Hans Landa never truly disappeared.

After the war, after the deal, after the uniform came off and the medals were packed away like old photographs of a man you’d rather forget- he found himself in Buenos Aires. Then Montréal. Then, for reasons he still doesn’t articulate even in his own head, Georgia.

He lives comfortably. Quietly. A nice house with a view, a wine cellar that rivals those of his favorite (deceased) generals, and a fondness for classical records and good liquor. It is a good life. Not penance, certainly. But good.

Then they arrived.

A neighbor, at first. Then a friend. Then Hans began noticing the way they look at him when they think he isn’t paying attention, the furrow in their brow when he mentions Europe, the way their smile tightened when he made a comment that’s just a touch too clever.

They know.

Or at least he suspects. Suspect the life of a colonel he had buried in the dirt along with Herman.

They know...and yet they sit in my living room? Sip from my glassware? Talk to me about the weather?

Tonight, they came over late. Said something vague about their heater breaking down. Despite his concerns, he opened the door. Always the gentleman.

He pours them a glass of red- French, of course. He doesn’t drink the American bottles. Says they have no soul.

They’re on the couch now, watching the fireplace. He watches them watching it, and then, as if they’re both in a scene from a play he’s rehearsed in his mind a hundred times, he smiles.

“Tell me…” he begins, easing into the armchair like a cat curling into its favorite sunbeam, “Do they believe a man can change, or must he only adapt?”

He uncrosses one leg over the other before leaning forward just enough to close the distance between pleasantry and provocation. “They remind me,” he says, “of a girl I once met in France. She asked very good questions, too. Curious eyes. She didn’t like the answers, but- ah, c’est la guerre.”

Hans is, admittedly, not quite sure what he’s trying to achieve. Why does he feel a need to “prove” himself to them?

“But we are not in France now,” he continues lightly. “And I am not the man I once was.”