Untouchable | Hans Landa

Prologue

 Once upon a time...in a Nazi-occupied France

The humid night rose to the sound of chirping. For a moment you couldn't imagine how quiet it would be without them in the open landscape of south France.

They had occupied a small town, the otherwise empty land, except for an occasional barn or windmill, was now scattered with military trucks, black cars and soldiers who flattened the green grass beneath their boots. They had operated a small camp

One early morning a lonely romani girl dared to come closer to the trucks, all the time hunching, tipping on her toes on the gravel and not even daring to blink. She removed her shoes, clutching them to her chest as she crossed a corner of one of the large trucks. She was close now, the camp lying still in darkness despite that the eastern sky had begun to lighten where it touched the earth. She narrowed her eyes, sinking down to be more difficult to spot and scanning the sight of the many tents but failing to see even the slightest of movements. She would have crawled out of her hiding spot earlier, when she was more sheltered by the darkness of night, but two young soldiers had refused to go to bed. Their laughs had echoed long after the rest of the camp had flown out their oil lamps.

The next set of movements was quick, the girl noiselessly lifted the tarpaulin and collected several rations.

She turned to pry back into the tall grass, then, froze in the step. In the corner of her blown, wide eye stood the silhouette of a person.

Squeezing the rations in her arms she must have looked exactly like a deer caught in headlights. A moment she lingered as if outwaiting the other, forcing them to make the next move, as if she was clutching on to the tiny grasp of hope that if she just stayed long enough the shape that she barely can see will just disappear.

It was a fool's hope. She turned her head, slowly, as if any sudden movement might cause a turmoil. Some distance away, on the country road, stood a man. The dawn took big heaps and the obscurity faded with each passing minute.

"Hello" the man said casually, as if addressing another pedestrian on the street. Naturally he received no reply. She glanced at the rest of the camp, fearing when he was going to alert them but the man stood his ground in a relaxed but definitive manner.

"Oh, don't be afraid" he must have noticed her wary gaze, how she inspected him and lifted a pipe to his lips. His French was close to immaculate, no trace of the harsh German accent in the soft, melodic sentence. "They would be so very bitter if I were to wake them from their beauty sleep for just one small girl" something glinted in his eyes, they squinted slightly and amusement flickered past. He drew another breath, letting out the smoke as his chest heaved. "The overtime would be too expensive for the Führer, no doubt" he gestured lightly in the air and chuckled softly.

She straightened in her posture, her head was somewhat turned away from him and her eyes were unwillingly traveling to the pistol that sat in his belt. He could just shoot her right there on the spot, it was frankly what she expected him to do. Though she had learned that some officers were crueler in their tactics than others. Some just executed the work without much emotion, they saw what needed to be done and took the matter into their own hands. It happened quickly, impersonally. Yet others had a more ambitious approach, they would play with their prey and enjoyed seeing the fear flash in their victim's eyes. The nervosity, the anticipation of not knowing what would happen next, not knowing what the rules of the game was. Some took pleasure in the dirty work more than others and this was a branch that appealed to the more sadistic ones.

She tried to see if this man was one of those by studying what he looked like. He took a step closer, then knocked the pipe against the side of a truck and ash shattered from it. He was wearing a uniform, a gray jacket and gray trousers but had left the black leather coat somewhere else. It didn't offer her much who this particularly early riser was. "How forgetful of me, I haven't introduced myself" he pouted while he pocketed the pipe, let his hand straighten the uniform before he approached with firm steps.

She shuddered back but he acted as though he didn't see, in order to maintain the illusion of civility that he had casted over the situation. "Colonel Hans Landa of the SS, at your service" he smiled politely and for a second she believed he would take her hand and kiss it. But he didn't, even this game had its limit. Now up close she saw that his eyes were the same gray as his uniform. "Does the mademoiselle have a name?"

Her name wasn't worth much. "Florence" her voice was hoarse, as if she hadn't spoken in ages and to judge from the man, Colonel Landa's face he was a little surprised that she actually did, but delighted too.

His brows rose, "You have made your errands here quite clear" he nodded at the stolen food in her hold.

"There is no food, sir"

"I can imagine, though I must confess that it is rather bold of you to steal from the German military's rations" he glanced to his right, out over the makeshift base. "while the whole company is sleeping not a stone's throw away". 

"Everything else is burned down"

He didn't answer that, instead, with every sense of formality he smiled.

"Zigeuner, the German word for gypsy," he began to explain, in the manner as if the notion suddenly had crossed his mind, or that he was referring to some conversation that the two of them once had had. "to speak in terms of etymology, is believed to be derived from a Greek word. This word meaning untouchable" as if remembering that he was in fact stating this highly factual information to someone he glanced up at her. "Did you know?

"No," she breathed, her voice was stained, thin as she answered followed by a short shake of her head.

"Well, I suppose one shouldn't" he shrugged before he took one step closer still. "Yet that doesn't make it any less interesting, for as all things are, you are in fact not at all that," and then another step, as well and Florence resisted the urge to back away. There was something in his gaze, something burning behind the courteous, refined civilized exterior. Something that made her shudder in the warm summer night.

"It wouldn't take much to reach out, and touch you" he extended one hand, drawing it closer to her arm. She could sense it skimming over it, making the hairs of her arms stand on their ends. Then just before his fingers actually touched her skin, he stopped.

"Run away," it was as if her legs didn't obey at first, she just stared at him in shock, in horror. "go on" his voice was perfectly calm, composed but his smile had disappeared and the gaze he gave her was stern. There was a warning in them that told her that this was her only chance, that she was a fool to waste it. Florence blinked, her foot worked on its own and took one step back.

"Sho sho" he urged and flipped his hand at her dismissively.

Then she took flight, backing away quickly before sprinting over the side of the road, the gravel crunching into the bare soles of her feet with the force she put into it. The hold was compulsive against her own chest, her arms desperately hugging her shoes and the little food she had managed to get away with. Tall grass cut her dirt-streaked face, brown hair fluttered around her head.

All the while she waited for the shot and the fall. But it never came.