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LJ Idol 9.3: In Another Castle...
Mar. 31st, 2014 11:14 amNature had taken its course. The man's body had overcome its fatigue and abuse, and now consciousness was returning. The first thing the man notices, before he opens his eyes and starts to sit up, is how the cell stinks—of vomit, and urine, and fear.
He looks around, slowly turning his head and peering at his surroundings with all the mental concentration at his command, which isn't much. There are no markings or signs to suggest where he is, yet the wall tile and the bars and benches of the cell seem somehow… not unfamiliar. He has been here before, he is sure, but does not recall under what circumstances. He has no idea where he is, other than in a cell.
After a few minutes of thinking, he recalls the date—April 15, 1945. Then he remembers changing out of his military uniform and walking to probably the last restaurant cum bar still open in Berlin for a few drinks. Rumors of the Soviet Army's imminent assault on the city were on everyone's lips, everywhere. The watering hole was packed with an assortment of anxious Wehrmacht and SS staff officers—the forlorn overflow from various bunker complexes around the city—but while virtually all of them were there to crawl into a bottle to blot out the reality of having lost the war to an implacable enemy whose forces now mustered at the very gates of Berlin, he was there to celebrate!
So then what had happened? Had the Russians overrun the city, capturing everyone who was in the bar and then thrown them in this hole? If so, where were the other prisoners? Or had he become so bold as to brag, to the German officers around him, of how he—a respected Standartenführer in the SS, the equivalent of a Colonel in most other services—was actually a Soviet master spy who had infiltrated the German military years before, sending valuable intelligence from Berlin back to Moscow through a dedicated network of radio operators? But if that was the case, then why was he still breathing?
Who had taken him prisoner? He had no idea, and it hurt to think.
He pauses for a long moment to wonder—what he should say when he's asked to identify himself? Then an idea occurrs to him!
"Why, it is simplicity itself. If whoever comes to talk to me is wearing a German uniform, I will speak German and identify myself as an SS Standartenführer. If, on the other hand, whoever comes through the door is wearing a Red Army uniform, I will identify myself in Russian as a Soviet intelligence operative." Satisifed with this plan, the man closed his eyes and lay back down on the bench. Moments later, he is asleep.
* * * "Comrade? Comrade?" said a voice. "Please wake up!"
The voice is speaking Russian, but the man hasn't noticed this because, as consciousness returns, he is trying to make sense of what he is seeing. He is looking up at a young man wearing a uniform. He has seen the uniform before, but for a few confused moments, cannot place where. Then it comes to him—it is the uniform of a rank-and-file police officer in Moscow.
"Comrade, you were taken into custody last night, because you were wandering the streets quite intoxicated. My commander informed me this has happened before, and instructed our watch to accommodate you in a separate cell, as a courtesy." said the policeman, who then helped the man sit up.
"If you would, please, comrade," said the policeman, placing a clipboard and pen in the man's hand, "my wife is a great fan of your acting, and she makes it a point to watch all your performances—in both new and old episodes—in your series A Spy In Berlin. So if you would not mind, comrade, I would greatly appreciate it if you would autograph the paper on the clipboard I just gave you, and dedicate the autograph to 'Anna'."
He looks around, slowly turning his head and peering at his surroundings with all the mental concentration at his command, which isn't much. There are no markings or signs to suggest where he is, yet the wall tile and the bars and benches of the cell seem somehow… not unfamiliar. He has been here before, he is sure, but does not recall under what circumstances. He has no idea where he is, other than in a cell.
After a few minutes of thinking, he recalls the date—April 15, 1945. Then he remembers changing out of his military uniform and walking to probably the last restaurant cum bar still open in Berlin for a few drinks. Rumors of the Soviet Army's imminent assault on the city were on everyone's lips, everywhere. The watering hole was packed with an assortment of anxious Wehrmacht and SS staff officers—the forlorn overflow from various bunker complexes around the city—but while virtually all of them were there to crawl into a bottle to blot out the reality of having lost the war to an implacable enemy whose forces now mustered at the very gates of Berlin, he was there to celebrate!
So then what had happened? Had the Russians overrun the city, capturing everyone who was in the bar and then thrown them in this hole? If so, where were the other prisoners? Or had he become so bold as to brag, to the German officers around him, of how he—a respected Standartenführer in the SS, the equivalent of a Colonel in most other services—was actually a Soviet master spy who had infiltrated the German military years before, sending valuable intelligence from Berlin back to Moscow through a dedicated network of radio operators? But if that was the case, then why was he still breathing?
Who had taken him prisoner? He had no idea, and it hurt to think.
He pauses for a long moment to wonder—what he should say when he's asked to identify himself? Then an idea occurrs to him!
"Why, it is simplicity itself. If whoever comes to talk to me is wearing a German uniform, I will speak German and identify myself as an SS Standartenführer. If, on the other hand, whoever comes through the door is wearing a Red Army uniform, I will identify myself in Russian as a Soviet intelligence operative." Satisifed with this plan, the man closed his eyes and lay back down on the bench. Moments later, he is asleep.
The voice is speaking Russian, but the man hasn't noticed this because, as consciousness returns, he is trying to make sense of what he is seeing. He is looking up at a young man wearing a uniform. He has seen the uniform before, but for a few confused moments, cannot place where. Then it comes to him—it is the uniform of a rank-and-file police officer in Moscow.
"Comrade, you were taken into custody last night, because you were wandering the streets quite intoxicated. My commander informed me this has happened before, and instructed our watch to accommodate you in a separate cell, as a courtesy." said the policeman, who then helped the man sit up.
"If you would, please, comrade," said the policeman, placing a clipboard and pen in the man's hand, "my wife is a great fan of your acting, and she makes it a point to watch all your performances—in both new and old episodes—in your series A Spy In Berlin. So if you would not mind, comrade, I would greatly appreciate it if you would autograph the paper on the clipboard I just gave you, and dedicate the autograph to 'Anna'."
