we would have cut you to pieces…t-this is the University morgue!"

The beggar called Gottlieb got dressed, shook his head and sighed. He still needed more than the shirt and didn't seem resentful in the slightest. "I'm just a student who comes in on some evenings. Please let me lend you some of my clothes…you've taken a beating…oh dear I'm so sorry…" Constantine continued to mutter.

"It's ok… But yes, I'll need clothes…." Constantine noted that Gottlieb's speech was disjointed and awkward, probably due to being both poorly educated and recently smacked hard over the head. "Yes! I'll go get some from my room, and bring you some food too! Please wait here," he replied.

Gottlieb gave him a quiet grunt of agreement. He was still there when Constantine returned with a full set of warm clothing and a breadroll with cheese. "I don't really have that many clothes myself, Gottlieb. And I'm still in my first year and haven't studied how to fix all your injuries yet. But once you've eaten, we can go to Professor Kruschev's house and ask for his help. He's the doctor that brought you in."

"Professor Kruschev?" The beggar sounded curious.

"Yes. He teaches us here." Constantine gestured at the food. "I'm sure he would help you; but if you prefer, I can take you to the police…"

"Thank you…we'll go get…Kruschev…Herr…" Gottlieb tilted his head and looked at the student quizzically, prompting him to introduce himself. "…Constantine Biermann. I won't be much longer…"

"Please take your time!"

Gottlieb ravenously devoured the bread and cheese and Constantine wondered where he would be able to fetch more at such a late hour. But the man seemed sated afterward. He remained barefoot – Constantine owned only the pair of boots he was wearing and they would be too small for him anyway. In any case, even the clothes looked obviously too small, but he was in no position to complain. The student watched as Gottlieb rose unsteadily to his feet and followed him to the door. "I'm sorry I can't get you any shoes…"

"I have shoes…stored…not far away. Then we go see Professor?"


"Yes!" Constantine replied in a heartbeat.

"I'll be coming right back."
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Gottlieb retrieved his rucksack from under an old, weatherworn fruit crate in the alley. He'd been exceptionally lucky, considering that he was staring death in the face less than three hours ago. The university whelp was a godsend. Unbuckling the cover, he withdrew a pair of high black leather boots of much superior quality compared to what the kid wore and tugged them on, wincing at the pain that the action caused. The injuries and frostbite combined to form an agonizing mix.

No matter. He'd been unwittingly given a second chance to complete his mission. For a moment he briefly considered changing into his usual clothing but decided against it – though not wealthy, the boy seemed to take pride in his own hospitality and he did not want to change the current status quo. He dug deeper into the bag and was relieved to find that his backup pistol was still there, so he pulled it past layers of personal accoutrements until it sat closer to where the bag opened on the top. Finally he shouldered the rucksack and strode back to the waiting Constantine.

The redhead stood shivering in the snow and Gottlieb could not help but feel a small twinge of pity for him. He forced the thought from his mind as soon as it surfaced. Ironically, he found it much easier to dehumanize the kid. To him, Constantine was already the walking dead.
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A mere twenty minutes later, they were standing in front of the tall brick apartment block that was Professor Kruschev's residence. Flanked by a bakery on one side and a crumbling block on the other, it was really rather opulent when compared with the dreary facades of older and frequently battle-damaged buildings in the same neighborhood close to the university. Constantine beckoned Gottlieb through the doorway and took him up the flight of steps to the correct housing unit. Professor Kruschev lived alone and was very likely going to bed if he wasn't already asleep, so he reminded Gottlieb that the academic might not answer the door promptly. A few sharp knocks eventually earned them a muffled "Who is it?"

"Professor? This is Constantine. Sorry to trouble you, but it's really urgent!"

The next few moments were a blur of terrifying confusion for young Constantine. The tired professor tugged open the door and immediately, blood and brain tissue spurted in all directions as he fell from a single, silenced pistol shot in the face. Then before Constantine could recover, he felt the barrel of the same pistol prodding him in the back of the head. This time, Gottlieb spoke fluent English.

"Pull him into the flat, or you're next."

For the second time that night, Constantine Biermann was nearly paralyzed with fear. Professor Kruschev, his kind mentor, was now dead in some sort of waking nightmare made all the more surreal since he now had to peer at the body through blood-splattered glasses. Despite the dread gnawing at his insides, he had enough composure to remove them with a trembling hand and place them in his pocket, before doing as he was told.  Constantine slowly turned to face the killer and stepped backwards over Kruschev until he could grab the professor's wrists and drag him inside. Once the body was moved far back enough for Gottlieb to shut the door, Constantine immediately began pondering escape.

He had just witnessed and aided a murderer, and his own chances of survival were diminishing with each second that he allowed Gottlieb any control of the situation. He tried to buy himself a little time even as he stared down the barrel of the gun.

"Gottlieb, vhy did you do zhis?"

Barely-remembered English lessons from school sprung to his keen mind.

Gottlieb's aim did not falter as he spat on the professor's corpse.

"DON'T CALL ME 'GOTTLIEB'!" Abruptly he stepped forward and clubbed Constantine in the face with his gun. Although his head was whipped around by the force of the blow and he could taste the metallic tang where teeth had been snapped loose, Constantine found himself surprised by his own steady constitution and continued to think. The man was speaking English better than he'd spoken German, and Gottlieb was a German name. So…

"I am not a stinking German like you or your precious Professor, who by the way, is no Soviet either." Pain could not suppress Constantine's indignation and surprise.

"Vhy did you kill him?!" The blood was already a spreading dark circle on the carpet.

"Since I would probably have to kill you, I might as well satisfy your curiosity. 'Professor Dimitri Kruschev' is nothing but a false identity. He is none other than Dr. Gottlieb Kramer, SS Hauptsturmführer and the fifth Nazi camp doctor I have eliminated. He defected after the war to save his life."

"You are a Nazi hunzer?"

"Not good enough. Too many of them get to sit around in jail at taxpayers' expense. I prefer to be more decisive."  As if to underscore the point, he nudged the pistol back at Constantine.

This is a madman. Constantine's mind raced. There is no reasoning with him, but he doesn't see me as a serious threat so I can try stalling him until I find some way to get out of here.

"Your countrymen vill remember your greatness."

"Hogwash! I fight for justice, not fame!"

Sounds British. Constantine heard the self-righteous indignation in the man's voice and decided to continue stroking his ego. "A zrue knight. But, how do you know Gottlieb vas in zhe Schutzstaffel? Und if you vant zo kill me, zell me your real name first please?"

"My name is irrelevant, given your fate; but you can tell the Devil that Henry sent you. As for Gottlieb…" Without taking his eyes off Constantine, Henry delved his free hand into his pocket and fumbled for something. The student took the opportunity to survey the room they were in. They were in a short corridor that led to a living room. A small shoe rack was to his immediate right, while a pair of comfy chairs sat near a small coffee-table behind him. He did not think he would be able to reach any further before Henry pulled the trigger. The apartment was small but neat, and disappointingly empty of possible makeshift weapons. Under the sleeves of Constantine's jacket, well-built muscles grew taut as he prepared to spring forward with his bare hands.

But curiosity got the better of Constantine when Henry dropped three old photographs in front of him. On each was the clear, unambiguous image of a younger Gottlieb Kramer against the backdrop of some dreadful death camp. In one of them, he was dragging an emaciated prisoner who had to be either dead or too weak to stand. At once, it seemed that all fighting instinct left Constantine. Though he had only a vague idea of the magnitude of the Final Solution, he was crushed over the fact that his beloved mentor and role model was indeed part of the vile scheme. Constantine's optimism and faith in humanity had survived through nearly twenty years of poverty and injustice in postwar Germany. Now the realization came crashing down: maybe he was as deluded as Henry was all the while. They would both go to the grave as bitter men.

"By the way, I have a sneaking suspicion that Gottlieb left me in the morgue to quietly dispose of me after my first failed attempt on his life. It could have been so easy…a beggar holding up a wealthy man in an alley and 'accidentally' pulling the trigger. It seems that Gottlieb still remembered how to beat a man to death with a walking cane."

Constantine remained quiet for a while, and then started to weep over the corpse of the professor. Henry groaned.

"Oh please, spare me the sight of a grown man crying." His tone abruptly softened. "Look, I've never done this before, but you look like the strong, hardworking and helpful sort. The sort of ally I could use. I don't want innocents to die. So I'll offer you a deal: help me cover up the death and transport the body out of Dresden, and I'll let you live with any valuables you find in this unit."

"Zhat is zhe deal?" Constantine's voice was barely louder than a whisper.

"I might…check…on you sometimes, if I need someone who speaks good German and can talk to the right people for me. Decide."

Gottlieb's eyes still stared at the ceiling. He extended two fingers to gently pull the eyelids closed, before shutting his own eyes. He trembled and swallowed hard.

"…Nein."

Two decades earlier, Gottlieb was a monster. But even though he was now prepared to die, Constantine would go with the knowledge that there was still good in every person. Gottlieb's gentle dedication to teaching all pupils and to the betterment of human health through education, not genocide, was proof of Constantine's convictions. If there was a balance of good and evil in the world, Gottlieb died while slowly repaying a debt of compassion. And Constantine would rather die than become another self-appointed, self-righteous judge of character.

"This is unbelievable! I gave you a chance…" Henry was cut short by a mighty uppercut from Constantine, who had seen his gun lower for a split second in surprise. Though short, Constantine had the barrel-chested strength of a draft horse. The Englishman fell backwards, his hand squeezing the trigger reflexively and blasting a hole in the floorboards as the brute force of the impact crunched into and shattered his jaw from the underside. Constantine sprung to his feet and snatched the gun, but there was no longer any need.

Henry did not rise again. He wasn't breathing. He'd either fractured his skull on the floor, or perhaps Constantine's punch had been the final blow needed to kill a wounded man. Silence descended in Gottlieb's little apartment. Now Constantine was the last man standing and clutching a gun.

The seconds ticked by as he stood paralyzed after his first kill. Thirty seconds. A whole minute. His mind was a blank at the enormity of the situation. What now?
What would the authorities do with a student who walked into his teacher's home and killed two men?

"Bonjour!"

Constantine wheeled around with the gun, but a soft, gloved hand caught his wrist and gently but firmly pushed his arm down. A third man stood behind him, grinning. How on earth had the stranger just materialized out of thin air? He smiled and held his hands in the air to show he meant no harm.

"Vho are you? Vere you here all zhe vhile?"

"Perhaps, Monsieur Biermann."

Constantine just blinked and wondered if he was going mad. Certainly the events of the evening were the cause of the hallucination of a bizarre-looking Frenchman standing before him in an expensive tailored suit and balaclava. For a moment, he considered using the gun on himself.

"Let us recap your current situazion. You are standing with a gun over two bodies. One is a supposed Soviet and ze other is British…who also appears to be wearing your clothes."

"I'll…report everything to zhe police. It vill be sorted out…"

"Really? As opposed to conveniently executing 'ou for ze double murder? Zhe Soviets would not want to admit to 'arboring a war criminal. Nor would zhe British acknowledge an agent on enemy turf. Such is ze nature of ze Cold War, oui?"

"Vhat are you doing here? Are you vorkingk vith Henry?" Constantine's expression grew hard again. This time, he remembered to cock the pistol. Threat or no, his nerves were worn thin.

"Non, I am 'ere to make 'ou a better offer. 'Ou could of course decline and deal with ze police zomorrow morning. But my company needs to 'ire a new doctor."

"But I haven't finished my studies!"

"We are willing to sponsor ze educazion of promising candidates."

"Vhy me?" Constantine was now mystified.

"'Ou need zo be physically fit." The Frenchman smiled. "It's a …mining company. We are an established multinational and 'ave very generous employee benefits…"
He considered carefully. "Vhat is your company's name?"

"Reliable Excavation and Demolition. We can also 'ouse and protect 'ou and your family from capture."

"Vhat you are offering sounds too good zo be true."

"What choice do 'ou 'ave?"

"…"

"Merde! How long do 'ou need zo think about it?"

"I…I'll…come vith you and consider zhe fine print." Constantine felt a little bolder with the pistol.

"Merci. My vehicle is waiting downstairs. Follow me."

As he led the gun-toting Medic-to-be to the scooter, the RED Spy fought off the urge to rub his temples in frustration. He had no doubt that Constantine Biermann would eventually sign up, but his lack of military training would ultimately count against him and his team. Ex-Nazis and Nazi-hunters were actually much more straightforward to employ– two strong opponents made suitable for the Project by the intensity of their conflict. RED was always on the lookout for decent fighters and sometimes used the selection process of luring them into each other's grasp. It hadn't mattered at first whether Gottlieb or Henry survived long enough to be hired, but now both were dead and Constantine was the only remaining prospect.

Getting a civilian Medic was always a surprise and always risky. But from what the Spy had seen, this one was too good for the world he was going to leave behind.