It was the middle of winter, 1937. The wind was bone chilling, the snowstorm a bad omen. It was rare weather--they hardly got any snow--but as long as he was indoors, he didn't mind it.

He was a young man back then. His hair was jet black and his eye glasses not so strong. In his father's clinic was where he spent his days, learning the trade. There was no money for him to go to school, and he didn't mind. The wave after wave of people coming in, complaining how this hurts and that meant little to him or his training. That was not how his father taught him, no. It was when they snuck out at night, with shovels and lanterns, to the cemetery and--

There was no time to think of that now. He was in charge while his father was at the tavern. It was a shame no one dared to brave the storm that raged outside. He was rather bored, after all, and their cupboard was beginning to seem rather empty.

Had it not been obscured by thick clouds, the sun would have been far below the horizon. He was about to put the fire out and climb into the second floor loft where he slept when something pounded on the front door. He paused, pushing his glasses up, and wondered if something had simply hit his home after being swept away by the wind. But, no, something struck his door again, with more force this time. Quickly, he hurried to the front room and welcomed whoever was trying to destroy his home.

"Wenn Sie nicht sterben, wir sind geschlossen," he explained, his voice loud over the howling wind. That was, until he saw how overall gigantic the man at the door was compared to him. "Wer sind Sie?"

The man pushed his way inside from the cold. He was wearing little to protect himself from the weather but seemed unconcerned with it. "Pozhalujsta, pomogite Sasha."

The smaller man stared in confusion for a moment. "Was?"

Despite the language barriers, the bear of a man seemed to understand. He held out his arms; the doctor-in-training had not noticed before, but there was a small mass of blankets that shivered violently there. "Sasha. Sasha!" the Russian man cried out, urgency evident in his voice.

The German took the blankets and pushed a few of them aside. What he found underneath was a small girl, no older than six or seven, her face flushed and feverish and her body shaking with chills. "Mein Gott," he muttered. If there was one thing he had been taught to be paranoid about, it was this.

Stepping away from the girl, he rushed to find a surgical mask and his gloves. Throwing a mask at the man, he took 'Sasha' and set her on the examination table. The blankets he tossed into the fireplace, breathing a sigh of relief as they quickly burned.

"Ja holodnyj, bol'shoj brat," the little girl whimpered, and the man moved to wrap his arms around her, but the German man protested loudly. He stepped away, a torn look on his face, and the girl coughed weakly.

"Was sind ihre Symptome? Sagen Sie mir, sie wurde nicht Erbrechen," he asked the larger man, hoping to every deity he could think of that he could understand him. The Russian gave him a lost look, unable to answer.

There was no need, after all. The girl sat up, coughing more violently. Small droplets of blood fell between the fingers that covered her mouth. This time, the German could not stop the other man from rubbing Sasha's back as she coughed even more violently until she stopped, turned her head and heaved all over the floor.

"Was für ein Chaos..." the German muttered before shooing the large man into the parlor so he could work. If the Americans could stop their pandemic, then surely he could save one sole influenza patient.

The night seemed to drag on forever to the Russian man. That was his sister in there. That was his Sasha! What if the doctor could not help her? He was the only one awake at the time. He was the only one willing. Either way, he was indebted to the man. Whether they could understand each other or not, he owed the smaller man his life after this.

But, still, the only thing he could think of was his sister. His sister. His Sasha. What would he do without her? He had no one else...

Slowly, the wind died down. Slowly, the clouds parted. Slowly, the storm stopped. Slowly, excruciatingly, painfully, torturously slowly, the sun came up. The weak coughing in the other room stopped.

For a moment, hope flickered inside the giant man. Standing up resulted in the couch's ends returning to the ground, but he lumbered over to the clinic front of the house. "Doktor, kak ona?" he asked tentatively, peering around the tiny man. He didn't see the crumpled look on the doctor's face, or the limp arm that hung off of the examination table. All he saw was the unsettlingly pale, still face of his sister.

As the Russian howled and wailed in a language he didn't understand, the German simply sat in a chair and covered his eyes with his hand. It was the first time he had cried for a patient. She had been so young... Despite the pain she was in, he could see brightness and intelligence behind her eyes. She would have been great, had she been allowed to grow up.

Hours later, both men seemed to calm down. Too much. They were both silent and hardened, steeling themselves against their grief. The doctor covered the girl with a blanket; his father would know what to do with the corpse. Reluctantly, he let his hand rest on the Russian's shoulder. "Ich habe alles, was ich konnte. Es tut mir leid," he muttered. The man looked up at him, looking at him with the same pained, intelligent eyes that the girl had looked at him with.

The Russian said nothing. What could he say? Even if the German could understand him. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out as much of whatever currency he had, handing it to the doctor. The tiny man took it without question but watched with growing apprehension as the Russian stood up.

As he turned to leave, he felt a tug on the back of his shirt. "Lassen Sie mich mit Ihnen. Ich werde es an Ihnen irgendwie," he explained quickly, speaking before the words registered in his mind, even. He would not fail the man again.

Their eyes met. It seemed fate had granted them the gift of understanding in that moment. Without knowing what the small man had said, the Russian had known what he meant. "Da, pozhalujsta."

Without so much as bothering to lock up behind him, the German man followed closely behind his companion. Silently, he swore to himself he would not let the man in front of him out of his sight, he would not let him down ever again.

Author's Note: This is for you who don't really feel like using Babblefish or whatever, but still don't know German or Romanized Russian. Translations of each spoken line, in order. I'm too lazy to distinguish who said what. You can do that.

"If you're not dying, we're closed."
"Who are you?"
"Please help Sasha."
"What?"
"My God."
"I'm cold, big brother."
"What are her symptoms? Tell me she has not been vomiting."
"What a mess..."
"Doctor, how is she?"
"I did everything I could. I am sorry."
"Let me go with you. I will make it up to you somehow."
"Yes, please."