Chapter Text
The noise of approaching cars caught his attention, running over his strained nerves like a sheet of iron. Gilbert looked up from spraying flowers in the garden – that was what he always did at noon, this could be confirmed by any outside observer (if they existed, of course), and yesterday there was certainly nothing remarkable that could make him change his habits – and heard the phone ring through the open window.
It couldn't be just a coincidence.
Too long a delay could turn into... The GDR felt the hair on the back of his head twitch. He left the bag with fertilizer by the bush, headed for the back door.
Just don't panic.
He took off his gloves and put them on the chest of drawers. He took a deep breath, picking up the phone. Maybe the car belonged to one of the neighbors. Maybe it was a business call, and...
“Comrade Beilschmidt, it’s Konrad Koch, head of the Ministry for State Security of the GDR for the district of Magdeburg. I order you to immediately leave the house with your weapons”
They didn't even give him time to think.
Gilbert inhaled sharply and quietly through his teeth – it was unlikely that the shithole he had driven himself into will become deeper if he tried...
“May I ask what...”
“We'll explain ourselves outside. Please, you are in danger”
The voice softened a little, as if trying to calm him down, but the tension in the muscles of the arms and in the tightly clenched jaw hardly eased. He took a breath.
“Understood. Now I will come up for the weapon – and I will leave”
He hung up before Koch said anything else to him.
Now he had to act quickly.
“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!!”
Ivan's heart was pounding, going into a panic, as if ready to fall out of his chest – the bird was tearing around in the cage, an obvious signal: they needed to hide, he and Alfred practiced everything the day before, everything was simple...
Everything from the very first second went arseways.
It was he, Ivan, who had to go for the plank, open the secret hole – he rushed out of bed, almost crashed and bruised his nose, because of his leg, entangled in the sheets – only to have Alfred's flattened palm rest against his chest:
“Make the bed, you're closer, I'll open it myself!”
The piercing blue eyes worked better than any explanation. Russia turned to the bed: to find the ends of the crumpled linen through the blood raging in the ears, through the fluttering of the canary – it would be easier to defuse the ticking bomb! With trembling hands, he threw the blanket on the floor, smoothed out the wrinkles on the sheets, fluffed up the pillow – he heard some kind of knock, America’s cursing: he crawled under the bed almost to the very waist, getting under Ivan's feet.
“What are you fumbling there?”
“The plank flew off to the wall... Give me a sec...” he jerked his body forward: the whole bed shuddered, there was a muffled cry of “ouch!” – then: “That's it, I got it, I'll get out right no...”
Alfred did not finish: Ivan grabbed him by the ankles, pulling him out from under the bed.
America slid on the floor on his belly – his shirt pulled up – rolled over to the hiding place and immediately stood on all fours, sticking a plank into the crack, several times in the wrong one, but finally lifting a piece of parquet with a loud noise – Ivan rushed through the opening into the same second, when the blanket was tucked in, he collapsed to the bottom of the hiding place – Alfred jumped after him, Ivan's gaze caught on something shiny on the bedside table...
“Glasses!”
“What? Oh, damn!” America rushed to the bedside table, grabbed his glasses – his golden hair glistened in the sunlight from the window – and darted back like a bullet, slamming the floorboard behind him, the boards clattered before his eyes, and they both plunged into darkness.
Something that enveloped them could hardly be called silence: the beating of the hearts in their ears was too strong. Ivan tried to stop his heavy breathing, even not to move – when suddenly panic pierced his consciousness. He turned his head towards Alfred.
“What about our shoes below? Shirts and trousers with backpacks? It’s...”
“I brought them in the morning, they are here, next to you, over there, you see?” Alfred's hot whisper rang out near his ear – he put his palm between the boards and Ivan's body, pointed to the space at his left leg, and squinting his eyes, in the twilight Russia made out the outlines of boots and stuffed backpacks – and suddenly felt a surge of desire to kiss Alfred Jones of such force that he was able to suppress it only with hearing footsteps approaching the room.
They froze. The steps shifted from the entrance to the closet near the cage with the bird – for some reason it became slightly more quiet – and then they heard Gilbert's voice:
“I was told to come out with a weapon. So lie down and don't move. Until you hear my order to get out”
Sharp steps away – and the door closed.
Convulsive, quiet breathing came out of Ivan's lungs, settled on the boards opposite his face. The noise of cars outside could be heard more distinctly against the background of the hushed bird, some army commands...
Was told to come out with a weapon?
Gilbert ran down the stairs as fast as he could, striding down the corridor towards the exit. He had not left the gun since the very morning, he needed to go upstairs only to make sure that the two jackasses who came on his head had not unintentionally left their underpants in plain sight – open the door – okay, the room was absolutely “clean”, calm, just stay ca...
Outside, more than one car was waiting for him. And not even two of them.
The wire fence of his summer cottage was surrounded by military vans at equal distances from each other: one, two, four, six – just in his range of vision. Soldiers lined up along the perimeter of the fence: in helmets, in body armor...
With machine guns, whose barrels were directed towards the house.
Gilbert froze to the ground. His palm reflexively twitched to the handle of the gun – even though his consciousness told him that it was useless: if they wanted to, they could shoot himright now, and nothing...
“Comrade Beilschmidt, you have nothing to fear. Come here!”
Two people in civilian clothes could be seen behind the gate.
Gilbert strode forward, suppressing the shaking of his hands with an effort of will. One could hardly be surprised at his tension now: not every day five, twelve, twenty-three, and if you take into account those located behind, about forty soldiers surrounded his summer cottage.
While he was walking forward, the machine guns were still aimed in the direction of the house.
Gilbert went out of the gate. Two men in gray cloaks, obviously not relatives, but so similar to each other – in movements, facial expressions, bearings, a certain inconspicuousness – one could hardly pick out such people with a glance in the crowd – approached him. One of them, stocky with a square jaw, stepped forward resolutely, holding out his hand (it did not escape Gilbert that the second man pursed his lips in response to this for a split second).
“Colonel of State Security Alexander Zhdanov” he introduced himself in Russian, piercing Gilbert with a steadfast gaze – the GDR withstood it, trying not to pay attention to how his palm ached from a handshake.
“Head of the district administration Konrad Koch. I am glad to personally meet with the embodiment of the socialist fatherland” said the second, bald with a black beard, carefully portraying friendliness. His pale blue eyes did not reflect even a shadow of a smile, leaving no illusions about what feelings he had for the “socialist fatherland”.
The piercing, chilling cold of Hohenschönhausen licked Gilbert's back again, even after so many years.
He suppressed a shudder.
“You're probably wondering what's going on here?” Koch spoke up again.
“You’re reading my mind” Gilbert finally allowed himself to hastily look around: as he expected, the soldiers really cordoned off the entire area in a continuous line. From two vans – one that was closer, and the second, on the opposite side, at the second gate – another detachment of four or five soldiers came out on command. They moved in chains to the entrances to the site. “What is this...”
“A counter-terrorist operation is underway here”
It took a few seconds for the words to seep into consciousness.
“Against whom? There is only a canary inside now. The worst thing she can do is to peck a shoulder, demanding unscheduled feeding”
Koch frowned for a fraction of a second – and something darkly proud rose in the soul of the GDR – when his bird felt that someone was threatening him, she was able to cause trouble, which they knew firsthand – and declared with rock-solid seriousness:
“Comrade Beilschmidt, a couple of days ago, Western spies managed to cross the state border – we have every reason to believe that they are going to kidnap you”
Now it was almost impossible to hide the astonishment.
Confusion overwhelmed him. If they knew that Braginsky and Jones were with him, why even arrange all this? Why didn't they just break into the house, it’s faster that way, and...
“And, according to our data, they could hide somewhere in your house” added Zhdanov, apparently catching the confusion in Gilbert's mood. “So you are under a threat”
Gilbert took a few seconds to answer, carefully weighing each word.
“I... am very grateful that the state cares so much about my safety” he answered, firmly looking into Koch's eyes. His answer was a watery, sedentary look. “But I'm not a lady that you can just take out without too much noise. How could I not notice the appearance of these spies in my own house?”
Koch was silent for a while, piercing Gilbert with his eyes – it seemed as if they were trying to scan the inside of his skull, to read all the hidden thoughts, even those that he himself had not suspected in his life – and said, firmly and with punctuation:
“As the events of recent days have shown, if it has become possible for them to cross the border almost without hindrance, then it will not be difficult to enter your house,” a hand fell on his shoulder: it was squeezed – perhaps Koch wanted the gesture to come out fatherlike, but aching pain spread in the muscles. “So it’s better for you to stay here, comrade Beilschmidt. We will protect you”
Here.
Now he understood what exactly did not fit.
The only explanation for this spectacle that floated through Gilbert's mind as he watched the soldiers walk around the building on command from both sides, as if about to storm the fortified bastion, was that neither the Stasi nor the KGB knew exactly where the fugitives were hiding, – which meant, in case of failing, if it suddenly turned out that the embodiment of the GDR had nothing to do with it, it was necessary to have a legend – so that non-existent God forbid Gilbert Beilschmidt allowed himself the idea that personifications... could escape their countries.
But if their suspicions turned out to be true – the front door opened: the first group of soldiers was already going inside – then everything was arranged in such a way that if Jones and Braginsky were discovered and if they decided to break through by force...
...they – unarmed, deprived of even his, Gilbert's, gun, surrounded on all sides by armed soldiers – would not stand a chance.
Another car stood at a distance – a pale gray truck "Barkas" with a rectangular iron body without windows, at the entrance to which stood a pair of soldiers with machine guns pressed to their chests; and everything would be fine if Gilbert did not feel how they literally bored a hole right through his back with their glares in anticipation of a single wrong move.
So, better to stay here. His trembling hands clenched into fists.
Not only Braginsky and Jones would not be able to escape.
They shuddered when they heard the loud thud of the doors open from below.
In the tightness and dusk of the hiding place, Ivan's hearing sharpened down to the limit: he almost did not breathe, and although the fluttering of the canary resumed again, it was impossible not to hear what was unfolding on the first floor.
Numerous steps, from two sides at once – from the main entrance and from the black one, short commands in German – if before that it was possible to hope that Stasi officers in civilian clothes would come into the house with an ordinary check, having only observations and soul-piercing glances as weapons, now all doubts had disappeared that a real military assault was taking place below. Of course – a drop of sweat running down his temple, so distinct against the background of hypersensitive, as if bare, nerves – if he were in their place, he would send a platoon of soldiers to intercept them, no less...
Three doors on the ground floor – to the pantry, to the kitchen, to the bathroom – were thrown open in turn with such force as if they had been kicked out. Steps directly below them, in the living room – several at once, quiet talks... and, finally, the creak of the stairs.
Russia silently exhaled from the depths of his chest, closed his eyelids with quivering eyelashes. If only he did not lose his nerves.
A stir next to his hand – he turned his head – only America's profile was visible in the darkness. He inhaled and exhaled as infrequently and deeply as Russia himself – probably also trying to calm down. He squeezed his eyelids tightly – the bangs above his forehead trembled...
Obeying a sudden impulse, Ivan groped for his fingers next to him – and covered them with their own.
Alfred shuddered in response, never opening his eyes. But he turned his hand over, clutching Ivan tighter.
Russia turned his head, exhaling. From the touch it became a little bit, for a second, more calm...
The door to their room broke down.
They simultaneously sucked in air, opening their eyes, reflexively squeezing their hands tighter – Ivan could hear the floorboards creaking as heavy steps approached in the direction of the window.
The bird chirped louder.
The floorboards directly above them sagged under someone else’s weight – he could have touch them with his chest if he had not forgotten how to breathe – the dust from the boards settled in their cramped space, tickled his nostrils, too much – he raised his hand through the panic that overwhelmed his soul, pinched his nose almost painfully, felt how the murderous (in the literal sense) thirst to sneeze started to dissolve.
The footsteps moved diagonally, towards the canary's cage, then along the closet and towards the bed – whoever was in Gilbert's bedroom right now seemed to be walking in circles, looking closely. Feelings sharpened down to the limit: Ivan felt the same steps at the other end of the floor, in the office, in the corridor, Alfred's hand, which squeezed him almost to whitened knuckles, muffled movements downstairs in the living room...
“The second floor is also clean” they said in German from above.
There was a brief silence – if silence could be called the sounds of footsteps from above and below, and the restless chirping of a canary. The slam of the door on the first floor: voices were heard, unfamiliar – two men entered the house. Their muffled conversation was heard in different parts of the house: it seemed that they were pacing through the rooms below, slowly, little by little, stopping in each of them. His heart skipped a beat as the stairs creaked. As they approached, each word became more and more distinct.
Ivan froze to the floor when he realized that they were speaking Russian.
“...according to the personal characteristics of Braginsky and Jones, they would not be afraid of a head-on clash” a voice, low, completely clear, without an accent: it could not belong to a Stasi employee. “What is remarkable, most likely it is Braginsky who would propose such a way out”
“Perhaps there is some kind of hiding place in the house... Caches, the entrance to which is hidden behind cabinets or furniture. Unless, of course, they have already left” the second one was clearly local.
“Or unless they were not here at all” now they were both standing on the threshold of the bedroom – this could be recognized not only by their steps, but also by the reaction of the bird, which now thrashed in the cage with renewed vigor, as if mad. “My superiors do not discount this version. Especially considering” the steps of one of them: the boards directly above them sagged a little: the heels scraped the parquet, the man turned around. “Those numerous reports about Beilschmidt's loyalty in recent years that had been coming to Karlshorst”
Karlshorst. His guesses about the man who spoke Russian were confirmed – Ivan shut his eyes.
His stomach twisted in fear.
“Do not think that I did not notice your irritation when it turned out that the operation will take place under my supervision” the Russian said again.
“I don't understand what you mean”
“Comrade Koch...” the man moved again: walked around the room, stopped closer to the threshold: closer to his interlocutor. “My superiors sensibly reasoned that in order to successfully escape the GDR – or just stay here – Braginsky and Jones could not do without help from within. And if this help is still provided to them” a pause. “It would be useful to know from when exactly they could get it... if it turns out that the previous conclusions were not true”
Even through the chirping of the canary, one could feel the thickening of the air on the other side of the hiding place. A scene played out in his imagination – how two people looked at each other, meeting with intent gazes. Trying to crack one another.
He did not answer for a long time. When Koch spoke, he did it slowly, carefully choosing each word.
“You should understand, Comrade Zhdanov... centuries of life among the bourgeois elite could not but leave an imprint on these creatures”
Silence. The creak of the floorboards – now Koch bypassed Zhdanov; approached the window.
“Given Beildschmidt's behavior seventeen years ago, he was kept under close surveillance. In recent years, he really showed nothing else than extreme discipline. Even enthusiasm. We hoped that Beilschmidt had finally managed to break with his past. That we were able to instill in him our common ideals. Managed to set him on the right path. That he really became... the socialist state of the German nation. But we” Koch emphasized the word with intonation. “We have never missed the fact that close ties with his brother and his imperialist past may still have an effect on him”
Have never missed the fact, unlike someone – Koch didn’t have to finish the phrase so that the hint settled in the air. Ivan saw as if with his own eyes how Zhdanov knitted his eyebrows and pursed his lips in impotent irritation, unable to parry this mockery.
"And if it turns out that our fears are confirmed... All appropriate measures will be taken, you understand"
Beads of sweat rolled down his temples. The heart was ready to break through the chest.
“I understand” Zhdanov replied slowly. “From our part… Damn it, is that canary always so furious?”
In the meantime, the bird went on a rampage: it seemed that now she had gone crazy with panic – the cage trembled, risking tipping over to the floor.
"Whenever we deal with her" Koch replied, exhaling irritably. “You are extremely lucky that Braginsky does not have an animal companion”
“There are enough problems with him for ten animals” Zhdanov sighed wearily, a little muffled: perhaps he was running his hand over his face. “Okay, it's time to finish with this hide-and-seek... I brought material from Vienna. Is the dog ready?”
“We chose it yesterday”
“Excellent. Let's end all the troubles at a single stroke”
With these words, Koch and Zhdanov hurried away – the steps from the room went into the corridor, then down the stairs.
The farther they went, the faster Ivan was pulled into a whirlpool of soul-crushing horror – and all the air seemed to be pumped out of his lungs.
From the sight of Koch and Zhdanov leaving the house – alone – Gilbert almost allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief, coming out of his tense stupor. It was too early to rejoice: they haven't left yet. To be consistent, it was worth rejoicing only when Braginsky and Jones would be not on his territory. But the very fact that they were not dragged after the agents of special services, shot or tied up, willy-nilly lit a tiny flame of hope: maybe that was all, maybe...
Gilbert stepped forward, intending to clear things up, but Koch held out his hand to him with a short shake of his head. "Wait".
They went to one of the vans.
And from the scene that unfolded in front of Gilbert, everything froze through inside of him.
A German shepherd was taken out of the van on a leash, and a transparent sealed bag was visible in Zhdanov's hands, inside of which two folded jackets were seen. They were talking with the dog handler about something – he made out the words "rainstorm" and "washed away the traces" – after which they all together went with the dog towards the house.
Looking after them, Gilbert didn't know what kept him from crashing to the ground and yelling at this very moment.
That was all.
Extraneous sounds – soldiers, the bird, the conversations of security officers – absolutely anything – subsided compared to the raging, deafening ocean of horror that opened up inside him.
Ivan was shaking.
They'd be found, right now, the dog couldn't help smelling them – they'd be found right here. They would take them in underpants and holding hands – he threw back his head, soundless laughter swept over the boards when he imagined the faces of the Chekists at such a hilarious scene.
Laughter parted the veil of horror, injected adrenaline. Panic receded a little, throwing a crazy decision through the veiled mind – they would be taken if they continue to lie here.
If in the one and a half or two minutes that they had left, they would not move. A smile from ear to ear trembled at the corners of his lips: Zhdanov literally offered him a solution himself – if they...
“Ivan, we can get out”
A hot grip on his shoulder, breathing close to his ear – Alfred turned on his side, clutching at him, tension rippling from his body.
“Tobacco. It is necessary to scatter it, it will clog the dog's receptors, then its smell will be cut off – and they will not find us at all”
Words burned into his inflamed brain, forcing the gears to move – Russia became numb.
And then he turned his face to America in annoyance:
“And where can I get it? Give birth to it? What the...”
“Look, here!”
Hissing furiously, America shifted his hand from his shoulder to his cheek, turning his head to the other side – the touch burned – and Ivan saw it.
There was a box next to his head; judging by the reflections, it was iron, the letters on it were hard to make out – it seemed, they were Latin, he squinted...
Something clicked in his brain: if Gilbert had a hiding place, then something must have been there, something that he wanted to hide from the omnipresent surveillance.
“It's snuffing tobacco, in a jar, maybe Ludwig secretly carries it to him” a convulsive whisper swept over his neck; his heart skipped a beat – too loud, they would hear – but the canary above interrupted everything with its furious thrashing. “I saw in the morning when I was taking things here...”
Hope flickered – desperate, wild: if they had the opportunity... stop.
“How do we use it? It is necessary to scatter it, and so that it is imperceptible, and...”
"I-I've thought of everything" While one of America's hands still squeezed his fingers until it hurt, the other trembled in a soothing gesture against his chest. “We need to knock down the cage somehow. I left a package of birdseed there, then it will scatter, they are approximately similar in color, and it will be possible to mix with it; maybe stick out your hand quickly – you're closer to it, try it while they...”
“Jones, are you crazy?” Russia clenched his teeth. “There is a soldier above us, we will be caught instantly!”
“We'll be caught if we don't do something right now!”
“I know!” Ivan grabbed him by the collar of his shirt with his free hand and pulled him towards himself. “We must break through!”
“Wh– are you...”
The sounds from below made Alfred break off, the sounds of conversations – they were already here, with the dog, right now, right...
“They will find us anyway, but now they don’t know where we are, if we break out suddenly, we can take away their weapons, we can...”
“There's a horde of soldiers!” Alfred hissed; he reeked of anger now, their noses nearly touching. “They'll riddle us, and– and– Gilbert...”
“So let's take Gilbert with us!” Ivan growled; footsteps were already heard on the stairs. “We're done if...”
“Give it here” America put his hand behind his head, wanted to grab the jar, Russia squeezed it with his shoulder in a rage, they heard a knock...
America's hiss of pain filled his ears – a ringing silence – something was wrong, a chirp couldn't be heard, what –
The cage crashed to the floor.
“Here. The odors should have lingered”
Beilschmidt was clearly nervous – Zhdanov could not help but pay attention to this. So far, his anxiety could be attributed to understandable confusion from the news that terrorists had settled in his house, for whose capture the state surrounded him with a platoon of soldiers, but it was still too early to draw final conclusions.
Koch, beside him, cracked open a transparent bag. The shepherd poked her muzzle into it, her wet black nostrils quivered – now everything should be cleared up.
After sniffing the air in the corridor, the dog slowly walked into the living room, circled around a soldier with weapons at the ready – there was one of them in each room of the house. Walked past the sofa and chest of drawers – Zhdanov tensed up, it seemed that this was it – but then the shepherd turned into the corridor again, now proceeding to the bathroom...
“Schäfer, did she pick up the scent? Are they here?”
“It's hard to say” he and Koch were only one step behind the cynologist; he closely watched his ward. She walked under the sink and led them back into the corridor. The chirping of the canary, audible even from here, had an amazing effect on the nerves. “She's in the process right now. Still, the clothes lay in the trash for several hours, the smells could mix. If a...”
The leash pulled tight – the shepherd abruptly headed for the stairs.
They almost outran Schäfer, hurrying after him along the wooden steps – Zhdanov clutched his duty gun in his pocket; there was no doubt that Braginsky and Jones would fight back – here they were already on the second floor, knock –
– crash –
Something small and yellow shot out of the bedroom like an arrow, rushed towards them – there was a scream; Schäfer twitched towards the wall, clutching his eye, the dog barked angrily...
Beilschmidt's canary flapped its wings over her muzzle, chirping furiously, small claws opened to dig into the skin under her eyes; the shepherd backed away – her angry barking spread through the house, her tail beat on her sides, she growled, snapped her mouth, trying to grab the bird – she suddenly twisted, rushed from the dog straight to Koch – he put his hands forward – but he had to hold back not the canary at all, but a shepherd that fell on him, furiously chasing a bird – Koch fell to the floor, yelling from a crack of an elbow on the railing of the stairs; the bird made a loop in the air, rushing at the dog again...
“This bastard pecked me in the eye!”
Zhdanov twisted his head – Schäfer was still standing, leaning against the wall, pressing his hand to his eye, his face was distorted by pain – he jerked and collapsed: the leash was taut when the shepherd chased the canary to the other end of the corridor. The soldiers looked out of the rooms, peering into this mess, the one who was in the bedroom, next to Zhdanov, raised his machine gun, aiming at the bird...
“Hold it!” Zhdanov snapped, shouting over barking and grabbing his machine gun: the target was too small, he could hit the dog, and the goddamn bird regenerated at the same speed as its owner. “Call Beilschmidt here!”
The barking sounded very close to him.
If at first the roar and screams confused them, it soon became clear that the canary had escaped.
Chirping, barking, swearing in German and Russian filled the corridor; Russia heard, it seemed, something with an eye, barking again, an order to call Gilbert – the clatter of feet running down the stairs – the room was left empty – scream again, already Zhdanov’s; as if he had fallen, as if the dog had fallen on him...
“Ivan” Alfred squeezed his hand tightly – were they still holding hands? – he grabbed an iron can with the other hand; again a feverish, pleading whisper. “Let's do it now! Please!”
Ivan gritted his teeth.
He made a decision.
In a few moments, when there was no turning back
and he was praying everything to work out, suddenly there was an understanding
in what language they were talking about their capture.
Gilbert sat down by a tree, his hands folded in his lap, his forehead resting on them. He didn't want anyone to see his empty face with fading eyes.
He didn’t have a chance with one gun against a platoon of soldiers – he was amazed at himself, grinned that he even allowed the thought of such an option. There was no hope for escape.
All that remained was to wait for the inevitable.
It should end – begin – very soon: it wouldn't take long for them to discover his hiding place. It wouldn't take much thought to piece everything together.
He tried to drive away thoughts of what would happen after.
He still had that grass under his palms. He felt the bark of the tree against his back, rough and hard. Soon all this would be gone – only the cold of concrete, darkness and... The wind stirred his hair, the river sparkled in the distance...
He heard noise from the house.
Shiver along the ridge. Here it is.
The soldiers all around tensed, pressed themselves even tighter on their weapons, but they did not move; the noise didn't stop, and then...
The front door opened and a soldier's head appeared.
“Comrade Beilschmidt, come upstairs now!”
Gilbert stood up immediately, almost running towards the entrance.
The feeling of confusion grew in him more and more as he stepped over the threshold and crossed the corridor – why wasn’t he tied up right next to a tree and dragged into the “Barkas”, what a mad barking of a dog over his head, screams, a roar – he soared up the stairs, outrunning a soldier...
The first thing that caught his eye was that Koch stood unsteadily, clutching the top of his head and clinging to the railing, Zhdanov, too, had obviously just got up from the floor, the cynologist, still half-bent, littered with books from the shelf; a quick glance into the bedroom through the half-open door – his heart hit his ribs when he picked out the blond strands with a glance, then how a piece of parquet descended and lay flat – a shepherd with a released leash rushed from the other end of the corridor, barking, and in front of her...
“Beilschmidt, calm your damn bird!”
Gilbert whistled – the canary flew towards him, he hid her in his palms; and recoiled as the shepherd's mouth clattered in front of his very nose. The dog was barking, barely restrained by Zhdanov – he had a bruise on his temple – who somehow managed to grab the leash and was now holding her by the collar; he turned his furious gaze from the dog to Gilbert.
“Get it out of sight!”
“O-okay” nodding, he walked around them in an arc (as far as it was possible to do it in a narrow corridor), went into the room – a fallen cage lay with the door open, a box of brownish birdseed overturned, it was scattered all over the floor – he sank on all fours to immediately put the canary inside, caught the smell...
A lot of details were missing, but a hunch flashed through the inflamed mind: the hunch of what these two were up to, and the blood rushed, and hope cut through the heart – it might work...
Only if they wouldn’t understand that something was wrong with the dog.
Gilbert began to slowly raise the cage – the canary calmed down next to him, but he had to tightly grip the bars so that no one noticed his shaking hands – behind him the barking of the shepherd was heard less and less.
“Koch, how are you, all right? Schäfer, what's with the eye?” Zhdanov promptly brought everyone to their senses.
“Tolerably, at first it seemed that it had been cut out” the dog handler hissed. “So many problems from such a little...”
“Wonderful. Let’s continue, comrades”
Again, the crack of the package – the GDR was pushing the cage back to the wall, when a moment later, out of the corner of his eye, he saw how the shepherd entered the room, crouched against the pile of spilled birdseed, and...
Gilbert pushed the cage aside and it crashed to the floor.
“What the hell?!” Schäfer and Zhdanov, who entered the room after him, looked at him irritably. The shepherd twitched; Schäfer clutched his head at the loud thud, grimacing – it looked like he had been hit hard in the corridor; one eye was swollen and red.
“I apologize! She is very nervous when there are other animals nearby” Gilbert put the cage back: now the canary was really fluttering again, surprised by the unexpected fall. He hoped that the bird would lately forgive him for his unceremonious trick – the main thing was that no one noticed how the dog sneezed.
After some time – despite all the dismay, all the barely concealed anxiety – Gilbert could state...
...that those who came to save him from the "kidnappers" are in obvious confusion.
This confusion lay in folds on their foreheads, could be read in exchanges of glances, when the dog, as if discovering something, actively sniffing the interior, hesitantly stopped after a couple of moments, waving her tail so that it was beating against her sides. New attempts to give her jackets from the package, as well as to go around both floors in the second and third circles, did not give anything: the animal turned her muzzle, looking guiltily at the furniture in front of her, then at the beaten dog handler – there was no question of any trace being found.
Gilbert didn’t allow himself to hope.
He didn't allow himself to hope even as the three of them left the house and headed for their cars.
He stood by a tree not far from the wagon, within earshot, as if by chance, but they were still talking too quietly to make out anything coherent. The GDR walked in circles near the tree, digging up the ground with the toes of his boots, waiting. It felt like it was about half an hour – or maybe several minutes, his nerves taut like a rope could not stand it – before he saw Koch walking towards him.
It was impossible to tell anything from his face until he came close to him.
“Congratulations, comrade Beilschmidt. Looks like they didn't get to you”
Gilbert stared at him as his brain creaked to comprehend his words: his glued-on smile with tight lips, a look that was either discontent or annoyed... It took a few seconds before his composure returned to him: he must answer something.
“So, I don't have any Western agents at home?” he said slowly.
“Our thorough checkup revealed nothing” Koch nodded firmly. “You can continue your rest”
On the periphery of vision and hearing, one could guess how the soldiers, at Zhdanov’s command, lowered their rifles, moved from their places, entered the vans in chains... Gilbert held back a convulsive exhalation – just not to give himself away at the last moment – Koch kept looking at him, expectantly, it was necessary to ask him while he was still here, he needed information...
"If, as you say, I was going to be kidnapped... shouldn't I get back to Berlin as soon as possible?"
Koch frowned. He looked away. It was clear that he was thinking hard about his answer.
"These agents are inside our country" he finally said. “And right now, in several other places – in which, I can’t tell you, you understand – operations are being carried out to locate and capture them. If they are not there... it means that they have achieved negligible success in advancing towards their goal” the Stasi officer grinned, and Gilbert, with a chill that passed down his back, realized that if he did not know the truth, nothing would stop him from believing Koch, his mask was so convincing. “I don't think you're in any danger right now. And making sure you stay safe is our top priority”
The seemingly paternal tone did not hide from the GDR the ominous hidden meaning of the last phrase. Gilbert nodded, taking note of what had been said. When Koch was about to turn around, he suddenly remembered something.
“One of these days I have to go to negotiations with representatives of the FRG” he quickly licked his lips. “The fact that two spies from the West are trying to kidnap me should affect them somehow?”
It was clear that the question took Koch by surprise – he had to explain why the Western allies, amid difficult negotiations on transit to West Berlin, decided on such a desperate step. He abruptly looked away.
A moment later he was looking at Gilbert's face again.
“It will certainly affect them when we capture these agents. In the meantime, comrade Beilschmidt” he nodded confidently. “Act like nothing happened”
They shook hands at parting.
Gilbert watched as Koch and Zhdanov disappeared into the cabin, as the last soldiers entered their van. How cars alternately drive onto the road and one after another hide behind a green forest at a distance from his cottage.
When the last of them disappeared around a curved bend, he was left alone – along with the forest, the house and the strange numbness that suddenly seized him.
The numbness did not subside as his gaze swept over the canopy of the tree at the gate, over the flower bed, and over the dark rectangle of the entrance as he approached it. The interior of the bathroom and living room was caught in the periphery of his vision, the creaking of the steps on the stairs reached him as if through a layer of cotton wool. He went upstairs, turning into the room, stepping over the spilled birdseed, curtained the window tightly (the light passing through the fabric made the room orange) and sat down on the bed.
The mental pictures of the last two hours followed each other like a film, imprinted on the wall opposite. Gilbert did not move, his gaze was fixed on space in front of him – and it seemed like half an hour passed before he said in a dull, as if not his own, voice:
“Come out”
The roar of the discarded parquet cover – America's body frame lifted from the niche in the floor. He clutched at the parquet, glanced raggedly around the room, and glared at Gilbert with mad eyes.
“D-did they leave?”
The GDR nodded.
A wild smile cut across Jones' face as he covered it with his hands, leaning forward. His shoulders shook, he combed his hair with his hands – already familiar hysterical chuckles were heard in the room, which reached Gilbert's ears as if from afar.
Braginsky's massive body got up nearby. His blond wavy hair was tousled, his violet gaze was ready to pierce the wall – he exhaled with all his powerful chest, grabbed the parquet with jerky movements, climbed up (did he really got into the hiding place in his underpants?) and straightened up.
“We will leave here as soon as darkness falls. We can't stay if they...”
“Hey, stop!” Gilbert held up his hand, cutting off a flurry of anxious explanations. And only then did he turn his burning gaze to Braginsky. “You won't go anywhere”
“It's a miracle they didn't find us, and if they show up again...”
“Now it’s three times easier to find you if you rush headlong and without thinking everything through out of the house” judging by the way Russia looked down in embarrassment, Gilbert’s words had their effect. “Besides, you will set me up too. So sit still and don't move”
"Do you think they can spot us if they made sure you don't have anyone?" America spoke up.
“I'm almost sure of this, as well as the fact that now you need to move around the house only with the curtains closed” the GDR wearily ran his hand over his face. “They left, but how much they hovered before that... Surely nothing completely convinced them. If they had watched the house before, they would start ten times more closely now”
"Are you saying we're locked in here now?"
“I want to tell you not to get fucked in your ass immediately after getting rid of the old troubles, as you like” Gilbert rose heavily from the bed, tousling his hair. “And at the same time think things through”
The nearest future he intended to spend at the window of his room, emptying a pack of cigarettes (the flowers should have been sprayed to the end, but they would wait) and peering into the blue ribbon of the river – it would take at least several hours before at least any coherent thoughts could arise in his head; the realization of the likelihood of even closer supervision fell on his shoulders like a lead – he frowned, took a step...
“Gilbert, wait”
“What?” The GDR stopped, grimacing.
Alfred had already managed to get out: he and Ivan were looking at him, now and then exchanging strange glances with each other.
“We need to tell you something”
"Can't this wait a couple of hours?" now fatigue was felt only stronger. Gilbert sighed in exasperation and raised his fingers to his temple.
“Dude, this is really important” America stepped forward, holding out his hand, as if afraid that he would leave anyway. “You just... sit back, otherwise you will probably be so stunned that we will have to pick you up from the floor”
“Pick me up? Are you saying there's something more fucking awesome than a Stasi rummage on the verge of discovery early in the morning?” Jones looked even more wild than before – he glanced at Braginsky, and he briefly, without any words, nodded to him – this enraged Gilbert even more. He folded his arms across his chest with a snort. “Come on, surprise me!”
There was no need to pick Gilbert up from the floor – as Alfred spoke, his look from annoyed became more and more empty and unreadable, his eyebrows slowly rose up – Ivan watched the GDR sat back, slowly pulled out a lighter from his pocket and took an ashtray from the windowsill.
Three cigarettes lit up and burned out before Alfred finished his rambling story about his and Ivan's dreams.
“Okay, I admit that the Stasi rummage really сompares poorly with the bullshit that's going on inside your brain” Gilbert finally said, forcing the cigarette butt into the glass of the ashtray with force. Ivan caught his breath: it really turned out...
"So you remember all that too?" America excitedly voiced the thought that came to both of them.
“How I drilled your semblance of an army in Valley Forge? Will I ever forget” despite the caustic content, Gilbert's voice already lacked vitriol: apparently, he was too impressed by the suddenly revealed information. “Yes, I remember exactly as you describe. And you...” The GDR looked up (the bags under his eyes became even deeper) at Russia. “You probably dreamed how the soldiers brought you to the camp, and then how I pulled you out and brought you to Alfred?”
“Yes” Ivan nodded. The heart began to beat violently. “And our meeting before... under Peter”
He did not need to explain everything in detail – it was clear from the look of Gilbert: he understood what Ivan meant.
“And if you say that you remember everything the same, it means that our memories are true” Russia finished, shifting his agitated gaze from the GDR to anxious America. Their eyes met, his heart sank: a strange flutter arose in him, and he was sure that it had also been transmitted to Alfred, that he was now looking at him so intently: pain spread in his chest from the blue of his eyes...
“Why now exactly?”
Russia shuddered: he looked (it took him some effort – it felt like he was breaking a thread) at the gloomy GDR, who was sitting with his chin resting on his palm.
“Sorry, what?”
For a moment it seemed to Ivan that Gilbert was about to punch him, but he only exhaled slowly and continued:
“You realized that you had lost memory of each other ten years ago. And all these ten years, nothing has changed. And now, suddenly, the memory of your first meeting has returned to you. Not a month ago, not yesterday and not tomorrow, but right now. Any guesses how it happened?”
They fell silent. Ivan did not think about it – the experiences of this morning and afternoon had not even had time to settle in his mind – he tried to concentrate...
It was pointless.
“Not the slightest”
Silence fell again. The GDR thoughtfully scratched his neck, raising his head – Russia tried to continue to think: what could this depend on? Maybe they did something, some action that allowed their memory to recover, which they had not done before – only the thought of them spending the night in the same bed came to mind (which definitely didn’t happen before; although... goosebumps ran down the spine: how could he vouch for this?), although the day before they had already slept back to back in the forest ... no, it must have been something else, something...
An unexpected thought suddenly cut through his mind.
“It turns out that now we do not need to go to Arthur?”
Two pairs of eyes – scarlet and blue – stared at him in surprise. Alfred bowed his head in confusion.
“If we remembered something, it turns out... it turns out, our memory is restoring” continued Ivan. “And now... we don't have to go all the way to England to get help”
The canary chirped and flew from one perch to another. Alfred's eyes widened in realization. Mixed feelings swept over Russia: they had to cross the sea – and all this in the illusory hope that Arthur would help them regain the memories that were already beginning to return – cautious relief spilled inside that, perhaps, they could manage to do it without all the difficulties, without crossing a dozen borders – but at the same time annoyance: everything they went through was in vain? Would they remember anyway, being next to each other in Vienna?
America frowned; bit his lip, thinking over what he had said... In order to slowly answer:
“We still don't know why this is happening to us”
“Do you think Arthur can answer that?”
America scratched the back of his head, resting his other hand on his side. A crease lay between his golden eyebrows.
“Even if not, how can we do it? Besides... who said we'd remember anything else? And how long would it take. Maybe the next memory will come to us in six months. We can't be stranded in Gilbert's hiding place for six months. No, theoretically, of course, we can...”
"...but practically you'll be found out at the next search, where you won't have as much dumb luck as today" Gilbert finished grimly for him. “To Arthur or not to Arthur, but you need to cut and run from my territory as soon as possible”
It was hard to argue with that – as with Alfred's reasoning. Ivan grimaced, realizing the scale of the difficulties that they still had to cope with: the sea, they still needed to somehow get out of the GDR, but by the sea, as they wanted, it would not work...
“Do you have any ideas how to do it?”
“I have a couple of guesses” GDR said slowly, tapping his knee with his fingers. “I wouldn't say they're reliable – not that I used to be heavily involved in trafficking people to the West, unlike someone” He cast a crimson glance at America. “But I'll think about it. Tomorrow I have a meeting with the dearest superiors – I will have two hours to take a nap and think”
It didn't take long for them to realize what Gilbert meant.
“Are you going to work tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is Monday. In the evening I will take the train and leave you lovebirds alone with each other for a couple of days. Just don’t break the bed” the GDR got up and slowly headed towards the exit. He gazed at the scattered birdseed mixed with tobacco, stopped. “By the way…whose idea was it?”
He silently looked at Ivan, as if questioning, and when he pointed with his thumb at Alfred, Gilbert's eyebrows went up.
“Seriously? Jones?” He snorted in surprise, and something like respect flashed in his scarlet eyes. “Extremely smart for someone who doesn’t have secret services breathing in his back twenty-four hours straight”
“Um... thanks?” judging by the voice, Alfred was not sure how to respond to the compliment.
“My pleasure. Clean everything up here, okay? A broom with a scoop are downstairs in the pantry. That’s all, now I take my leave” with these words, Gilbert left the room, hiding in his study.
The door slammed shut and Russia turned to America.
Their looks crossed – they peered at each other, remaining the only ones in the room. Some kind of hot feeling stirred in the stomach, and the silence, too sharp, too dense – the silence rang in the ears; he needed to say something, but nothing came to his mind, everything...
Alfred turned away first.
"I…" he bit his lip in embarrassment. His gaze was directed to the floor. “I'll go get a broom, okay?”
Ivan nodded slowly.
When the door slammed shut behind him, Russia breathed out for the first time in what seemed like a million years.
It took him a moment to realize that he was still walking around in nothing but his underwear. Judging by the words of America, now the backpack should be in a hiding place – recent images flashed in his memory, his cheeks flared up.
The heat only grew brighter as he moved the boards aside and reached for the backpack that had been at his left heel when he and Alfred hid.
Adrenaline was still seething in his blood, though it felt like a slight tingle compared to the deafening wave that swept over him an hour ago – images of their fight invisible to the pursuers flashed before his mind's eye, his pounding heart, his palm burned with memories of Alfred's grip…
He flinched as the creak sounded again as America entered, holding a dustpan and broom, closing the door with his hip. He was sweeping while Ivan pulled on his trousers and T-shirt.
Their eyes locked as Alfred straightened up.
If he wanted to take the filled scoop down to the trash can, he changed his mind, putting it against the wall and leaning against it. America buried his face in his hands, his shoulders trembling as he slid down – a strange feeling welled up in Russia's chest as he sat on the bed watching this already familiar reaction – and finally sank to the floor, elbows resting on parted knees.
“God, dude…” he breathed. “It's just so fucked up”
“Tell me about it”
“I'm afraid to imagine what else we’ll remember there”
The phrase took Ivan by surprise. And only after a few seconds did he realize that Alfred was not talking about the Stasi visit at all.
A fresh memory of them, and yet an ancient one, immediately flashed back to him: how he and America rode horses from Valley Forge, and how he told him about his acquaintance with Gilbert seven hundred years ago.
How the Atlantic Ocean roared in the distance and the sun at dawn flooded his ponytail with gold.
“I just... I have long understood that something is wrong with my memory. As if some fragments are missing, like in a fucking mosaic” Alfred continued to speak; he stretched out one leg, wrapped his arms around his bent knee. He leaned back against the wall and tilted his head towards the ceiling. “But now… it’s like half a life has just been taken and torn out. Doesn't it feel frightening to you? That we don't even remember our first meeting”
“Actually, I thought that it took place at the beginning of the last century, when diplomatic relations were concluded”
“Do you remember anything from that time?” Alfred perked up.
“I remember how you sailed to Petersburg. The official part. And nothing more”
America took a deep breath. His hand dropped to the floor with a thud.
“Just excellent”
What else we’ll remember there
Ivan tried not to think about what they might remember – but thoughts, as if on purpose, flowed in this direction, wrapping themselves in whirlwinds: their meetings – old and new, every detail, every scrap – rose before their eyes: what could await them ahead?
A shiver ran inside –
And how did it come to the letters?..
“You seemed so impressive and respectable to me then” he heard the voice of America again.
Russia looked up at him. Alfred looked at him and smiled, a little nervously; the impressions of the day had not completely left his face.
“Like a real empire. Even if in a road cape”
An unfamiliar feeling blossomed in his chest. Ivan felt himself breathing for some reason becomes easier.
He smiled wearily.
“Thanks. But from you, if something reeked, then definitely not of respectability”
Alfred chuckled nonchalantly.
“Well, not everyone walks around foreign countries with instructions from the empresses – someone has to learn how to fight” the look defocused for a moment, as if he had fallen into the memories of training; he turned his head towards the cage with the canary (she was quiet on the perch; probably, after all the shocks, she needed a sound sleep). “This beast was already causing trouble: she flew up and pecked at my forehead every time I did the exercise incorrectly or fiddled with the rifle for too long!”
“They say animals are similar to their owners” Russia replied with a smile.
“You bet! By the way, speaking about the owners – were you really going to take Gilbert with us when we were hiding?” Alfred grinned from ear to ear, looking mischievously at Ivan.
Ivan felt a blush rise to his cheeks – and then scratched his temple in embarrassment, looking away. On a wave of overwhelming adrenaline, he had already managed to forget about such a trifle as his threats to drag Gilbert along with them.
“...I'm glad you made me change my mind” he said carefully.
“You are always welcome” America laughed; a nervous spasm passed through his body, despite the laughter and cheerful look. “It’s a pity, of course, now we won’t know what Arthur’s face would look like if all three of us show up at his doorstep!”
“I think he would throw us into the strait immediately”
“Or maybe he wouldn't” Alfred continued to smile; his shoulders were trembling with sudden laughter. “We would take a canary with us – she took out a detachment of chekists and soldiers, do you think she would not have managed with some tiny Arthur?”
The air began to come out in ragged portions, laughter broke through his teeth – and before Ivan could open his mouth and answer him that Arthur would unleash a squadron of fairies on the canary and the most epic battle in history would take place – when suddenly the guess was that cut through the consciousness like a furious bird then, in the hiding place, and had already managed to disappear, blossomed in him with renewed vigor.
By an effort of will, Russia kept a slight smile on his face.
“And how did you even think of using tobacco?” he said carefully. Fortunately, Alfred didn't notice his momentary hesitation – he continued to laugh, brushing his hair back with both hands.
“Well, actually, I also began to think that it's time to blow everything to smithereens and get the hell out of here as it is” he lifted his glasses, began to wipe the tears that appeared in his eyes. “And then... then I remembered how I hung out with Ludwig – he talked so much about dogs...”
“Does Ludwig have pets?”
“Sure! He has three dogs – a Hovawart, a Shepherd, and he bought a Doberman puppy a year ago. You should have seen him feeding him from a baby bottle like a mommy!” America chuckled, putting his glasses back. “I don’t know how he manages to walk with them during his trips, but he succeeds, loves them desperately... That's how I remembered”
“Mm. Pretty smart of you” Russia's voice was as even as possible. “Lucky that you remembered about tobacco...”
“Thanks! But you are no slouch too – you got out so quietly, and...”
“...and that you learned to understand Russian”
America froze with a fist to his eye.
“What?..”
The thought seeped into consciousness – and the smile froze on his lips, as if glued.
Ivan slightly tilted his head to one side, carefully watching his reaction. So, got it.
“I just noticed” with each of his leisurely spoken words, the corners of Alfred's lips fell lower and lower, and his face took on an impenetrable, glassy expression. “That while the agents were standing above us... they didn't speak German at all”
Alfred's cheeks flushed. He slowly lowered his gaze toward the floor, away from the piercing violet gaze.
It seemed that he wanted to say something, somehow deny it... but he could not find words for this.
“If I try to lie that you were the first to talk about the dog, you won't believe me, right?” He spoke unusually quietly.
Russia shook his head.
From light, filled with sparks of laughter, the atmosphere changed again. But the awkwardness that fell between them after Gilbert's departure did not come back: now the air was as if charged with something, something that Ivan could not name.
Heat rose up his neck. He clasped his fingers in a familiar gesture. Hid the lower half of his face behind them.
“So you do understand”
America nodded quietly.
"So I don’t need to bother anymore?" Ivan made sure with a smile already in Russian. He spoke exclusively in English and German for several days in a row; the words rolled unusually in his throat and mouth, and even more unusually in his ears.
Alfred looked up at him.
“Yes” a sad smile played on his lips. “I still have to work to talk correctly, but I understand the words quite tolerably” America again lowered his gaze, hid it behind a falling bang. The rays of the sun gilded it, riveted gaze to it. Ivan caught himself on the fact that it was hard for him to look away. Alfred spoke again, muffled, but his every word rang in the silence. “After we met at the office of Robert Kennedy, when you brought rockets to Cuba... I decided to start learning Russian”
“I see” the mention of that night made the blood rush to his face – memories flashed in his mind’s eye, red, anxiously hot – the way he tested Alfred then... And the question that he had intended to ask from the very beginning only spurred these emotions, which he diligently concealed behind closed fingers. “So, when I showed you the photograph in Vienna… did you make out what was written on the back?”
Alfred did not raise his head – but now his cheeks were redder than the sunset itself.
He nodded slowly, curtly.
The air became dense; the emotions – their common ones – could be felt by hand. So he understood what that word meant...
Alfred raised his head. Understanding was read in his eyes, exactly the same understanding pierced him with radiant violet from the gaze opposite – he did not learn anything new compared to what could have been learned from the letters, but still... Ivan felt that the space separating them shrank, melted to some grains – and not at all in the physical sense.
These sensations made it too hot to breathe.
The flow of thoughts made a turn – a turn from something so obvious, inescapable that a general trembling resounded in their souls – to something else; and although the first thought still continued to flicker in the mind as a veil, enveloping, from which no one could hide, he had to remind himself of the importance of that other consideration.
"Why did you... lie back then?" Russia asked in a voice too hoarse for himself.
It was clear from America's face that he was waiting for a completely different question: relief managed to reflect for a split second, but immediately faded away when the message finally pierced into consciousness.
Alfred looked down. He began rubbing his fingers together.
“Because... don't you understand why?” His tone was darker now.
Ivan shook his head.
“Imagine… imagine that for twenty-five years you… can’t stand someone” his instinct told him: Alfred clearly wanted to express his feelings somehow differently, somehow more harshly. “That you know him for twenty-five years as...”
“...as the worst person the planet could ever produce”
Feelings, quite recent, but already, it seemed, so ancient, surfaced in his soul: his hatred for Alfred, throbbing, suffocating; its cauldron had just begun to cool down, overcast with a glaze – but just the memory made it boil with renewed vigor – a greedy, stupid child who only cares about others when they cast adoring glances at him – and seized him for a moment, burning the insides.
Too fresh not to overwhelm him.
“Exactly” Alfred breathed out through his teeth for a long time, with suppressed anger. Ivan did not need to look into his soul to guess: the same feelings flared up in him too. “And suddenly you... find out that you are connected with him somehow. And so that you yourself do not know how, although you should!” a sharp wave of his hand – and it again lay down on his knee. “You don't know if it's true, you don't know if it's a fucking experiment, or maybe…” America gritted his teeth. “Maybe some kind of trap...”
Two seconds, three – the rustle of leaves again, somewhere in another world – understanding flashed in Russia's eyes.
“Did you think that the problem with your memory is the work of the KGB?”
“...I assumed something like that” Alfred pushed his glasses deeper on the bridge of his nose, massaged the crease between his eyebrows with force. “And that you might be involved in this. And in that case... it's better to hide an ace up my sleeve”
Ivan weighed his words, trying to make sense of the fragments of his own feelings. In Alfred's place, he would have done exactly the same. It was difficult to immediately trust someone whom he hated with all his gut for a quarter of a century, hostility towards whom had not yet settled at the bottom of his soul – but he could not get rid of the feeling, sticky and nasty: he himself did not do the same.
Yes, it was a lost cause for him to pretend that he had forgotten English, but it did not occur to him to hide any significant information from Alfred. And the way America deliberately asked what was written on the back of the photo, threatened to look it up in a dictionary...
A second conclusion was added to the first, even more bad one: Alfred turned out to be a much more skillful liar than he had previously thought.
“Are you mad at me?”
The sudden question brought Russia out of his thoughts. America looked at him with serious blue eyes. If not shame… then discomfort sounded in his voice – and for some reason the heap of feelings no longer felt so oppressive.
“I...” Ivan fell silent. He shook his head vaguely – it was too confusing to think, let alone explain to Alfred. “I understand the logic of your reasoning. This is a smart move. Except... we can no longer hide such important information about each other. If we don't want to get caught”
America looked at him questioningly.
“It might backfire if we have to hide from pursuit again. If you're good at something that I don't know about... I'll think I can't count on you if I have to put that skill into practice. And then I will draw the wrong conclusions. What if we get split up?”
“I understand” America waved his hand. “So, no more omissions”
“Yes” Ivan suddenly felt tiredness come over him. He ran his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes. “Now it’s important for us...” his fingers moved to the temples. “...To trust each other”
Trust
Russia moved deeper from the edge of the bed, leaned back against the wall. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
Images of the last three days rose before his mind's eye. Many of them were about Alfred, about how he did things that Ivan could not even think that Alfred was capable of.
About how Alfred saved him from being shot in a cafe by throwing a plate at an agent. About how he took care of his clothes while he lay "passed out" in the morgue. About how Alfred attacked Gilbert, disrupting his conversation with the secretary of the Minister of State Security – and knocking down the gun aimed at him, Ivan...
Of course, none of this was pure sacrifice – if he had been caught, Alfred himself would have been caught; but he couldn't just get it all out of his head. Couldn't get rid of that feeling of joy when Alfred suddenly began to praise the plan he had come up with...
Maybe that was why the news of the deception was so painful?
What am I mad about, he lied even before our escape – no, America continued to hide this information from him, and they were at Gilbert’s place, here many functionaries spoke Russian, and even he himself could speak Russian with Gilbert, about something of his own, which concerned the socialist bloc, in full confidence that only the two of them would understand the conversation, and if Alfred had heard...
Feelings – old, but still too fresh to ignore – blossomed in his chest, hit his head; a deceitful hypocrite – he closed his eyes, America could simply not say, and that was it, these three days they were busy not with drinking tea, but with something more stressful, there were more important things to think about, a two-faced boy – he shook his head, trying to shake off the obsession, shake off the rage that had come out of nowhere...
“Do you know why Gilbert asked Ludwig for snuffing tobacco? I don't remember him ever cheating on cigarettes”
Ivan did not even immediately understand what Alfred was asking him about.
All the better. Thinking saved from the flow of emotions.
"...Perhaps because it leaves the least traces after it is consumed" he said slowly, looking at the boards on the ceiling. “Our authorities... don't approve of us using something Western. And this tobacco can be sniffed – and that's all”
"Couldn't Gilbert just hide the pack? Even in the same hiding place”
Ivan thought again.
“If you smoke a cigarette, even a hand-rolled one, at least a cigarette butt will remain from it. And if I served in the Stasi, I would examine the bin where Gilbert throws out the garbage – and would have found everything I’d be looking for”
“Ivan, how do you live like that?”
Russia didn't know what it was that made him rise and open his eyes, America calling him by his name, or his flustered tone.
Alfred sat in the same place as before – and looked all over him; a mixture was on his face – a mixture of indignation, misunderstanding and... pity?..
His mouth went dry. A twisting heat rose up inside him, far worse than the heat he'd experienced before.
“What are you talking about?” He barely moved his lips.
“They breathe down your neck, they follow your every action – they didn’t take their eyes off Gilbert as soon as he entered the socialist camp, as it turned out!” blue eyes burned with righteous anger; Alfred waved his arms, threw his palm in the direction of the hiding place. “Do you know what else I found when I was rummaging there this morning? When I took a closer look, what lies there? Books! Magazines! Just ordinary West German magazines! With cars and female nudes! And this is what you can be imprisoned for possessing?!”
Ivan didn't say a word.
“No, I knew that you have censorship and all that, and that yours are not fans of when a person decides for himself what to do, how to dress, to which magazine to jerk off” indignation burned scarlet on America's face; he threw his hands up in front of him in a questioning gesture. “But for the chekists to rummage through the trash bins?! How is it even possible...”
“It’s not up to you to tell me how to live”
Alfred shuddered, tossed his head, his eyes became wide with astonishment.
Astonishment because Ivan stood up almost to his full height, looking down at him with eyes full of rage. His chest heaved up and down, his fingers trembled – it seemed like a moment would pass – and he would clench them into fists.
A sharp, barely contained anger surged up inside.
“Hey, dude” Alfred hastened to get up from the floor to equalize this difference. He put his palms forward as if in defense. “I’m not telling you anything, okay? I just don’t understand how you can live like this and not dream of escaping from a place like this – however, even now crowds of people run as fast as they can from Gilbert, so...”
“You seem to have forgotten” the fists still clenched; Ivan did not notice how he began to look frowningly, how his eyes narrowed. Rage bubbled up inside him, and he could barely contain it through clenched teeth. “That before we fled, you suddenly realized that your precious state could be watching you – and then it turned out that it was developing chemical weapons. And after that, you still dare to resent something? With such a deceitful system like yours?”
Alfred winced. The bewildered expression on his face gave way to another, his brows furrowed. Cheekbones reddened – but now from anger.
“Decided to compare systems? I can get anything I want from abroad, and it won't occur to me to hide it, and my people – to almost crawl up my ass looking for foreign goods! Can you allow yourself that, huh?”
Lips twisted in a caustic smile – how many times Russia had seen it in the last twenty-five years – he could not count; now America was so reminiscent of his former, real self – an insolent, presumptuous, arrogant brat...
“You can only think about the goods. Apparently, you, like your hucksters, do not realize that there is something more important in life – something that is not sold for any money”
“So you want to talk about ideals?” Alfred laughed wickedly, straightening up, spreading his legs wider. “I'd love to! How about freedom, m? Yours are so fond of earbashing about it from the tribune – and then dragging into the dungeons everyone who does not want to march in your red formation! And it was clearly not enough to torture your own people – you decided to put half of Europe on a chain!” a wave of his palm and a stinging grin: the glasses sparkled in the light of the sun, the glare completely blocked his eyes. “So tell me, how does it feel when your own allies rise up against you time after time? Erzhebet, Feliks, Loizo with Hedvika, and even Gilbert himself – is it awesome to know that if your tanks come out of their land, they will run away from you, flinging up their heels?”
Words hit like invisible whips, another feeling grew next to anger – wounded pride resounded inside with trembling; Ivan hated this feeling almost more than Alfred at that moment – he wanted to answer him, hurt him, tread him to pieces...
“What you did in Vietnam due to your stupidity and greed, turned away even your "free" allies from you”
America fell silent – he looked as if he had been slapped in the face.
Breathing quickened, air came out through clenched teeth – Alfred stared at him, staggered...
His fists clenched.
“You had a whole hundred of these “Vietnams” in your entire life!” America, having lost his temper, did not spare his voice; he naturally yelled, his face burned with rage. “You only know how to crush everyone under you, how to strangle anyone who dares to raise his head against the dictatorship – you always just...”
A sudden clatter, a creak – the door swung open.
“Didn’t you have enough in the morning, you moron?!” enraged Gilbert appeared on the threshold; one sight of him was enough to silence Satan himself. “Do you want them to come back on your screams?!”
“Gilbert, he himself...”
Ivan ran out of the room, almost pushing Gilbert out of the way.
To overpass the corridor in two steps, almost tripping over the still scattered books, fly down the stairs – if he could, Ivan would have rushed outside, into the yard, into the forest, away from here, but it was impossible – he growled, rushed into the living room and collapsed on the sofa, turning his face to the back, covering his head on the other side with a pillow to create at least some semblance of privacy, snapped his eyes shut...
His breathing was ragged, as if he had been running for several hours in a row, his heart was beating like a clockwork, rage and resentment seized him, carried him into a red pulsating whirlpool, but even here he had no peace – image of Alfred flashed before his eyes, his gestures, haughty smirk, impudent grin...
And as soon as the raging storm inside him subsided a little – as soon as it was possible to discern at least some thoughts through the hurricane of rage (and pain) – only then did he realize...
That Alfred Jones – hypocritical, arrogant, treacherous – would never, ever change.
Footnotes:
- Another car stood at a distance – a pale gray truck "Barkas" with a rectangular iron body without windows – Barkas is an East German automaker that produced minibuses, vans and light trucks. In addition to ordinary citizens, Barkas cars were used by the Stasi as a hidden vehicle for transporting prisoners (up to five prisoners could be held in tiny cells in the back of the car). Vans disguised as food delivery trucks were used to kidnap citizens off the streets. You can see the "Barkas" on these frames from the movie "The Lives of Others": https://www.imcdb.org/v139055.html
- Those numerous reports about Beilschmidt's loyalty in recent years that had been coming to Karlshorst – the representative office of the KGB of the USSR, which operated under the Ministry of State Security of the GDR, was located in the Karlshorst district of Berlin. The close cooperation between the special services of the GDR and the USSR was no secret to anyone.
- That he really became... the socialist state of the German nation – this is how the GDR was defined according to the Constitution of 1968, which indicated the construction of a separate socialist nation within the German people, as opposed to the previous concept of "two states, one nation".
- And if I served in the Stasi, I would examine the bin where Gilbert throws out the garbage – and would have found everything I’d be looking for – the KGB and the Stasi really did not disdain to collect information about citizens, examining contents of their garbage bags.