Eren felt like he desperately needed to be back with his people. He was forgetting who he was: a soldier, a German, a Nazi!

Homosexuality made men weak, and now he knew his weakness.

He was forgetting who the enemy was.

The scene replayed in his mind: Yelena's gun pressed against the side of Greiz's head, the blast of gunpowder, and a red mist mixed with pink chunks as Greiz dropped to the ground.

That's who the French Resistance were. They killed Germans. They blew up German supplies. They existed purely to terrorize Germany.

Terrorists!

He entered the hotel, and right away he saw Kitz Woermann leaning on his cane and Ian Dietrich with his arm in a sling, both men talking together.

His company! His people!

He began to walk up to them, but suddenly he stopped, like he had run into a glass window.

The scene flashed through his mind: Kitz handing him the whip to beat Levi, sticking his gun into Levi's mouth as he forced another Jew to rape him, mercilessly shooting the Jews one by one, and then forcing him to shoot Abel. Levi said Ian had also shot many of his Jewish companions. They both had murdered unarmed civilians.

His people?

Was that what he was expected to become?

He recalled Levi solemnly praying over the dead, including Sasha. She, Krista, Ymir, and Anka had risked their lives to save the Jews, and Sasha paid the ultimate price for the freedom of others. They were not terrorists.

— Yes they were! They're the enemy!

They were a group of people risking their lives to save helpless Jewish prisoners.

— They're Untermenschen, a racial tuberculosis of the peoples, rats that needed to be exterminated!

No! Never! He would never think that!

Yet that rational voice mixed with Hitler's bombastic speeches and his teachers' harsh lectures.

He did not even realize that Holger was in front of him, having called his name many times, now looking concerned at the distant, empty gaze.

"Jäger? Eren Jäger?"

"Let me at him."

Suddenly, Eren was hit hard on the back. His reaction was pure instinct—he spun toward the attacker while reaching for his gun, but huge hands grabbed him, stopping any retaliation.

Eren jolted out of the past and saw the blue eyes looking down at him with worry.

"Reiner?"

The bullish blond shook his head in pity. "You look like you fell into Hell and Satan shat you back out."

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit. You know you can talk to me. We've been friends since Napola. I've known you longer than anyone else in this city."

That was true, but Eren also knew that Reiner was staunch in his support for Hitler. How would he react if he learned the truth about Eren? He could make a good guess, and it wasn't to have an open mind and accept him as a homosexual man with a Jewish lover.

Quietly, Eren muttered, "Do you ever feel like ... like you just don't belong?"

Reiner looked shocked by the statement. "How could you not belong? You're surrounded by Germans, by soldiers, people who have seen the horrors of war and still fight for our homeland, because freedom is always worth fighting for."

"Freedom," he whispered, recalling Yelena screaming in protest, 'Mort au Fascisme. Liberté au Peuple.' Death to Fascism. Freedom to the People.

Was he really fighting for freedom? Whose?

Reiner pouted at the troubled look in Eren's face. "I heard you have a concussion. Maybe that's why you're not thinking straight." He playfully flicked Eren's forehead. "Your brains got rattled up."

He rubbed his brow in annoyance, but part of him wanted to laugh. "Do you remember Old Man Gustav down near the train station?"

Reiner laughed at the childhood memories. "Yes! He was really messed up in the brain, wearing flower pots on his head because he said the ravens were going to drop poop-bombs."

Eren cried out like an old man while covering his head. "Die Raben! Die Raben haben Bomben." The ravens! The ravens have bombs.

Reiner joined in, covering his head and yelling, "Rabenkackebomben!" Raven poop bombs!

Eren laughed so hard he could hardly breathe. Both of them doubled over in laughter until they were red in the face.

* * *

Off to the side, Kitz and Ian glared at the two laughing raucously.

Kitz grumbled, "So noisy!"

Ian frowned in disapproval of their lighthearted play but said, "At least Jäger seems to be on the mend. We need at least one able-bodied officer in the company." He looked back over to the captain. "Do you really think you'll be sent home?"

Kitz glared down at his leg. "It's not getting better. Maybe it's my age. At this point, it's not my call. It's up to the doctors. And you?"

"At least it was my left arm. I can still shoot with my right, and I can lead whoever they give me."

"A shame your entire platoon was wiped out while under Jäger's command."

"I don't blame Jäger. He handled the whole company on his own, and from what the survivors say, he did so admirably."

Kitz glared at Eren. "Surprising."

Ian's stone-cold face tightened slightly. "Why do you say that? He's a decorated officer, and I admit, he has more combat experience than me."

"Any rat can perform well with enough experience."

"Rat?" Ian said in displeasure. "That's harsh. He's young, but some men have a natural talent."

"You have natural talent," Kitz said to Ian. "You have the family heritage, a strong and noble bloodline going back to the knights of old. What has he got? A mischling mother!"

"I don't know anything about his father's side, but I'm sure they were called Jäger for a reason. Perhaps the strength of the Hunter overcame any weakness in his mother's blood. After all, he stood and fought where lesser men would run away in terror. That is the sign of a true Übermensch."

Kitz scowled, and the grip on his cane tightened as he glared across the hotel foyer at Eren.

* * *

Eren laughed until his head hurt and he felt like he just might black out. Still, it was a wonderful feeling, a rosy tint of familiarity from childhood. He looked at Reiner, and suddenly he felt it again.

This was his people!

Maybe not Nazis, but the Germans he grew up with, the friends back home, the neighbors he used to help, even the crazy old veteran left insane after the First World War.

Reiner said, "When we get back to Hamburg, I'll buy you a flower pot. Crazy old man Jäger, playing with rats."

"Rats?" Eren asked, still laughing but cringing a little at that.

"Well, you were always playing with those Jews, so I figure you'll be the senile old man playing with rats."

The brief moment of feeling connected was gone.

Of course, as a member of the Waffen-SS, Reiner hated Jews just as much as any normal Nazi. If he had been in the village on that fateful day, it would have been him down there with Kitz and Ian, helping them to shoot the Jewish prisoners.

"Are you really okay?" Reiner asked as Eren began to go pale.

He faked a smile and brushed it aside. "Maybe my head truly is a bit banged up."

"Do you need me to drive you to the hospital?"

"No, no. Just ... maybe I shouldn't go drinking yet."

"Well, we can have an early lunch, no alcohol."

Eren laughed awkwardly. "I just realized, I still haven't had breakfast."

"Where have you been all morning?"

— Watching the soldier next door to me getting his brains blown out by a fucking terrorist bitch.

"Oh, just out walking, getting fresh air," Eren said casually. "I didn't get many quiet mornings out on the battlefield."

"I know that feeling. When I reached Metz after Normandy, all I wanted to do was walk around in peace and sleep for a week straight. Then I wanted to get drunk. This Saturday we'll go drinking." Reiner looked over to Holger. "You guys as well. We'll gather up your platoon, your friends here, make it a real party. Probably the last chance we'll get."

"Do you mind waiting?"

"Of course not. Rest, sleep, fuck a few women, we'll get drunk until we pass out on Saturday and pray we forget the whole thing on Sunday." He slapped Eren's arm. "I'm just glad you made it out of there in one piece."

Holger spoke up, "I was about to head to the café next door. Daz and Samuel are already over there. Come on. We can all eat together."

"Sounds great!" said Reiner. "If you're up to it, Eren. If not, I can drive you to the hospital."

"I'm sick of hospitals. I'm ready to hang out with my own kind again."

"That's the spirit!" Reiner grabbed around his shoulders and yanked him out of the hotel.

Yes, he should eat with his own kind again. He used to share every meal with his platoon. He had stopped doing that after arriving in Metz, spending all of his free time with Levi. Now, he could never get back those days and all that camaraderie.

They headed to the café that was attached to the hotel, bustling with officers and a skeleton crew of overworked staff, some of them new soldiers themselves stuck on kitchen duty as punishment. In his SS uniform, Reiner stuck out slightly, but all Germans were welcome here.

Eren thought to himself, this was the one good thing about National Socialism: it didn't matter how rich or poor your family was, whether a farmer, a factory worker, or growing up in a castle, all Germans were equal under Nazism.

Well, so long as you could prove your racial purity, and weren't genetically disabled, and weren't homosexual, and didn't support any other political ideology, and...

"Jäger!" Samuel shot his arm out in both greeting and mock salute. "Come, sit with us. Soldier-waiter, more coffee, or whatever you consider this mud-water."

A very young soldier rushed back to the kitchens.

"Soldiers as waiters?" Eren muttered. "They look like children."

"I asked one," Surma said as he scooted over to make more room for chairs for the three newcomers. "He said he was fourteen. I don't think these boys went through any training at all. Look at how they hold themselves."

Wim nodded in solemn agreement. "The only marching they've done is around a playground."

Eren pouted at the youths waiting on the older officers. "They're in for a rough first battle."

Samuel smirked at Eren. "You had quite a rough night."

Eren felt his ears turn red in humiliation. Had they heard?

Reiner glanced over at Eren. "That little mouse you were with last night by the bridge?"

Eren was just starting to open his mouth when Holger spoke over him.

"That was his wife. She's adorable, isn't she? Very quiet, though."

Wim muttered, "That's preferable in a woman."

Reiner arched an eyebrow. "Wife? When the hell did you get married?"

Eren awkwardly admitted, "Before being sent out. It was rushed."

"Pregnancy?" he asked, and Eren nodded, keeping his mouth shut. "Congratulations! I'm insulted that you didn't invite me," he said teasingly.

"You're allowed to not invite me to your wedding."

The men laughed around the table.

Just then, three cups of muckefuck arrived for Eren, Reiner, and Holger.

Daz said, "Jäger wasn't the loudest of you all last night, though. Greiz wasn't holding back. I wonder if he's still asleep after all that."

Eren had just started to take a sip, but he choked as acid shot up into his mouth. Shit! These men didn't know about Greiz yet.

Surma told them, "I saw him just after sunrise. He said he was going to report to the Gestapo that his prostitute was used in a vulgar way by a man earlier that night."

"Vulgar?" asked Daz, intrigued to hear any juicy details.

"As in, someone used her ass."

Daz shrugged. "Any hole will do."

Samuel frowned. "Yeah, but only a homosexual would want a woman's ass."

Holger gasped, "Wait, Daz, don't tell me—"

"I'm not some faggot!" he yelled. "I'm just saying, using a woman's ass doesn't mean a man is homosexual. I've taken women in the ass when they were bleeding up front."

"That's just sick, Daz."

The conversation shifted, but Eren's mind was already trapped. He saw the scene over and over again: Greiz threatening Nicolo, Yelena looming forward like a fatal phantom, an explosion, a mist of blood and brains.

It was just like how Gunther was killed right in front of him, taking an artillery shell directly, with only a mist of blood to splatter over his uniform. Or how Thomas and Franz vanished without a trace. There and gone, so suddenly.

Life could end so quickly and meaninglessly.

"Jäger?"

"Dammit, he's like this again."

"I have some pills that could help."

Reiner again hit Eren, jolting him out of the swirling dark nightmare.

"Sorry," Eren said, and he rubbed his head. "I think that concussion really did mess up my head."

"I had a concussion once," said Daz. "I couldn't walk for a week."

Eren tried to act flippant as he asked the group, "Did you hear about how I got the concussion?"

Reiner answered, "I heard you were shot in the head, but that can't be true."

"It is. I was shot twice."

"Amazing!" Samuel cried out.

"How are you alive?" asked Surma.

"Helmet," was all Eren said as he took a bite of sausage and swallowed it down with weak brown liquid.

Holger looked impressed. "You really do have the luck of the Devil. I think you're a Jäger of the Grim Reaper himself!"

They ate more, and Eren tried to focus on what was being said. He felt like he was trapped in two places at once: one was sitting at this table, in this café, eating sausage, eggs, and potatoes; the other was locked away in some dark box dripping with something sticky and the metallic stench of blood all around him. His real self was in that box, peering out at the world, listening to his own voice talking about banal issues, felt the forced pulling and tugging of muscles to lift smiles, but otherwise he was powerless and not connected to that reality.

He just had to make the puppetry look believable. That was all that mattered. Put on the mask so they didn't see how he was drowning in darkness.

Finally, Reiner had to leave, and the others who were finished with breakfast drifted off. Eren was done with his food but wanted another cup of muckefuck. He glanced around the café, a sea of faces all dressed in the same uniforms.

How many of these men would live to see their families again?

He saw Jean and Annie sitting in a booth away from the crowd. She had her hand on his shoulder, looking worried as Jean gazed out with harrowed eyes from whatever he also had experienced on the front lines.

Eren gulped down his fake coffee and walked over to the two. Annie looked up, her eyes tense with worries.

"Pozhaluysta, pomogite yemu." Please, help him.

Eren did not need to understand the language to grasp the desperation in her voice. He sat across from them.

Slowly, Jean's eyes focused upon Eren. "What the hell do you want?"

Eren pouted in sympathy. "Do you want to talk about what happened out there?"

The numbed, empty gaze returned. "No."

"It was your first time commanding a platoon," Eren realized. "I know from experience, that isn't easy. Do you remember in Anzio, after the first shelling attack?"

"You came back wounded and screaming your head off like you'd just met Satan himself."

"It was definitely Hell on Earth."

"At least you got us through Anzio, and I heard from Armin, in Machern-bei-Metz, you ran out there yourself to rescue your platoon when they got captured." Jean looked aside bitterly. "That's better than me. I was in a command bunker when the bombs dropped. My entire platoon was wiped out in an instant. All of them. All I could do was watch from a kilometer away." His shoulders sagged as his head fell to the table. "I should have been out there with them."

"That's part of being an officer. You can't always be with your men."

"You ran out to save yours!" he yelled in anger tinged with jealousy.

"And I was advised not to, since I was the only officer left in our company. I broke protocol and could have gotten into a lot of trouble. Let me tell you something, Jean. I'm not a good role model."

"No shit," Jean scoffed.

"An officer isn't supposed to be chummy with the rank-and-file. They're supposed to get the job done, and sometimes that takes knowingly sacrificing your men. It's ... not easy," he said, his voice quaking in fresh grief. "Especially when some of them are like brothers."

Jean scowled. "So, am I not supposed to care for my men?"

Eren gave a heavy sigh and stared down at the table. "I'm not the right person to answer that. I probably care too much, and that's why losing them hurts so much, I almost put a bullet in my brain yesterday."

Jean jolted up in horror.

"Definitely don't do that," Eren told him. "In my case, if I had stayed in the town hall, I would have died, and my men would merely be prisoners of war. Instead, because I freed them and sent them back, they were the ones inside that town hall when the Americans shelled it, and I escaped." He slowly shook his head with the burn of guilt scorching his chest. "Sometimes as an officer, you do everything right and your men die, or you break all the rules, and your men still die. That blood is on your hands."

Jean glared at him. "You're really not helping!"

"I'm saying, I understand your pain. Every single officer here who has led men into battle and watched them get mowed down by bullets knows your pain. Maybe that doesn't help, but it shows that you can keep marching forward. I can't give you flowery words that it'll all get easier—it sure hasn't for me—but I just want you to know, it feels this shitty because you're human."

Jean sneered and grumbled, "We're supposed to be Übermenschen."

"Maybe that's why it hurts so much."

Jean slumped his face down into his hands.

Annie looked worried as she rubbed his back. "Vse budet khorosho, dorogoy. Ya zdes' radi tebya." Everything will be fine, dear. I'm here for you.

Jean muttered into his hands in weary frustration, "I wish I spoke Russian."

"I'm pretty sure she's offering you support and comfort."

Jean snorted a wry laugh. "It would be better to hear that in a language I knew." He raised his head up to Eren. "So, as an officer, what do I do?"

"You survive. As someone once told me, 'Live, no matter the price.'"

Eren smiled sadly to himself. That motto got Levi through four years hiding as a Jew in Nazi-occupied France, losing his wife, losing friends, and unspeakable torture. Yet Eren saw the irony: live no matter the price, but be ready to sacrifice yourself and your men for your country. The two clashed, like how he and Levi clashed in so many ways.

Eren solemnly told Jean, "The most a soldier can do is fight as hard as he can so he survives, and an officer's job is to come up with strategies to keep them alive, but not be afraid to give the orders needed to meet the objective. Sometimes, that takes sacrifice. Your platoon was a strategic sacrifice. So was mine. Hell, all of Metz is a strategic sacrifice. They don't expect us to win, only to last as long as we can to slow the enemy down. That's the worst time to be an officer. Giving that order—sending your men out there knowing they're going to die—it's hard, and it never gets easier. It rots away your humanity. I almost got that way in Machern-bei-Metz. Right near the end, I ... changed," he whispered, thinking about how cold he was about Ivan and Jurgen dying, and burning the Americans alive with his flamethrower. "It was the shittiest feeling in the world."

Jean stared at him, awestruck and angry. "Goddammit, Jäger! You really don't know how to cheer up a man."

Eren smirked, then reached forward and patted Jean's head. "There, there. It'll be okay, Jean-boy."

"Go fuck a dog!" He heard Annie giggling and looked over at her. "Do you think he's funny?"

She smiled up at him. "Ya rada, chto tvoy drug vernulsya." I'm glad your friend is back.

"Drug? He is not my friend! Ne drug!" Annie laughed even more. "I can't believe you think this asshole is funny. On mne ne drug. On—what's the word—pridurok." He's not my friend. He's a jerk.

She giggled even more at his attempt. "Priznaysya, vy druz'ya."

"No! I told you, no druz'ya, no drug. He's not my friend, he's an asshole!"

Eren was impressed. "You're learning Russian for her?"

"It's not for her!" Jean snapped, although he blushed. "I figured, after we're done in Metz, there's a good chance we'll be sent to the Eastern Front. I want to be ready to kill some Communists."

"Sure," Eren chuckled.

Jean scowled in humiliation, but his eyes softened as he gazed down at the blond young woman who was still blushing with giggles. His face looked wistful. "Dammit. Of course I'd fall for a girl I can barely understand."

Eren tilted his head to the side, amused by that look of adoration gleaming in Jean's eyes. "You really fell for her, huh?"

Jean wrapped his arm around Annie, and she leaned into him with a content hum. "Yeah. Madame Carly said she would hold her aside special, just for me. I guess she did that with Louise, right?"

Eren cleared his throat and muttered, "Something like that." In reality, Madame Carly had been trying to keep Louise from losing her virginity. "So, when's the wedding?"

"You know I can't marry her."

"Why not?"

Jean stared hard at Eren. He looked around the café, then leaned in closer. "Her heritage, remember?"

"Being Russian?"

"No! The other heritage."

It took Eren a moment to recall, Annie was secretly Jewish. "Oh, right."

"If I married her, I'd have to prove her lineage is pure, and even if she was just a normal Russian girl, I still wouldn't be able to prove that. Jewish or Slavic, neither one is allowed. After the war, though ... maybe I could come back here, find her again, and ... you never know, right?"

Eren took Annie's hand, shocking her, and took Jean's hand, making him grimace. Then Eren set their hands together.

"You have my blessing."

Annie apparently understood enough, because her cheeks burst solid red, while Jean yanked away and sputtered as he tried to think of an insult.

"You're not my father, asshole," he finally managed to say.

Eren burst into laughs, while under the table Jean gave him a few swift kicks to the shins.

Totally worth it just to see that face!

* * *

When he was not busy with staff meetings or checking on his men, Eren spent the next few days brooding in his room. Levi did not return, not that day, nor the next, nor the day after that. Sometimes Eren stood outside the hotel to smoke, gazing out into the autumn rain, hoping to see Levi in the blond wig and blue coat, but no luck.

He had no idea what he would say to him anyway.

Sometimes, he feared that Yelena cracked and told the Gestapo where the hideout was. Every morning, he was tempted to go to the wine shop, just to make sure Levi was safe. Every evening arrived with him not going.

He was still simmering in anger, mad at himself for both being enticed by the charms of the enemy, and for daring to think that Levi, of all people, was his enemy. It was a clash between what he had been taught for the past nine years attending Hitler Youth, Napola, and officer training school, and what he had felt in his heart for merely seven months.

November settled over Metz, and with it an oppressive sky full of clouds and rain. If he listened by the window, Eren could hear the occasional percussive noise of battles far to the south. Every day trucks full of soldiers rolled out, and trucks full of wounded rolled in.

The Lieutenant's Floor was quieter. Many who had roomed there two months ago would never set foot in this building again. He saw officers coming in late in the day, soaked, muddy, their eyes distant and hard, needing a bath and a long sleep. Every night, he heard at least one man wake up screaming from terrifying nightmares.

Then one night, Eren heard a gunshot somewhere nearby. He jolted up in bed with a scream, reached for his gun set on the nightstand, and swung it around the room. He listened hard into the still night.

Down the hall, he heard footsteps.

Americans! The enemy!

He pointed the gun toward the door. He thought he saw a shadow.

He needed to shoot them before they shot him.

Then over by the corner of his room, a mouse made a tiny squeak.

Eren screamed, his gun swung over, and he let loose five shots, one after the other, until the high pitch squeaks stopped.

The enemy was dead!

His shirt was drenched in sweat from nightmares he had been having all night. He felt himself panting so hard his lungs burned.

Burned like the smoke all around him as he shouted for Thomas and Franz. He could see the flames again.

"No..." He cringed as he felt clouds of darkness billowing into his mind, threatening to yank him back to that day.

Suddenly, there was a pounding knock on the door.

"No!" Eren shrieked.

He turned and opened fire, screaming as he could smell the smoke and hear English shouting. He shot three times before his gun was out of bullets, and only the clicking of the trigger was left.

"Goddammit, Jäger! You nearly shot me!"

"Kick the door down."

"I did that last time and he got pissed at me."

"Well, his door is shot up now. Not really much to lose."

"Was that eight shots? He has a Luger, right?"

"I counted eight. He should be out of ammo."

"I got my boots. I'm gonna kick it."

"Don't get shot!"

Eren heard the voices floating in with the billowing storm of memories. There was a bang as the door was kicked. He yelled and pointed the gun again, pulling the trigger, but the clip was empty.

Cautiously, Wim stepped in, his gun drawn. He flipped on a light, and Eren was blinded for a moment.

"Jäger. What happened?"

He stared ahead. What happened? There were enemies! All around him! Surrounded by enemies...

No.

He was in the hotel, and it was late at night.

"I ... I heard..."

He looked to the corner of the room, and Wim followed the gaze. He walked over and saw the five bullet holes in the wall, as well as one dead mouse.

"The fact that you hit a mouse in the dark is impressive," Wim said as he holstered his gun. "I think maybe you need a trip to the hospital."

Hospital? Why? He wasn't sick. "It ... was ... I heard ... a gunshot."

Jean came in next. "I heard it too. It woke me up. Then you firing like a madman really woke me up. Dammit, Jäger."

Holger peeked in, and Daz tiptoed to see over him. Eren could see now, nearly everyone on the floor, even men he did not know, were gathered around his door, nervously peeking in. They had all been woken up by the sound of gunfire.

"Let me in."

The sea of curious onlookers parted, and Ian stepped into the room. Rather than hesitant, he boldly walked right up to Eren and thrust out half a lemon.

"Sniff it."

Eren looked at him in confusion, but with the lemon just under his nose, he had little other choice but to inhale. The lemon was sharp, citric, a stab to the nose that burned away the clouds.

"Now, lick it."

Eren was in a weird frame of mind, but ... orders were orders. Orders must be followed. He stuck his tongue out and licked the yellowish juice. Instantly, he made a face as the taste made his tongue cringe away.

The clouds parted. Eren was suddenly back in the moment.

"I've been in your shoes," Ian whispered with a rare look of sympathy. "A recommendation to all of you," he said to the crowd around the door. "When you sleep at night, lock your door, and don't have your gun within easy reach. Keep a lemon around. If you realize that the nightmares are taking over, cut the lemon in half. I don't know how that helps, but Hauptmann Woermann recommended it to me, and it kept me from slipping into battle-madness many times."

"A lemon?" Jean asked, interested in this treatment.

"Lemon, orange, I've even kept mint leaves in my pockets and rubbed them between my fingers so the smell keeps me from falling into madness. If it gets really bad, bite into the lemon."

Eren definitely felt clearer-headed with the lemon under his nose. "That's advice I wish they taught us in the academy."

Ian patted Eren on the shoulder. "Perhaps you should teach this lesson to the rest of your men. That battle was hell. They're probably all suffering." He set the lemon on the nightstand. "Keep it. Someone throw out that mouse."

The crowd left. Wim used a handkerchief to pick up what was left of the mouse and carried it out with a look of disgust. Jean lingered in the room. He saw Eren pick up the lemon and inhale it some more.

Quietly, he asked, "Are you going to be okay?"

Eren nodded slowly. "Hey, Jean." He reached over to his dresser, opened a drawer, pulled out a knife, and sliced the lemon again. He held out a quarter wedge. "It'll probably help you as well."

Jean took the offered slice. "You just barely missed shooting me, you know."

"Well, I can't exactly see through walls."

"If I'm going to get shot, it won't be by you, Eren Jäger." The crankiness left his face, and Jean again looked genuinely worried. "In the morning, go to the hospital and get some sleeping pills. Don't reload your gun until you wake up. Try to get some rest, okay?"

As Jean left, he raised the lemon wedge up to his nose. Eren did the same, inhaling the fresh scent.

A few moments later, someone down the hall slammed their door shut. Eren flinched, and he quickly bit into the lemon. The strong taste of citrus kept him grounded in the here-and-now. The clouds of past horror stayed away, like they were repulsed by the mere presence of the fruit.

He placed the lemon on his bedside and tried to go back to sleep.

# # #

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Random historical photo! To the left is a photograph Hitler used in promotional material, including political ads, documentaries of his life, and printed in school textbooks. Taken by Heinrich Hoffmann at the Munich Odeonsplatz on August 2, 1914, it shows young Hitler cheering about the start of World War I. Although Hitler was in Munich at the time and served in WWI, the photo was likely doctored. As you can see in the photo on the right, in 1914 Hitler had quite a bushy "Kaiser" style mustache. He trimmed it to the "toothbrush" mustache sometime after 1916 to fit in gas masks. The original photograph of the Munich crowd has never been found, only this version with Hitler circled and enlarged. It may be that Heinrich Hoffmann legitimately did find Hitler in the crowd, but touched up his mustache to make him recognizable to the public, but at least to me, that promo photo looks like the photographer simply found a picture of a guy who almost looked like 40-year-old Hitler, scribbled in a mustache, and got paid quite nicely by the Nazi Party for use of his photograph.

https://rarehistoricalphotos.com/young-hitler-ww1-1914

"racial tuberculosis of the peoples" – On September 16, 1919, Hitler penned his first political comments about Jews, called the Gemlich Letter. Even then, his hatred for Jews was clear: "Everything that makes the people strive for higher goals, be it religion, socialism, or democracy, is to the Jew merely a means to an end, the way to satisfy his greed and thirst for power. Its influence will bring about the racial tuberculosis of the people." He concluded that pogroms (violent attacks and massacres of Jews) were not enough, and a systematic, government-controlled eradication of Jews was required.

Tuberculosis was the "Covid" of its time, only way worse. It spread by breathing in infected air droplets, causing massive weight loss and bloody coughs, which is why it was originally called "consumption" in English, based on the name used by the Romans and Ancient Greeks. (It seemed to consume the patient from the inside out.) By the late 1800s, one in four deaths in Europe were attributed to tuberculosis. Antibiotics would not be discovered until 1946.

So, Hitler using the term "racial tuberculosis" was a way of calling the Jews a plague with deadly consequences if left unchecked and was the first of many ways he used words to diminish the Jewish people into being seen as less than human.

https://www.ushmm.org/learn/timeline-of-events/before-1933/adolf-hitler-issues-comment-on-the-jewish-question

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gemlich_letter

Sniffing a Lemon – Ian tells Eren about a real grounding technique for PTSD and dissociation. A trained therapist can help you with ways to get out of flashbacks and back into the present by focusing on one of the senses: playing loud music, looking at a picture of loved ones, sniffing a strong scent, tasting something sour or sweet, holding a piece of ice, etc.

https://www.berkeleywellbeing.com/grounding-techniques.html

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PTSD is a horrible thing to go through, and it's hard to watch a loved one suffer.

My father is a U.S. Marine and saw years of intense combat in Vietnam. He could not talk about it until I was a grown adult. He admitted, he was never really around us kids when we were young because he didn't want us to see him go through anything scary, like how he witnessed my grandfather suffering after World War II. My father only felt safe when he was driving, so our family had lengthy road trips, camping far away from civilization, or sometimes traveling 6000 miles round-trip (8400 km) all over America, Canada, and Mexico.

Every 4th of July, as Americans set off fireworks to celebrate Independence Day, Dad would take us way up into the hills. There, we could watch the fireworks across the entire Los Angeles and Orange County basins, from Hollywood to Disneyland to the San Bernardino Mountains. Other families sat on that spot, so it was a big party. I learned years later that all of the fathers were war veterans. Unable to handle the sounds of explosions, they were forced to flee up into the hills. The mothers made it as fun of an event for their kids as they could, while the fathers sat together, talked quietly about the war, and tried to keep one another from slipping into flashbacks. Basically, it was impromptu group therapy for veterans.

One year, a group of assholes went up near our spot to set off fireworks. For one, that's super dangerous in the Southern Californian hills which are prone to massive wildfires; and two, it invaded our little "safe space." It was amazing to see the MOTHERS leap into action and shriek at the idiots to stop, calling the cops right away. They weren't merely a bunch of "Karens" ruining the fun; they were protecting their husbands from PTSD flashbacks.

After a mild stroke, Dad could no longer tell reality from memory. He destroyed his bedroom, even busting in the walls with a hammer, in a violent outburst as he fully believed he was back in the jungle. That incident scared him; his own father once tried to stab my brother with a knife after he grew a mustache, and the thin bit of facial hair triggered my grandfather hard until he fully believed that my brother was Hitler.

Not wanting to hurt his family in a similar way, Dad finally went into therapy. Group therapy was not helpful—he's highly empathetic and could get second-hand trauma listening to what other soldiers went through. Medications helped but were not enough to keep him grounded in reality.

His therapist suggested something that shocked us all: knitting. Imagine: a 65-year-old grizzled Marine, knitting. My mother eased his fragile masculinity by suggesting that he knit a blanket in the local football team's colors, so he could wrap up in it when he went to watch games.

It worked! Following the pattern forced him to stay in the moment. He ended up making massive knitted blankets in the colors of all the high school football teams in the area and has sold a few at games. Most importantly, he is doing much better.

It often takes trial and error to find the right therapy for an individual, and sometimes the cure is in a form we'd never imagine doing. Still, once you find what fits your personal needs, therapy really does help.