The door swung open with gusto which immediatly told Alistair that the man who'd flung it open was not Braunschweig. The old German was not the reckless kind to do something like that. So either it would be someone who had nothing to fear or someone who trusted greatly in life and fate.
Alistair recognized him immediately and by the curl of his lips he could tell that he recognized him too. "Come in, Alistair." He said, spreading his arm out wide. "And let me close the door before someone on the streets sees us." He said it playfully but there was a very serious meaning to it.
Braunschweig stood a few meters behind, again in front of the door that lead to the rest of his home. "Welcome, Alistair." He didn't smile and his welcome wasn't exceptionally friendly, but it was an invite none-the-less. Alistair took off his coat and hung it on the hanger, than he followed the 'old friend' and Braunschweig into the living room.
He took a seat on the sofa, next to the handsome German and across from the old man who was making all of this possible. Alistair Bowmore was confused, how was he here? And why him? Was this some sort of pratical joke? Times like these made him think he might actually be dreaming and hallucinating the whole thing. As if the other visitor could sense his confusion he began to explain.
"I can tell you're a bit shocked, Alistair." He said. "I'd better explain some things to you, if that's all right, Bernd?" He said with a glance at their senior, who nodded. "Where to begin..." He whispered, sorting his thoughts. "My name is not actually 'Hart'. I'm an SS-Officer at Dachau, as you know me, but that's only my cover-up. My name is actually Malinkow." He smiled as he said it, as if he was pleased that the American had recognized him.
"You're Russian?" Alistair asked in surprise. He'd heard no accent at all.
"Yes." He smiled delightfully, "I'm a spy from the Soviet Union. I'm in constant contact with high-ranking officials and good friends with most of them too. I can get you into Russia; I know all the secrets routes; I needed to get out unnoticed by the Germans."
"What." Alistair's brain was blown. A spy? Funny that it had been exactly this man who'd shown him the KZ.
"I have friends we can stay the night at in Belarus, CCCP, and afterwards, travel to the capital with."
"Why would you tell me that you're a spy..?" Alistair asked.
"Let's say it this way, my friend, I trust people the Soviet way." He smiled, flashing his straight white teeth. "I'll tell you everything if you're working with me, but the second I fear betrayal I'll put you six feet under." Alistair wasn't so sure about the first part being 'soviet' he doubted most any spy said things so quickly, but then again, perhaps Bernd and Malinkow knew each other so long that they trusted each other unendlessly. He couldn't tell if the second part was a bluff or a joke or if the handsome Russian meant it seriously.
"Alright." Alistair said. He was still struggling to regain his composure. "When do we leave? And how do we get into the Soviet Union?"
"We meet here first thing in the morning. 6 o'clock sharp. Then we take the train near the Eastern Border, where we'll go through the woods by foot until we meet up with some friends of mine." Malinkow said. "Pack fresh socks and coffee, but don't take too much more than that."
"Sounds like a plan." Alistair said. "And you've got it all figured out who can help me get an audience with Comrade Stalin..?"
"Of course! I might join you all myself, in case it's alright. Or I'll leave the translating over to an official translator, we'll see how it turns out." He smiled and reached out to gently touch Alistair's shoulder. "And by the way, call me Vitia."
"Alright."
"Alistair is a hard name to make a nickname out of, but I'll try." The Soviet laughed and drew his hand back. "But first of all, tell me more about your plan to convince Comrade Stalin to 'stock up' weapons and tanks."
"I'm going to tell him what exactly will happen when, and when the first things start to follow my exact pattern I think he'll listen."
"And how do you know all these things?" Malinkow asked with a twinkle in his eyes.
"I'm afraid you'll believe me even less if I tell you why." Alistair answered with a smile. The Russian laughed and nodded as if to agree that he had a fair-point.
"I just hope you know what you're doing, or you might end up in Siberia." He grew serious. "And so might I."
"Then why would you help me?" Alistair asked curiously. He'd been wondering this the whole time; why had the two been so keen on assisting him?
"Well, I trust Bernd with my life, and he said he needed me. We've known each other forever; we've made the trip between Moskow and Berlin together several times. And he, well, his children are mostly men, boys, and they have boys of their own, and the last thing a father or grandfather wants is for all of his children to die in war." He spoke with a sad undertone, almost as if he too, understood what it was like, "I have family who live in Germany as well, and I do not want a war, for their sake as much as for mine. And," and the laughter in his voice returned, "I also simply love gambling with life. Up till now I've won very many things. High stakes lead to great victories."
"Or terrible defeat."
"I'm a spy, do you really think I have a chance?" Vitia Malinkow asked with raised eyebrows. Alistair didn't answer to which the Soviet grew softer. Once again he reached out to touch the American, this time on the hand, "I'm a Russian, I was born to be pessimistic." But his smile made him seem the exact opposite. He stood up abruptly and asked Bernd if he could get the fancy wine to make a toast to 'the American Dream' which, in his opinion, Alistair was following. Always trying to make good everywhere, those americans, he said with laughter dancing in his eyes.
Alistair Bowmore had not expected to be seated in the back of the little rackety wagon strung to the train, freezing, with a chatty Soviet spy the next morning. He'd thought they'd be riding coach, but apparantly the train to the border didn't allow spys and foreigeners as passengers. Vitia Malinkow seemed utterly untroubled by the cold. He smoked cigarette after cigarette, complaining how these were German ones, cheap ones, and weren't worth the money. There were no windows and the door was more of a hatch you had to crawl through, so Alistair had no view and no distraction from the Russians cherry cheeks, and, his past fear of claustophobia returned. As a kid he'd hated tight spaces, he'd grown out of it by age fifteen, but now he felt that same crushing feeling as if the walls were slowly inching towards him, ready to crush his spine and let his blood flow out, through the hatch, to dye the railroad tracks crimson red.
"The view is quite beautiful isn't it?" Vitia asked with a smile. He puffed out a breath of smoke. Alistair wanted to ask him to quit the smoking, but he knew he wasn't in the place too; this man was risking his life for him.
"Which view, the one we can't see?" Alistair asked, guessing that the Russian was referring to the route neither could see do to the grey walls.
"No, the walls." Vitia responded with a wink. For a second Alistair thought that he was joking, but then he continued, rambling on about their enclosure. "I think it's quite poetic. And poetry is always beautiful, especially when we find it all around us."
"I'm not following..." Alistair said slowly.
"Cigarette?" Vitia offered, as if that answered Alistair's confusion. Alistair took one for the heck of it. He could be dead in a matter of minutes; or hours, or latest, in a matter of years. Vitia struck a match and held it up to the end of Alistair's cigarette. It caught fire quickly and the President dragged a breath in, filling his lungs with smoke. The match lit up the Soviets face, and for the first time, Alistair noticed how weary he looked. He looked run-down, like a traveller on a deserted road who reckoned someone might drive by but nobody ever had. The flame exstinguished and in the darkness that followed Alistair could only make out the rise of his friends cheery cheeks which gave him the look of being content and light-hearted.
"I think it's poetic." Vitia said again, taking up the conversation he himself had left off. "The third Reich is just like this...you can't see the outside world, although you're sure it's beautiful." He paused. "And although you hear and know that things are going forwards you can't feel it, not in the slightest. Excpet for the bumps in the road...those you feel very strongly, and every time they almost throw you against the enclosure which might creak but won't break..." Malinkow's explaination had taken a toll on Alistair. He started to feel the same way. He regarded his aquaintance with a new desire to learn more about him. The Soviet was obviously a writer, or even a poet, and not a bad one at that. Alistair, intrigued, waited for Vitia Malinkow to continue speaking, but the Russian didn't. He simply rested his head against the side of the wagon and stared at the wall. His eyeballs moved gently from left to right, as if he was watching the world race by outside. For some inexplicable reason, Alistair had the feeling that Malinkow could see the world outside.
"So, you need to start to plan what to say to Comrade Stalin." He said all of a sudden, snapping out of his peacefull state. "I assure you, he will listen, probably won't speak a word until your done. But if you didn't convince him he'll send you out without even glancing in your direction."
"I was thinking about telling him some dates in the near future, so to say 'predicting what will happen' and when these things do, then he'll believe me."
"Alright. Share them with me." Vitia Malinkow said amusedly.
"On the 20th of March Ribbentrop will pronounce an ultimatum to Lithuania."
"You could know that, you could have worked on it." Malinkow cut in. "This is not proof; it doesn't convince me so it'll never convince Comrade Stalin."
"On the 23rd of August the CCCP and Germany will agree to divide Europe between themselves in the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact-."
"That's good, precise, but very far away. Over half a year..." He interrupted. "Is there anything that will occur sooner?"
"On May 11th the battles of Khalkhin Gol will start, that concerns the Soviets, and is a precise date."
"Still far off, but pitch that one too. And, if you know so much, when will the Second World War start?" The Russian asked with a dangerous glint in his eye.
"On the 1st of September 1939 with the German invasion of Poland."
"Well, we'll see if those things happen in good time." Vitia answered. "And if they do, I'm sure Stalin will listen. But, if WWII is truely going to be as terrible as you told my friend Bernd, then it won't give our Comerades in the East enough time to prepare for Nazi Germany's invasion.
"I could also admit to knowing details about Stalin's personal life; but I fear I'll be shot dead."
"That's a reasonable fear to have." Malinkow agreed.
"Have you met him?" Alistair asked. Once again he felt a surge of panic and excitement at the thought of meeting the Soviet Dictator.
"I did, once. He told me a joke about spies, it was quite funny actually." Malinkow said. "That was the only time I ever saw him. He's a great man, Comrade Stalin. But," here he lit another cigarette, "you're going to have to wait until the stuff you predict comes true, he'll never believe you unless you get everything right. So you can wait until the 1st of September to expect him to want to speak with you again. And, if he feels any threat at all, you'll be sentenced to the mines. So please, Alistair, pay exact attention to what you say and do. And never, ever, mention personal things about him."
"Thanks for the heads-up." Alistair said. He sighed. "I hope it'll give us enough time..." But he didn't know if it would. Could the Soviet Union build up a strong enough military to beat Germany much faster in the little time there would be left? "Can I have another cigarette?"
"Of course." And Vitia Malinkow gladly handed him one.
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