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At the age of only twenty-nine, Bridget von Hammersmark could say that she was a very lucky woman who had everything in life.
Mother Nature had given her a naturally sophisticated beauty, with an incredible charm that had allowed her to make her way in the difficult and competitive world of German cinema.
Her acting skills, a crystalline talent unanimously recognized by both the public and film critics alike, had led her to success and popularity equal only in Germany to Leni Riefensthal and Marlene Dietrich.
Her extraordinary ability to assimilate, carefully honed in her now almost-ten-year career as an actress, had given her the possibility of camouflaging herself in the Nazi environment around the UFA, allowing her to become a perfect spy at the service of Great Britain.
Her keen intelligence, cleverly hidden under her blonde curls and deep blue eyes, had been the core of Operation Kino - a practically perfect plan that would allow her to wipe out the Führer, Joseph Goebbels, and almost the entire Nazi German high command from the face of the Earth in a single, unforgettable night.
Bridget didn't know if she would survive that same night - if she would make it out alive from that small, unknown cinema in Paris where (and for why, she didn’t know) the Stolz der Nation premiere had been suddenly moved to a few weeks prior.
No, she didn't know if she would witness the new world that she had, at great personal cost and through a thousand dangers of various kinds, helped to liberate - but she was certain of one thing: that she would do anything to stay alive. Because another of her many qualities was a selfish attachment to herself and her own existence.
Even though she knew that she might die for the final realization of Operation Kino and that she would forever be remembered as a true heroine, much like the ones she had performed as so many times for her beloved audience, Bridget still had a small, big regret buried deep in her heart which she had never mentioned to anyone.
In this privileged life of hers, led before everyone's eyes, where she could never afford even the smallest mistake so as not to be discovered and killed as a traitor, she had never really known love.
Profoundly and sadly ironic for an actress who was literally paid to kiss some of the most beautiful and charming actors in all of Germany in her films and who had made countless men fall at her feet – especially those belonging to the Nazis’ upper echelons – to steal useful information to be passed to the British secret services.
Romantic love had never been her priority: she had only dedicated herself to her career, making it flourish with an all-encompassing abnegation that left no room for personal bonds of an intimate nature, and, from 1942 onwards, to her own personal mission to overthrow Nazism through every means available, finally organizing an almost infallible plan on an objectively unrepeatable occasion.
So when Bridget went to the tiny village of Nadine, a few kilometers from Paris, in July 1944, to meet the man who would be her date the following evening at the Nazi nationalist celebration of the year – the story of Fredrick Zoller’s military exploits in Sicily was known throughout Germany by everyone, even four-year-old children - and she sat at a rectangular table in the La Louisiane tavern, waiting for three unknown men in SS officer uniforms to whom she could communicate the latest sensational news she was aware of, she could have expected anything except that she would fall in love at first sight.
And that she would finally receive a definitive reason whether she should live or die within the next twenty-four hours.
La Louisiane was a quiet place, located in a remote basement without German soldiers or officers, where a person could have the privacy necessary to talk without anyone disturbing you. This was what had led Bridget to the distinct choice of that specific tavern, lost in a war-occupied France - in all sincerity, she had not even thought about any other problems regarding a possible fight or dangerous situations.
She made her living as an actress and was an excellent spy in her free time; she wasn’t a military tactician. But she did always have a small gun with her, and that evening, it was expertly enclosed in the expensive brown crocodile pouch she had placed on the table, and that was the only protection she could ever need.
In addition though, she obviously had her own charm, which she could, on command as if by magic, capably transform into erotic seduction.
In fact, no man had ever resisted her in times of need.
Bridget was elegantly seated beneath a light illuminating everything around her, that formed a luminous circle on her table’s wooden surface. She emptied the few champagne drops now left at the bottom of the glass that Erik had filled for her shortly before. Then she placed a cigarette in its holder and brought it to her mouth. After a flick of her golden lighter, she inhaled the nicotine and let it fill her lungs with the relaxation she was trying to acheive at all costs.
A busy night awaited her, with her three new friends, and the nervousness she felt for everything that would happen after setting foot in Le Gamaar gripped her stomach like so many pins piercing her soul.
There was a lot of information to communicate, a lot of things to do and talk about, and her mind had to be clear and focused on the mission: she had to be able to get her accomplices into that screening room, get them to sit in the seats assigned on the invitations she had managed, not without difficulty given the new tiny location, to get in Berlin, and help them at all costs to blow that place up from top to bottom.
The foundations of that poor theatre shouldn't even remain standing with all that dynamite: everything would have been erased forever by a purifying fire.
No more Hitler, no more Nazis, no more war. And Bridget, even as she wanted as much as possible to avoid dying, knew that there was a real possibility that she would never be able to leave that cinema in time before she was blown up. Even the best plans could be derailed by just one small, insignificant detail and the price she would pay would be, for her, the final one.
While lost in thought, her eyes distractedly followed the messy dance of blue smoke coming from her cigarette. In the almost tomb-like silence of La Louisiane, the sound of numerous heavy booted footsteps thundered down the narrow spiral staircase that served as the only entrance – and the only exit – of the tavern. Erik had told her, welcoming her, that shortly before, right there, at the same table where he had made her sit, there had been a large group of drunk German soldiers on leave until ten minutes before she arrived.
One of them had just become a father that very day and their commander had given them a few hours to go and celebrate the happy event. Shivers covered Bridget’s back at the thought of what could have happened if she and her three companions had crossed paths with them: with alcohol, men's tongues became much looser, without restraint, almost like crazed horses.
She had been to too many parties in her life not to know that the worst arguments arose precisely from the fact that drinking lifted that layer of modesty usually present in people's minds, and allowed anyone to vent to their thoughts, even the most illogical and absurd ones. That group of drunken German soldiers might have wondered why the famous Bridget von Hammersmark was right there, in Nadine, instead of being in Berlin, wrapped in a fur coat and sheathed in an elegant evening dress, sipping champagne with people who belonged to the world of cinema and the Nazi party.
Fortunately, she had chosen a rather late time for her secret rendezvous, precisely to avoid meeting anyone at a delicate moment in her plan, and thus had already avoided the first formation of a difficult obstacle in the path of Operation Kino.
Bridget raised her turquoise gaze to welcome her companions - there were three of them, just as she’d been informed. They were distinguished and charming, wearing the SS uniform with ease - if she hadn't known that two were German-speaking members of the Basterds and the other her English contact, of whom he only knew his name, Archie Hicox, and very few other details... well, she would never have said it.
She greeted them with a wave of her hand to make herself noticed, even though she was sure that all of them recognized her; furthermore, His Majesty the King's lieutenant had been chosen for the mission because he was an expert in German cinema, or at least so she had been told.
The red polish of her lacquered nails flashed in full color in the semi-darkness of La Louisiane.
At that moment, Bridget put out her cigarette, got up from her chair to begin her performance and tell them the great news she was aware of, and began to greet the three men, one at a time.
The second to approach her was the English military man/film critic, with the highest rank on his uniform insignia - the first had spoken upon entering La Louisiane, with an unmistakable native German accent, while the third certainly did not have the face of a man that supported himself by watching movies and publishing articles about them in a magazine.
Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him.
He was tall, definitely over six feet, and really, really handsome. So handsome that she was speechless in front of him, since there were no other adjectives to describe his virile and perfect features... and it could only be said that Bridget had met and worked side by side with the most fascinating German actors in the most recent years of her life.
He wouldn't look out of place at all next to those ancient Greek statues that the Führer is obsessed with, she thought spontaneously before returning to observe him.
His jaw was square and refined, as if it had been hand-chiseled by an artist inspired by an angel, and Bridget had the urge to cover it with the permanent marks of her red kisses. His cheeks were smooth, without the slightest hint of beard or moustache, and the cologne in the crook of his neck had released a delightful smell, which entered her nostrils and implanted itself in her brain in an indelible way.
The contact between their bodies lasted a couple of seconds – his hands wrapped around her chest and back naturally, as if those palms had done nothing else for his whole life - and for Bridget it was like heat imprinting, leaving its burning mark on her skin.
The feeling of familiarity that Archie Hicox's face left in her soul was almost overwhelming, as if a part of herself had recognized something in him and was screaming at her to never let him go again.
A strange sensation, one that for a split-second caused the fake mask of contentment she had put on to greet the other two almost slip from her face, and made her fingers tremble as if being whipped by a strong gust of icy wind.
If it weren’t for the fact that she was almost thirty years old, which meant it’d been a long time since she’d stopped belieiving in the fairy tales her grandmother Lucille had told her to put her to sleep as a child, Bridget might almost have thought she’d fallen in love at first sight with Archie Hicox. Like lightning had struck her at the exact moment their eyes met.
But it was such an absurd thing to process, especially in such a delicate moment. So she immediately put that crazy idea aside and buried it in the deepest cavern of her brain; there were fundamental details to be worked out that night between the four of them.
Details that would change the course of history forever.
Bridget sat down on the chair that the English lieutenant had, like a true gentleman, pulled out for her, then straightened her back and bent towards him to speak to him, staring into his eyes. They were as devastatingly beautiful as his face, a wonderful blue color with an imperceptible hint of light green placed just under the black of the pupil. And his full lips, with a shape suitable to be felt on her bare skin...
She lit another cigarette, mounting it on her gold and ivory holder and waited for Erik, who had just approached the table, to refill her empty glass with champagne. Then she began to reveal every single thing about the important event being organized at Le Gamaar for the next evening.
After having informed her three companions about venue change for the premiere, as well as the ascertained presence of the Fuhrer, Bridget’s next step in Operation Kino was to get them to a compliant tailor. They were also part of the British spy network, here on French soil not far from Nadine, and would fit the Basterds with tuxedos, thus providing them with the right clothing to mingle in what she was already anticipating, for very different reasons from her compatriots, the German night of the century.
The identity she had given to Hicox had been her own personal stroke of genius, a touch that only a brilliant woman like herself could have brought: he was supposed to impersonate Ernst Schuller, an associate producer on Leni Riefenstahl's latest film, Tiefland. At that precise historical moment, that was the only German film production outside the impossibly strict control of Goebbels' UFA and, consequently, the chosen lie could never be discovered by anyone.
She, Hicox and the two Basterds, after leaving La Louisiane and Erik's delicious alcohol, got into a car that the secret services had managed to transport to Nadine. It was a rather ordinary car, like many seen around, not particularly eye-catching in either make or body color. While in broad daylight, it wouldn’t have been paired up with high-ranking Nazi officers, it being conspicuous would prevent it from becoming a future clue.
The Basterd from Munich took the lead. He was infinitely more talkative than the other, who instead had a face that reminded Bridget of someone she’d seen some time before in the German newspapers – but she couldn’t quite remember how or why – and had an expression frozen in perpetual disgust for any person who dared speak to him. The two sat together without striking a blow.
Hicox, in his classic gentlemanly manner, opened the door for Bridget, then took a seat next to her in the back. Bridget barely had time to communicate the address of the tailor's atelier before she felt sucked into the orbit that the man beside her had been exercising, almost unconsciously, over her.
The entire care ride was silent, a fitting conclusion after so much talking and discussion within La Louisiane. Thankfully, the chosen tailor's boutique was not very far away, located about five kilometers from Nadine, in a town called Dammartin.
Bridget turned her cerulean gaze to the darkness moving outside her window and never uttered a single word again, her carmine red lips remaining sealed for various reasons at that moment.
The tiredness that was beginning to creep into her bones, the tension that was exhausting her more and more, and, next to her, the presence of that stunning English lieutenant with that terrible German accent - she had realized as soon as he opened his mouth that she would struggle to make him pass for a real deutsche Mensch, but she was counting on the confusion of that evening and the fact of absolutely not crossing paths with Hans Landa, who she knew was the head of security for the entire event, except for a few minutes, to get away with it - which was upsetting her more than anything.
She really couldn't understand what was happening to her. Maybe it was simply the agitation of being one step away from fully realizing the plan to which she had dedicated the last year of her life, since she had learned that Goebbels was going to make a film about Fredrick Zoller’s little adventure in Sicily? Maybe it was the last push of a part of herself that would have aspired to feel desired by someone not knowing if there would be a tomorrow for her after the premiere? Or perhaps it had simply happened that fate had reserved for her the most atrocious surprise possible, introducing her to a man so attractive that he was able to literally stop her breathing and drive her crazy like she had never before experienced in her life; a man who, the following evening, would most likely be sacrificed inside a cinema to kill Hitler.
The fingers of Bridget's left hand left her crocodile clutch bag and rested on the cool, soft leather of the back seat, thus occupying the void that had been created between her body and Hicox's, almost as if that could be the only concrete act that tethered her to reality at a time when her mind was wandering in directions that were truly terrifying her.
Furthermore, it didn't seem to her that the emotional storm she was experiencing with such chilling intensity had a counterpart in the lieutenant at the center of her thoughts; he was simply turned towards her window, immersed in darkness and completely closed off in a tired and absorbed mutism, just like her. In the background, there were only the vague directions that the two Basterds sitting in front, road map in hand, were exchanging in German to reach the tailor as soon as possible.
Then, suddenly, Bridget felt something warm creep into her fingertips.
It made her jump, as if someone had suddenly ripped her beautiful Fedora hat off her head. She turned and saw Hicox's right hand touching hers with delicacy and awe, as if they were made of fragile crystal and she was a statue about to break.
And, in that exact moment, Bridget understood everything that had been born and existed between the two of them, between her and Archie, without even having to exchange a single word.
Maybe that was true love? The ability to understand each other in such a unique way, as if connected by the call of blood, of soul, of body? The desire to throw yourself into each other's arms for just one night to forget about the world, about war, about fear? Not even having to tell anything about yourself to finally feel seen, understood, loved?
At that point, Bridget let out a sigh that she hadn't even realized was imprisoned in her rib cage, and, with the same tenderness that had been granted to her, she touched Archie's large and welcoming hand, caressing it silently with a devotion that was absurd to be experiencing, at the absolute wrongest moment of their existence.
Archie turned, those enchanting blue eyes staring at her intensely. He didn’t dare speak a single word, and Bridget finally understood what it meant to love someone and be loved back.
And she no longer knew what to do. About many – oh so many - things.
Dammartin's tailor was a small, funny-looking man, almost resembling a French Charlie Chaplin in the jerky movements he made. He wasn't very tall, but he had golden hands, which Bridget realized with her own eyes as she saw him work and tailor those three tuxedos at an indecent hour of night at a rapid pace.
A tuxedo was the most elegant article of clothing a man could own and, unlike the Nazi uniforms, which exuded authority regardless of the person inside who wore them, it allowed the full character and bearing of the wearer to shine through.
Bridget noticed the difference between the two Basterds and Archie; all three were basically dressed in the same fine way, but the magnetism that the English lieutenant exerted was equal to that of a siren's song for Ulysses. She had known him for less than three hours, and every time she looked at him, she experienced an obscene and wild attraction to everything he was and represented - handsome, intelligent, courageous, idealistic, willing to sacrifice himself for the greater good and for a better world - that went beyond rationality.
Throughout her career as an actress, Bridget had always channeled her emotions perfectly, dominating them and turning them into her characters with mastery. But in front of Archie, it was as if all her defenses were melting way moment by moment, like ice in the sun.
He was breathtaking in that white tuxedo, pure as snow, and he gave her a fiery look from the platform where the tailor had placed him to finish the final touches needed to make him absolutely perfect for the premiere. Her heart skipped when she saw him so charming and elegant, only to remember the next moment why he was dressed like that, why she was there with him in a tiny village in France in the summer of 1944 and what would happen to both of them and the world at Le Gamaar in less than a day.
At that precise moment, Bridget wanted so much to live a life different from the one she had been given. She would have loved to be born in a world without Adolf Hitler, without the Nazi dictatorship, without the Second World War. But this would also have meant that she would never have been able to meet Archie Hicox, look into his eyes in a dimly lit remote inn, and understand so many things about herself and her life.
The flow of her silent thoughts was interrupted when the tailor left Archie alone on the platform for a few minutes to go and give the finishing touches with needle and thread to the tuxedos of the two Basterds, who were chatting softly to each other on the other side of the room. Finally, she’d been given the possibility of getting closer to him, of having a small interlude of intimate contemplation with him.
Archie's fingers were struggling in vain to try to tie the black bow tie that matched his tuxedo, so Bridget approached him and, with the same delicacy that he had reserved for her in the car before, moved his hands away, climbed onto the platform. With her heels on, she was tall enough to look him in the face. She had already realized this in La Louisiane when they had greeted each other for the first time.
Her breath passed over his lips before she took the ends of fabric and tied them with studied slowness around his neck the right way.
The silent air between them immediately filled with static electricity, ready to ignite at the slightest further contact. Mein Gott, does falling in love with someone at first sight make you feel such a horrible and wonderful way? Bridget thought as she lost herself in Archie's eyes. Completely taken and enchanted, she admired how they shined like two pure Indian blue sapphires. And his lips...they were an almost irresistible temptation to have so close to her own.
Her mouth dried up as she felt the man's gaze going down from her eyes to her mouth, constant and digging inside her, organ after organ, until he reached her heart and conquered it completely. It was the most vulnerable moment she’d ever felt in her life – and she bared her soul as a profession, acting for her beloved audience; it was something she had always been used to. But, too, it was extraordinarily the greatest freedom, one she’d never experienced.
The duality was like being locked in the middle of an epochal battle, but Bridget already knew that she’d been defeated by Archie Hicox, and how he made her feel without even having said a single word to her.
Love was the losing game par excellence, but in this specific case, their lives were also at stake.
For as long as fate would allow them to be together, she could not be without him.
The Ritz Hotel in Paris, the most prestigious headquarters of the entire Nazi military establishment Occupied France, might have seemed at first glance to be the obvious choice as a hotel in which to spend that fateful night for Bridget.
But for her it would’ve been like crawling into a wolf's den, constantly surrounded by men she knew all too well in ways she wanted to forget. Plus, there was the huge problem of Archie Hicox's German accent being the most offensive her ears had ever had the misfortune of hearing, and she had to hide this issue until the last possible moment so as not to drawing suspicion.
As usual, her great ability to solve problems before they even arose had made her choose to reside in an anonymous, small and discreet structure, in an arrondissement far from the center of the city. One which was not teeming with Nazi soldiers or officers, since in these days nearly all of them were concentrated in Paris’s central zone.
After finishing the visit to the tailor in Dammartin , and with three enormous blue boxes in the trunk containing as many tuxedos perfectly adapted to their physique, the two Basterds parked their anonymous car in a deserted street, right in front of the Hotel Daval.
The fact that Paris had a strict nighttime curfew somehow reassured Bridget. There would have been no inconvenient witnesses around and, in any case, being in the company of three men in Nazi uniforms would be an ace in the hole to use in case something went wrong.
Archie got up from his seat and immediately went to open the door for Bridget. The fresh air of the early hours of the night hit her tired face in an almost unexpected relief.
He held out his hand to help her out, and as always, she felt that jolt of pure energy transfer between their bodies, so intense that it was paradoxical and nearly made her burst into laughter.
How will I be able to stay next to him all these hours without throwing myself into his arms, as if this were the only sensible thing to do? How will I keep my head clear and how will I be ready for anything if every time we touch I feel like my knees might give out? How will I leave him in the seats of Le Gamaar before everything explodes and continue with my life, assuming I have one after this premiere?
These questions swirled furiously in Bridget's mind and, unfortunately, she had no answer.
Not only did she feel the moral and practical responsibility of a plan that she had devised with incredible care and great sacrifice, but her heart was growing heavier and heavier with so many thoughts about Archie Hicox, a man who until a few hours ago was only a name like so many others in her life. Who tormented her, a constant torture, drop by drop.
Bridget walked up the front steps of the Hotel Duval arm in arm with Archie, who had his other arm occupied by his tuxedo box – being her date, it made sense that they would stay in the same place, while the two Basterds would return to the their base. They would all meet again at half past seven in the evening to go to the premiere together. She, however, felt a clear desire to remain wrapped in the warmth of his body, given off by his captain's uniform, which contrasted so much with the fresh air of that July night, and to never separate from him again.
The unexpected gift of a love like that, at first sight and apparently reciprocated, after never having allowed anyone to enter her soul, all to protect herself during the mission she had led in these last two years of her life... well, this was becoming too big, too gigantic, too huge of a problem for her to handle.
Bridget had just taken off her Fedora hat – she'd secured it with some hellish bobby pins that almost gave her a pounding headache – and was about to open the suitcase containing her toiletry items and her night robe when she heard a firm knock on the wooden door of her room.
She didn't need to check who it could be: her hand wrapped like a snake around the doorknob and opened it in a fraction of a second, revealing Archie Hicox on the other side of her threshold.
They hadn't said a single word to each other as they separated to go to their own rooms – she had remained silent because, if she started talking to him about something else, anything, other than Operation Kino, it would be the end of the feeble resistance she had created in those hours of mutual acquaintance. And she had read in his eyes the same fear and also the same hope that one of them would finally give in that night.
Archie had done it, and Bridget, as a woman attentive to the rules of courtship as she was, was extremely pleased. She had wanted concrete proof that she was not alone in this crazy, wild attraction - a pale euphemism designed to cover the feelings she already felt for him and which were already throwing her into a state of prostration, excitement, and indecent fear - and she had achieved it within less than five minutes of separation between them.
Archie was still wearing his gray SS captain's uniform, and had a sheepish smile on his face, while his eyes burned with barely suppressed desire. Just like her, he didn't seem to know what to do in a similar situation... that was most likely their last night on Earth. In her heart, Bridget could only feel the desire to indulge, for once in her life, a true impulse of love towards a man.
She simply grabbed the collar of his jacket, dragged him into her hotel room, and kissed him with the combination of passion and terror she'd been feeling since first laying eyes on him at La Louisiane, slamming him against the doorframe with all the strength of her arms.
The moment their tongues touched and darted over each other’s, a strange, crazed happiness made room inside Bridget, cancelling out every other thought except the man who was embracing her, who was holding her close as if he wanted to kiss her forever, and never break away.
Hitler, the war, Great Britain, Germany, the premiere, Le Gamaar; every single concern about herself, about Archie Hicox, about the future of Europe immediately ceased to exist. There was only his large warm hands, caressing her everywhere and undressing her; his cologne enveloping her like a cloud that snatched away her reason, his mouth that was branding her wherever it could.
And when, intertwined as if they were one, they managed, with difficulty, to close the door and reach the coveted double bed covered in white embroidered sheets smelling of lavender, without ever stopping touching and kissing for a single moment, for Bridget von Hammersmark every single thing she did to get to this precise moment in her life, even the most horrible and most wrong, acquired a definitive meaning that would never abandon her again.
Bridget had known perfectly well what sex was ever since she was fifteen and her physical development had put her at the center of male attention. It had always been a weapon to be used to get what she wanted, which had proven incredibly useful when, in 1942, she decided to become a spy in service to Great Britain.
Occasionally, she’d had sex with a couple of Nazi officers, managing while in the post-orgasmic fog to get even a glimpse of a clue, a word of gossip, a piece of news useful to the Allies - God, men became so docile after they came; they would tell you anything without hesitation. She had never regretted her actions, because she knew that it’d been the right thing to do at that time. and she’d never had any problems with her conscience, either.
Her body and beauty, as well as her great ability to lie, helped her in her film career and there was no question that they were her most valuable ally in her secret mission. At stake was the possibility of bringing Germany to its knees and finally curing it of its most serious disease, Nazism.
But there, on that bed in the Hotel Duval, completely naked and with Archie hard inside her, moving only to give her pleasure and to scream together with her, in a sort of communion between souls and bodies that should’ve been absolutely impossible to achieve for two perfect strangers, she could no longer understand why she had pretended to give to other men what she was giving to him.
Every breath that he took from her throat, every centered movement of his abdomen pressed over her pubis, every caress that was lost between his fingers threaded in her hair were for Bridget the discovery of something new that she had never felt in her life.
In that moment, the difference between simply having sex with someone and making love with a man she adored, even though she knew nothing about him, his past, or their future, dawned on her mind with a devastating clarity.
And when the peak of pleasure caught and overwhelmed every fiber of her being, like a disorderly wave dragging her away, Bridget felt something like a thick steel thread tying her to Archie in tight knots, in an indissoluble way.
She’d never been a romantic woman – rather, a pragmatic and determined one - but at that precise moment, when the tide left her to Archie, who in the meanwhile had ardently emptied himself inside her, she felt that nowhere in the world could ever make her feel as safe, loved and protected as the new place she’d just discovered.
The arms of her man.
Bridget curled up between the sheets of her now battered bed and immediately felt Archie's lips placing a tender kiss on her blond hair - the chignon she had prepared so carefully for the meeting at La Louisiane had now been destroyed, she knew all too well. At that moment, she probably looked like a disheveled, messy cat, but she didn't much care.
The inexplicable relaxation she was feeling right down to her bones increased when Archie pulled away from her and stood up naked to go and retrieve something from the jacket of his captain's uniform, thrown God-knows-where on the wooden floor of their hotel room.
It was impossible not to want a man as handsome as Archie Hicox, who had not long ago made feel as though she were flying up in the sky, and from whom radiated something unique and special. She couldn't even understand where this strange, extraordinary, rare affinity and connection came from – perhaps it depended on their common love for cinema? Or perhaps, deep down, for their ability to play with risk and danger? - but she only knew that it was there. That she felt it, and that she would keep it attached to her heart until the last possible moment of their existence.
When the mattress sagged under Archie's weight, Bridget turned to welcome him, smiling, back into her arms, but with a fluid movement, he slipped an unlit cigarette into her mouth.
Then he lit the one between his teeth with the golden lighter he’d already used at La Louisiane, before moving closer to her face and doing the same with his own now-smoking cigarette.
Bridget had just finished making love to him, yet this intimate gesture was of such devastating sensuality that it almost emptied her ability to think.
She had already noticed at the tavern how charming Archie was - the lit cigarette in his hand, the smoke surrounding his wonderful face giving it new nuances. But in that moment, in their bed, with him looking at her and smiling as if she were a precious diamond to be admired and protected, she thought that no man could ever be as magnificent as him.
That image of pure beauty and abandon was imprinted in her mind down to the smallest detail as the nicotine slowly descended into her lungs with calm, composed breaths.
Whatever ended up happening at the premiere, Bridget knew she would think of Archie lighting her a cigarette with his own and smoking it in silence next to her, looking at her as if she were a true treasure to be defended at all costs, before dying.
Tiredness then overtook Bridget, who simply wrapped herself around Archie's nakedness and let sleep envelop her in a thousand spirals of fog, far from Paris, but close to the life that, in that tiny moment, she had tightly grasped between the fingers.
When the first rays of the sun filtered through the shutters of her hotel room window, imprinting themselves on her closed eyelids, she couldn't help but wake up. She didn't even know where her wristwatch had gone and couldn’t check what time it was, but she didn't care.
The delicious warmth that Archie's body gave off in that moment, wrapped tightly around her, was the most pleasant sensation, and she would not have abandoned him for anything in the world.
Bridget lifted her head slightly from her position – that is, resting upon Archie's sculpted chest – and began to caress his skin with her nose. She felt a hint of a small beard sprouting on his chin and, for a second, thought about what he would look like with a full beard or, perhaps, a nice mustache.
Shit, he would still be so incredibly beautiful to me, she thought to herself as she continued her journey of discovery of the body of the man who was sleeping next to her.
The eyelashes of his closed eyes were long and thick, and they were the best possible frame for that blue and penetrating gaze that had made her lose her mind not even twenty-four hours earlier. It was absurd how tied Bridget felt to a man with whom she had only talked about Nazis to blow up, but she couldn't even fully understand what had happened to her when they saw each other at La Louisiane the night before.
It truly was love at first sight. A crazy love, like Romeo and Juliet, which had shattered both their lives and was, at impressive speed, changing everything Bridget von Hammersmark thought about so many things.
She had always been convinced that her mission would end the moment she’d gotten her accomplices into the premiere of Stolz der Nation; that she would be able to leave in time with any excuse, and then, she would experience a long life full of honors paid to her and an even more glittering career than the one she had led in Germany in the English film industry, or perhaps in Hollywood. She had already sacrificed so many things and performed innumerable deeds without knowing if there would ever be a real reward for her: Operation Kino was a bet that she hoped would also lead to her personal victory.
A victory that she, selfishly, wanted to be recognized by the whole world; another stage to perform on to receive the final applause of the public.
But as she continued to let her gaze wander over Archie, over his ribcage that rose and fell to the rhythm of his heart, over the outline of the muscle of his arm wrapped around her back, over the erection barely hidden by the white sheet resting on his thighs, the memories of a few hours ago took over her mind again: the way she’d been kissed, the way she’d felt that man move inside her as if he had done nothing else in his life, the way she’d simply felt loved for the first time in her existence without ulterior motives. It all melded togetherlike a movie made just for her, and Bridget began to feel something truly changing within herself.
Even though she had never given much importance to her feelings in the twenty-nine years of her life, being overwhelmed by them in such a pure way was deeply shocking.
And it didn't matter that on this evening, the fate of her, of Archie, of Adolf Hitler, of Joseph Goebbels and of the whole world could change. Bridget had unconsciously waited for her entire existence for Archie; she had been waiting for him, the missing piece that perhaps she had never really made the effort to look for because she knew that, sooner or later, he would arrive.
And now that she’d finally found him, what would she do? After making love to him, Archie had entered her veins like liquid morphine and made her dependent on him in the worst way possible.
No, I don't care about the rest anymore. I can't be without him, was the crystal clear thought that entered Bridget's mind. And, in that moment, she truly understood what it meant to love someone more than her own life.
The click of the door closing behind her was so quiet that Bridget almost didn't register it. Wrapped in a light lilac-colored dressing gown, she carried the shiny tray with her breakfast into her hotel room - it was for only one person, but so abundant that there would be no problem in sharing it with the man who continued to sleep blissfully between the wrinkled sheets of their bed.
Archie was deep in sleep, which gave his face and entire body a relaxed look. And, given what was going to happen that same evening, it was best for him to continue to rest as much as possible. Once he was as awake as she was, he could no longer escape the reality of things.
Bridget approached the side of the mattress where his hand meekly rested and slowly brought it to her mouth, touching his knuckles with extreme delicacy. The movement, although done purposely so as not to wake him, had the opposite effect and the rippling muscles of his body stiffened and awakened to life.
When Archie's blue eyes opened wide and stared into Bridget's, as if this were the most heavenly sight he'd ever started a day with, and his thin, perfectly shaped lips broke into an effortless smile, she felt a knot tighten in her throat for various reasons.
Bridget would have sacrificed anything – her beauty, her wealth, her career – to be able to wake up like that for the rest of her life. But she didn't know if either of them would have a life after they set foot into tonight's premiere, so they would have to take in everything their remaining time had to offer.
The awareness of this time, flying away between her fingers like grains of sand – every second, every minute that passed and would never come back – hurt Bridget's heart, swelling it with a sadness that spread to her angelic features.
“Oh no, my dearest,” was all Archie said to her, simply looking into her eyes and thus realizing the exact and perfect succession of her ideas in her mind. His English accent was full-bodied, dense, and fell into Bridget's ears like pure honey, coating her heart with a sweetness she had never experienced before.
Then, her hand was entwined with his and Bridget felt herself being pushed onto the unmade bed of that hotel room, that she would always recall every little detail of. Archie made her sit upon his legs, still wrapped in their sheet, and held her to him, securing her in his competant arms.
Bridget's eyes filled with tears almost immediately. She didn't want to give up on this man, a man she loved desperately and in what, by now, was a mad and unnatural way. She didn't want him to sacrifice himself to blow up that cinema and kill Hitler, and, perhaps, she didn't want to wake up the next morning with the knowledge that she would never again feel something like this for any other person in the entire universe for the rest of her existence.
When Archie's warm lips rested on hers, Bridget decided to erase all those dark and terrible thoughts, as if they’d never existed. She just wanted to let herself go with the man she loved and grasp the joy still possible in these unrepeatable moments between just the two of them.
Bridget kissed Archie as if she wanted to incorporate into herself every single particle of oxygen contained in his lungs, as if she wanted to take away his reason and memory and make him hers forever. They would be each other's last companion, whatever happened once they set foot in Le Gamaar.
Then, she felt his interest in the form of him getting harder and harder between her legs, right below where she was moving, and she decided that she could never leave this world without tasting him.
So Bridget untied the knot of the thin belt that held the edges of her negligee together, allowing Archie to use his large, warm hands, his velvety tongue and his smooth lips, and touch her wherever he could. She gave him her body, her skin and her beauty, until she felt the desire to have him in her mouth drill into his brain and beat between her legs like a second heart.
She simply slid down, taking with her the sheet that was shielding her gaze from the treasure she wanted to reach and make her own, and to take a good look at what, the night before, when caught up in the vortex of passion, she’d not managed to admire. Archie, back then, had limited himself to entering her furiously, as if he were in the midst of a fever that only Bridget could have cured.
Now, however, Bridget could calmly look at what had made her scream so much on that same bed, and she was extremely pleased by what she saw.
The moment she finally took him into her mouth, the sigh of incredible satisfaction she managed to extract from Archie's lips reached down to her throat, and that same satisfaction settled between her thighs, burning like a fire.
She managed to keep that feeling at bay until she had Archie reach the farthest stars in the galaxy, and the thick taste of his pleasure coated her tongue.
Bridget would never forget it.
By now the bed at the Duval hotel had become a love nest for Bridget. She had done everything between those sheets, but what struck her the most was the fact that, after having cleaned up the breakfast tray together - the drinks and scrambled eggs had gone cold, but it didn't matter - Archie welcomed her back into her arms and for the next few hours, told her about his whole life.
From her great-great-grandfather, killed in the United States in a mysterious shooting in an inn, to the origin of his lighter, a family heirloom he never parted from. He spoke to her at length about his love for cinema, which began when his father accompanied him to see Charlot's short films, and about how important it was for him to make this passion his profession. How expressionist cinema was his obsession and represented the artistic peak of Germany - a country he loved very much and could not tolerate seeing reduced to what it’d horribly become because of Hitler and Nazism - how much he’d admired her, Bridget von Hammersmark, in her many films and how much he’d always found her so absolutely talented and wonderful, and how surprised he was to have learned, a few days earlier, that she’d been a British spy for two years and that he’d be her date for the premiere of Stolz der Nation.
Archie had always considered Bridget one of the most beautiful women in the world, and this only pleased the more flirtatious and feminine part of her, but he also admitted to her that he had learned to respect her as a woman of acute intelligence, capable of creating a such an elaborate plan to kill the Fuhrer, at her own peril. And that he’d loved her desperately ever since he’d seen her in person sitting at that table in La Louisiane; that when he had touched her for the first time it’d been like falling victim to a magical spell emanating from her blue eyes, and that he would do anything to get her out of that theater alive that very night.
At that precise moment, Bridget felt, somewhere in her soul, an unshakable certainty: no one had ever seen her in her entire life as Archie had managed to, and no one would ever be able to look at her as he did, beyond her physical appearance, and understand what she was hiding in her most hidden depths. No one would have ever loved her that way and she would never have found similar happiness again even if she had lived another thousand years.
So, for the next couple hours, she told him about everything that had been her existence up until the day before: her family - she had a terrible relationship with her mother, who had never wanted her daughter to be an actress; her commitment to climbing the ladder of success in Berlin; her indifference to politics and Nazism that turned into profound hatred when, in 1942, a Jewish director friend of her was forced to commit suicide by Joseph Goebbels; her immediate involvement in the network of British spies in Germany, having gone to bed with various officers in order to steal any useful clues to report. And, too, the long development of Operation Kino since she’d first become aware of the Stolz der Nation project, with the communication that a certain Lieutenant Archie Hicox would be her contact at La Louisiane and responsible for everything that would happen from that moment on.
And then Bridget confessed to him that she would never have expected to find herself in front of a man like him in that inn; that she had felt the same exact sensations as he had upon meeting her; and, finally, that she loved him more than anything and anyone else in the world. And she did it in German, because it was her heart’s natural language and she could never have told this man how she felt in any other way.
But she didn't dare tell Archie that she still had many doubts about whether she would be able to leave him alone, sitting in a red velvet chair with several sticks of dynamite tied to his ankle and connected to a timer, ready to explode.
Whether she would be able to let him die without her.
Leaning against a desk inside Bridget's hotel room was a polished wooden radio. It wasn't huge, but it worked great.
She noticed it because, once she got up from her bed wrapped in her dressing gown, she tried for a moment to compose herself in front of a mirror inserted in one of the doors of the only wardrobe in the room. Her hair was a mess, her makeup had worn off her face, and the red lipstick from the night before was nothing more than a thing of the past – it had been rubbed off by thousands of kisses from Archie.
Then, at a certain point, the silence in which she had settled was filled by the notes of a trumpet singing persuasively and melancholicly, coming from that little radio.
Bridget felt Archie's arms around her waist, tight like the coils of a snake, and a sincere and graceful smile automatically formed on her lips. She placed her hands on his, then turned to look at him, and they both began to rock on the spot, leisurely. He, in the meantime, had managed to put on the pair of trousers from his SS captain's uniform, recovered from who-knows-where in that mess that they’d both created, and was bare-chested and barefoot - an image that would have must have been ridiculously absurd at the time, but for Bridget it was most beautiful, one to keep in her heart.
Their dance was slow, passionate, incredible. No words were spoken, the music of the trumpet in the background as they danced their only company; it would have been almost blasphemous for Bridget to interrupt one of the last moments of peace that she was able to carve out for herself with the great love of her life with stupid, useless words.
And so she simply let that moment of love between their bodies and their souls, in a lost point in the universe, turn into a magic that would accompany her in her heart until her last breath.
The lunch Bridget had brought to the room was fresh and light. Not that she was very hungry that day - on the contrary, her stomach was tightening as she watched the hours spent with Archie slip away, never to return. But she had still eaten a small plate of roast meat with potatoes, washed down with a good French red wine – unfortunately there was no champagne in the kitchens of the Duval hotel – and an apple tart that tasted of butter and melted in her mouth like a cloud.
Then she lay down on the bed again, around her the pillows and sheets scattered like leaves by the autumn wind, and Archie positioned himself next to her, caressing her shoulders left bare by the nightgown that she still miraculously wore. He kissed her cheeks with sweetness, as if they could spend sixty years of their lives together like that and not just another eight hours.
In the background, the radio, which had remained on since after their barefoot dance on the wooden floor, was broadcasting a song played on the piano, with a sweet and nostalgic aftertaste perfectly suited to the feelings that Bridget was feeling at that exact moment.
Then, her lips were sucked into a kiss full of lust by Archie's velvety mouth - and she found herself drawn into a whirl of love and passion that burrowed powerfully beneath her resistance and made her docile in his hands.
When Archie began to move lower and lower with his soft fingers, expertly alternating with his tongue, along her body, and to finally lift the hem of her nightgown to remove her underwear, Bridget immediately understood what he wanted to do to her and every rational thought was erased in her brain within a few seconds.
She had slept with a fair number of men in her life – some because she really liked them, others because they served a purpose, but, except for the man currently burying his face between her thighs and nibbling at the soft, loose skin around her entrance, never for love. She could count on her fingers the times someone had decided to give her back the same gentle treatment she had previously given them with her own mouth.
And when Archie's tongue began to move in a circular motion, and sucked with increasing vigor at that little button that Bridget kept between her legs, she could do nothing but sigh happily and reach further and further towards Heaven, moment after moment, breath after breath.
Then her fingers sank into his hair, as if they were her only connection to reality, and the movement of Archie's head picked up at an indecent speed, the orgasm made her cry out loudly, liberating her as she’d never been until that instant.
It was the final revenge that Bridget took against life, the last flash of selfish pleasure that she allowed herself before taking Archie's face, kissing his lips glistening with her juices, and letting her body become the suitable instrument to give both of them a crumb of sweet happiness again before having to forcibly separate to prepare to go to that damned cinema and that damned premiere.
Bridget had decided on a relatively simple hairstyle for that evening, which in her head was increasingly shaping up to be the last of her life: lots of curls blocked by a series of fresh flowers that they’d managed to find for her in the hotel.
Among her wavy blonde locks, those three orchids were held in place by a rhinestone-encrusted and clip stood out beautifully, perfectly matched to break up the black of the breathtaking dress she had chosen to wear. It was sprinkled with sequins, with a low-cut back that would turn the heads of anyone inside Le Gamaar.
But now she was interested in making only one man's head spin: the one who was getting ready in the room next to hers and was going over all the details of Operation Kino with that infernal German accent of his, but which Bridget had almost mastered to love as much as him.
Putting on make-up, however, turned out to be a particularly complicated task, because at a certain point, her nerves had begun to get the better of her, and her fingers were trembling as she tried to line the eyeliner onto her eyelids and put red lipstick on her lips. It was already a miracle that she had make-up available; during wartime, only famous actresses like her were allowed access to such products.
But Bridget managed, and dressed carefully, sliding the light fabric of her evening dress over her body. Her gloves and jewels followed, and then she retrieved her precious white vision stole. Into her little black silk evening clutch, she tucked the invitations – and her gun.
Unfortunately, the dress’s deep back neckline prevented her from closing the two buttons there, so she had to knock on Archie's room to ask him to fasten them. Bridget saw the exact moment in which her man looked at her from head to toe, as beautiful as perhaps he’d ever seen her in person, and watched as his jaw dropped open wide as if he’d been in a dentist's chair.
“I, I- fuck,” was all Archie could stammer out to her embarrassed, while he continued to look at her as if a glorious, flesh-and-blood Ancient Greek goddess had magically materialized before him.
And Bridget felt exactly like this, for the last time in her life, before the eyes of the man she was in love with and with whom she was about to walk towards death.
The real reason why the premiere of Stolz der Nation had been hastily transferred from the Ritz, the venue outlined months ago by Goebbels, and assigned to a cinema, that, while certainly quite beautiful and well- decorated for the special night, was extremely small and contained only a few opera boxes had not been made known to Bridget.
In Berlin, no one was aware of the truth behind this sudden decision. So, Bridget had concerned herself for the previous two weeks with grabbing as many tickets as possible for her plan and then leaving for Paris a few days before the premiere. She’d organized everything to meet her British escort, making arrangements with the tailor for the tuxedos and finding a quiet hotel where she could stay.
She would never have thought that, crossing the threshold of Le Gamaar on Archie’s arm - or rather, Ernst Schuller’s - everything that had led her to live this precise moment, everything that had happened from 1942 onwards, would pass by in her mind as fast as a train on the tracks.
But now Bridget had made her decision, painful and peaceful, and she would never go back.
The cinema was packed both with Nazi signs everywhere - God, there was a giant golden eagle at the entrance towering over them all, a symbol of Herr Doktor's usual megalomania - and with German people: almost all the men were wearing Nazi military uniforms, and the women were elegant in their best clothes, their fingers and necks glittering with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds.
Goebbels was walking around with Fredrick Zoller, who was practically his godson and all dressed up in a white uniform. Next to him was a beautiful blonde girl, dressed in red, from whom he didn't take his eyes off even for a second. Bridget was sure that she had something to do with the last minute location move - she was probably the owner of the cinema itself, because no other woman could have had such importance that evening next to the star of the film - and that Zoller was desperately in love with her. And she hoped with all her heart that that pretty girl had no more reason to be angry with the Nazis than she did: the temptation to explode the whole basket with all the rotten eggs inside was too great not to be grasped that evening.
The biggest obstacle, however, that Bridget knew would materialize in that cinema had a precise name and surname: Colonel Hans Landa, better known as The Jew Hunter, and designated responsible for the security of the event. The two of them had known each other quite well in Berlin – Landa was respected and much feared, and had great prestige in Hitler's close circle. She had tried to seduce him and they had flirted heavily every time they met at various UFA parties, where there were always Nazi officers who wanted to take some compliant movie actress to bed, but nothing had ever materialized between the two of them.
Bridget didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified by this as she strode towards him. Landa caught lies from a distance like a truffle-seeking hog and a strange relationship had been established between them, made of cold respect and an awareness that there was the commonality of the both of them possesing something dark within. Except, in Bridget’s case, it was the fact that she was a traitor to her motherland, and at that moment she was madly in love with an English lieutenant whom she was letting enter into this theatre, together with two other men all strapped with dynamite; for the colonel, the issue was that he was a sadist who hunted Jews around Europe and sent them to their certain deaths for pure enjoyment and petty power.
Precisely for that reason, he was the best in his field, and Bridget anxiously squeezed Archie's arm, almost as if she was seeking a consolation in that brief contact that, in reality, could never be there.
Now the question for Bridget was no longer whether or not she would die that night, but how and at whose hands - whether through her own free choice or because she was unmasked as a spy.
Hans Landa's mellifluous voice greeted Bridget and her three companions, and, despite the noisy chatter of those around, rang in her ears with frightening clarity.
“Fräulein von Hammersmark, how is the most elegant swan in all of Germany this evening? Welcome to the premiere of Stolz der Nation,” he told her, wrapped in his most prestigious SS uniform and with all his medals glittering in plain sight.
"Landa, it's been years,” she replied, in a tone that to anyone would have seemed kind and delicate, but which actually poorly concealed a growing disgust and an impatience to get away from him, so Archie and the two Basterds could sit quietly in their seats as soon as possible. “Dashing as ever, I see.”
Landa's elegant features relaxed into a smile that vaguely smelled of mockery, as if simply by looking at their faces he had already understood who they were and why they were there, and was playing with them like a cat who’d discovered a mouse’s hole. “So who are your three handsome escorts?” he asked, pointing at them with his finger.
Bridget cleared her throat, ready to take the stage with one of the best performances of her life. “I have the pleasure of introducing you to Ernst Schuller, my old friend and associate producer of Fraulein Riefensthal's latest film. He's enjoying his summer break here for a few days in Paris, you know... Leni's health conditions don't allow her to always be on set, so I decided to invite him to spend this wonderful evening with me,” she stated with incredible confidence.
Archie held out his hand to Hans Landa and greeted him pointedly in an absolutely obscene German. “Good evening, Colonel. It's an honor to meet you.”
Bridget noticed it immediately: those words pronounced in such a bizarre way set off an alarm bell in the colonel. So she helped Archie run for cover by introducing the two Basterds.
“These two are Rolf Schaefer and Eugen Weber, a cameraman and his assistant. You know, Babelsberg studios asked me if it would be possible to bring someone to the premiere to admire the extraordinary technical work that our beloved propaganda minister and head of our glorious film industry has done on this film. And I, for the love of cinema, willingly accepted.”
The two Basterds simply nodded towards Hans Landa, although the less talkative of the two had a murderous look in his eyes that made Bridget's skin crawl. No one in their right mind would ever believe that such a person could have been an assistant cameraman.
The situation was getting more and more agitated with every passing second, and keeping everything under control seemed to Bridget to be the most complicated thing in the entire universe at that moment. She hoped that the fact that they had arrived almost close to the latest allowed time written on the invitations and the fact that the colonel had to personally welcome the Führer and escort him into the room could play to their advantage in avoiding a disaster.
Then, Landa spoke up and the next words he uttered made Bridget's heartbeat stop with terror.
“I apologize, Mr. Schuller, but your accent is very unusual. Never heard it before in my life.” To Bridget, he inquired, “Where is he from?"
Bridget turned to Archie and hoped with all her heart that he kept a cool head, and whipped up any vaguely believable story on the spot, allowing them to walk into that damn screening room and blow the whole place up in less than forty minutes.
“I was born in the village that lays in the shadow of Pitz Palu,” he replied easily, as if it were pure truth and not a colossal lie.
“The mountain? The one from the Pabst film?” Landa asked, his little eyes bright as if he were continuing to play with his intended prey. This man really creeped Bridget out.
“Yes, everyone in my village talks like this,” Archie said, his voice confident and without any slack. Bridget was so proud of him that she could have kissed him right there in front of everyone.
Landa recovered his speech. “I'm Austrian, so I don't have a particularly keen ear for German accents. But your accent really is odd. Major Hellstrom is much more experienced in the field than I am...”
Luckily, she never had to worry about it again. Finally, a German soldier with a megaphone began shouting from one of the two staircases that decorated Le Gamaar the best words Bridget could have heard at that moment:
“Take your seats! The show is about to begin! Everybody take your seats!”
Landa waved at her, and she handed him everyone's invitations. After checking the seats and rows, he let them go, but without that asshole smile being wiped off his face. Bridget was sure there were many others besides herself who would’ve gladly punched away.
“Well, I'd say it's time for you to take your seats. The usher at the entrance to the cinema room will help you. I'm going to call the Fuhrer... you know, he can't make his triumphant entrance before everyone is seated,” he concluded before giving Bridget's gloved hand a kiss and walking away.
Taking with him the last, great obstacle to the complete realization of Operation Kino.
The film - objectively speaking, a patchwork of horrifying nationalism suitable for the ignorant masses who had not yet understood the complete ruin towards which Adolf Hitler had dragged them since 1933 - had started half an hour ago and Bridget had not moved from her seat, next to Archie's, for a single moment.
As the room plunged into the familiar darkness she had been accustomed to all her life, her heart leapt into her throat. And though she would not move from here for as long as she had left to live, a strange calm that she would never have thought of experiencing in those last moments of waiting had now taken possession of her soul.
Perhaps the awareness of being able to die in the way she carefully chose, next to the person she loved, was a privilege that she never would have expected to achieve - there were far worse ways of leaving this world, she knew well. So, she took Archie's hand and squeezed it with all the strength in the world for all the time she had remaining.
She would not let go of her man's hand, no matter what.
Out of the corner of her eye, Bridget saw Archie frantically glancing at the watch on her wrist and looking at her in silence, sighing at her, asking a question that only the two of them could’ve understood.
When are you leaving? Save yourself, don't sacrifice yourself. You've already done everything you had to do, and more. You gave me all the happiness I never thought I would have before I died.
But Bridget simply looked at him in turn, silently answering him with her own eyes veiled in tears.
I'm not leaving, I'm not leaving you alone. Do you understand? I love you and I will not abandon you. There's no point in a new world for me if you won't be there.
And just like that, Bridget and Archie understood that they had both reached their end. That it would all be over in a matter of minutes and she would, almost, not even notice. Archie would explode in a second and she would follow him into his destiny of her own indisputable will.
She didn't even remember how long it’d been since the last truly free choice in her life.
When Bridget felt herself being pushed forward by Archie and enveloped by him in a kiss full of love, reverence, gratitude and tenderness that smacked of a tragic farewell, she knew that time had finally run out for both of them and for all the people locked up with them inside Le Gamaar.
Nazism would finally be a thing of the past; Europe would become a better place for it, but at the greatest price either of them could pay.
They had finally found each other, and were now forced to part ways.
It was so unfair.
The dynamite attached to his ankle exploded at the same time as the other two charges, destroying everything around them. As the world suddently went black, and Bridget left it for a better place, with Archie and without regrets.