Chapter 3
Awkward was barely a strong enough word.
The sun was just beginning to break over the eastern horizon, but it did not bring with it a sense of relief, as it fought desperately to break through the dark storm clouds. A low mist hung drearily over the streets, the humidity was suffocating, and the two disheveled people towards the back were certainly as miserable as the weather.
They did not meet each others' eyes, as they stood there side by side, and their presence alone was enough to make everyone passing nearby feel considerably, well...awkward.
They looked as if they had been, for lack of a better expression, put through the wringer.
A man and a woman, both standing absolutely still, as though the slightest movement would bring both of them down. The woman was holding her head gingerly, her wet hair matted to her scalp as she squinted her eyes in what could have been an attempt to hold back tears. Her dress was torn, and mottled.
The man was in perhaps worse shape, the front of his ripped shirt drenched with dried and fresh blood. His glasses were scratched so badly that it would have been surprising if he could see anything at all. Above his eye was a deep gash that seemed poorly tended to, as it still oozed dark blood, and he swayed to and fro in an almost imperceptible manner; a doctor passing by would have suspected that his equilibrium had been thrown off by a blow to the head. Concussed.
Something—or someone—had apparently beaten them down.
They smelled faintly of gunpowder.
They stood in line at the border, and didn't say a word. Every so often, the man reached up, and rubbed at his temple with a look of distress.
And distress, Alfred would have agreed, was an accurate description.
More like devastation, actually.
Clenching Erzsébet's hand tightly, Alfred stared firmly at the ground as they waited patiently for their turn. He couldn't bear to lift his head, lest he accidentally catch her gaze. Doing so might have made her burst into tears.
Or him. Couldn't really tell which one of them felt more miserable.
They had spent the night hours wandering through the alleys to bide time until the border opened, and Erzsébet had tried to wipe the blood from his face, but they looked no better now than they had earlier. His vision was blurry. Was it because his glasses were so badly damaged, or was it because he was on the verge of tears?
He was so ashamed.
Hadn't ever felt this awful.
They had had him. Gilbert had been right there, in arm's reach, and yet still they had been unable to pull him to safety. They'd had him.
What a disaster.
Now, they stood with only each other, their swift retreat a shameful reminder of their miserable failure. And how was he going to sit down in front of Ludwig and tell him that he had been unable to stop Gilbert? Worse! How was he supposed to tell Ludwig that the Stasi had his brother? That once the Stasi had someone, they were quite often never seen again.
Ludwig had wanted Gilbert, for so long. So long. That was all. For it all, for everything, Ludwig had only wanted Gilbert.
Gone now, forever.
He bowed his head, chest and head aching.
It wasn't the damn concussion making him sick anymore.
Ludwig would never recover from this.
He'd sat there and watched Ludwig slip away, watched him drifting ever further, and hadn't been able to help. No matter how hard he had tried to keep Ludwig's head above the water, he hadn't been able to. Ludwig was always sinking down.
This had been his chance, his chance, his chance to really help Ludwig, and he had blown it, and he wouldn't get another one.
Not ever.
"Next!"
They shuffled forward, wisely deciding to stay in line with the same guard that had let them through the day before. When they stepped up to him, he recognized them, and, with wide-eyes, he took Erzsébet's papers, although his attention was much focused elsewhere.
"Whoa-ho!" he crooned, unabashedly, raking them with unguarded curiosity as he held Erzsébet's passport in his hand. "What happened to you?"
People. Always so nosy.
Didn't seem concerned, either; amused, actually.
"What does it look like?" Alfred spat back, in an increasingly aggressive mood as the reality of everything started to sink in. "We got mugged."
They stared each other down, as Alfred fought off dizziness, and for an awful moment, he thought that the guard would disappear into his glass box and pick up the phone, calling a nearby GDR officer to tell him that he had suspicious persons, and they'd be joining Gilbert back across town.
But he only took Alfred's passport in his hands, and said, simply, "Oh."
It was certainly a believable circumstance, and it seemed to satisfy his curiosity about their speedy return to the West.
They suppressed their sighs of relief, and when the guard's hand went to raise the gate, he added, "Did you file a report?"
"Of course," he retorted, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Where do you think we were all night?"
"The ambassador will hear about this," Erzsébet added, quietly, as they pushed through. An empty, halfhearted threat, meant only to keep him from asking too many damn questions.
"Right, right. Yeah, sorry, I guess. Bon voyage."
The other side came, just like that.
So easy for them. So hard for Gilbert and Ludwig.
They sped away, and parted ways in the street, Erzsébet going to the north and Alfred heading south.
They both had to cover their bases.
Alfred was dreading his.
Ludwig was his best friend, and Alfred didn't want to tell him.
Ludwig was going to fall over when he knew, was gonna be so devastated, so crushed, so upset, and Alfred didn't think that he would be able to handle seeing him like that.
Just wanted Ludwig to be happy.
Darkness.
You idiot!
His head was splitting open.
A strange daze.
Drifting.
He couldn't think.
Someone was screaming in his ears, faintly, as though through a fog.
He felt his fingers twitching.
...where was he?
His head lit up like fire.
God, he had never felt such pain in his life. White-hot, and dots of colored light danced before his closed eyes.
Pounding in his ears.
Dizziness.
We have to get out of here before—
Something was dripping down onto his neck. His fingers were numb.
Drip, drip.
Moaning, Gilbert tried to roll his head to the side, but the pain stopped him short, and then, as he fought to come out of the clutches of unconsciousness, chest heavy and feeling exhausted, he heard something that made his skin crawl.
Voices.
He could hear voices, faint and garbled as though they were coming to him through a tunnel, the words and tones strangely echoed. He had difficulty distinguishing the words, as his head threatened to explode.
Was there someone standing right next to him? He couldn't tell. That was more unnerving, not knowing if someone was standing next to him or not.
Couldn't even open his eyes, he was so tired.
Hadn't ever felt this bad.
He couldn't think. Words floated in through the mess in his head.
Someone laughed.
"—would like...know."
"—you. Call...to...General."
The voices suddenly stopped, or maybe his ears had just given out. But no; he thought he heard the slamming of a door.
Silence.
The burning pain was dulling into a throb.
He stayed still for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts.
He could feel the cold liquid still dripping onto his neck, and tried to raise his hand to cradle his forehead. He could not. With effort, he tried to open his eyes, and after a moment he finally succeeded, somehow or another. He couldn't help but hiss in pain as the dim light assaulted his eyes, even through the squinting.
Oh, god. Was he dying? It felt like it. He'd always wondered what it felt like to die.
This seemed pretty goddamn close.
Not a pleasant sensation.
He tried to look again, and, slowly, the pain receded enough to think and his field of vision began to clear.
Soon, he wished it had not.
And, really, he wished that he hadn't woken up at all.
The room was claustrophobically small, lit up in a sickly, iridescent light, and there were no windows. One door, made of steel. One bland color. He had assumed, in the depth of agony, that he had been laying, but now that he was coming back to consciousness, he realized that he was sitting in a cold chair. Looking down, he felt a terrible lurch of fear in the pit of his stomach, and his pulse began to race.
He was restrained.
Hands and legs shackled to this monstrosity of an iron chair, he tried to struggle, as quietly as possibly, but it was no use.
He couldn't move.
A strap around his waist kept his torso firmly in place. Iron all around. There was no way he could escape such heavy cuffs.
He was stuck.
The blood pounding in his ears only made it all the worse.
He felt far away, and yet here he was.
Pushing down the nausea, he tried to refocus on his surroundings, as his vision ever cleared, and he took in its appearance in more detail, looking for some clue as to where he was.
A hanging lamp with a flickering fluorescent bulb hung above him, casting shadows that crept and fled. The walls were concrete blocks, painted off-white and matching perfectly the concrete floor. He saw dull, dark-red stains in the corner, and shuddered.
Dripping from above.
He was slowly coming to a terrible realization about where exactly he was, and why. No matter how much it frightened him to admit it.
How had it come to this?
Leaning his head back wearily and closing his eyes, he tried to think.
What was the last thing he remembered? Night. He remembered the night. What else?
He remembered lurking through the dark, armed and ready. He remembered the Stasi office looming up out of the shadows like a gateway to hell, and he remembered reaching the very first step.
The feel of a light, metal pin in his hand.
What had went wrong?
Something unspeakable nagged him.
What was wrong?
Gilbert! Come on!
He started upright at the shrill scream in his mind and, horrified, cried to no one, "Erzsébet!"
Of course.
Erzsébet had been there, and that big oaf Alfred. They had come at him, shouting at him with no clue of the silent danger, no idea that he had already taken the pin out of the grenade. Then there had been a flash, and a searing heat, and a shrill alarm, and then nothing at all.
Oh. Oh no.
And now, he was in a Stasi stronghold, no doubt.
He had been taken prisoner.
His nausea and fear turned to rage, rising up out of nowhere and burning him.
Fury.
Wished he coulda grabbed a hold of the both of them, because he was gonna kill 'em, kill the both of 'em, if he could get his fuckin' hands on them.
Absolute wrath.
"Goddammit! You stupid motherfuckers," he shrieked aloud to himself, as he writhed pitifully in the chair, "Stupid! Stupid! You both had to be so stupid! Everything would have been alright if you had just minded your own goddamn fuckin' business! If ya could just stayed away!"
No one there, but he screamed at them anyway.
Didn't know what else to do.
His voice cracked, and oh, Christ, he wanted nothing more than to burst into tears and just pitch forward and die.
This was the worst possible outcome. The last thing he had ever wanted. He had just wanted to go home.
He had wanted to see Ludwig.
He had to get out of here.
Ludwig was waiting there still, just on the other side. Right across the wall.
So fuckin' close, so close, and that was driving him crazy, he knew it was.
Crazy.
His hands were starting to shake with terror and cold, and he could feel a steady rise of desperation in his chest, rushing up like a tidal wave.
He had to get out.
Out.
Out.
Out.
He wrenched his wrists and ankles fiercely, digging the steel into his flesh hard enough to draw blood. He stifled a cry at the pain, biting his lip and gritting his teeth as he pulled harder. Didn't want anyone to hear him, and hell, he'd had worse.
Had to get out.
He pulled ever harder, but it was no use. The cuffs did not budge. Unmoving. Unyielding. Couldn't get free. Not like that, couldn't get out like that. Had to think of something else. Had to get his head together and think of a way to squirm out of that chair.
Had an idea, but not one he was really looking forward to implementing.
No choice.
If he wanted to escape, really wanted to escape, he would have to endure even worse pain. Because if he could just get one hand out, then maybe...
He could not stay here.
Ludwig was waiting, just over that wall.
Had to get out.
No matter what.
If he could just get one hand free...
Inhaling several times to steady himself and reminding himself that Ludwig was waiting, he gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, clenched his toes, and then he wrenched his left hand back as fiercely as he could, screeching in agony he heard his thumb pop in protest.
"Fuck!"
Tears stung his eyes as he bucked upward, and he tried to slip his hand out.
Not yet.
Needed more.
He was already about to fuckin' cry, Christ almighty, hurt so fuckin' bad.
"Goddammit!"
Couldn't do much else than hiss curses aloud as he tried to gather up more bravery.
Ludwig.
Had to think of Ludwig.
Try to picture his face.
Hadn't seen him in so long.
Ludwig's eyes, pretty as they were. Wanted to see those eyes again.
He shook his head to clear it, fighting off the sob that threatened to come, and pulled again, this time so harshly that the metacarpal bone in his thumb snapped with a sickening crunch, and with a shriek, he yanked his hand free, cursing.
Gasping in air to settle himself, he leaned his head back, the water from above dripping down onto his face, trying to be still as he felt the nausea rising up.
"Shit, oh, oh shit," he moaned aloud, and after a moment of deep breathing, he pulled his mangled hand up to his chest, leaning forward in an attempt to cradle his battered appendage.
He felt dizzy.
Distant.
He looked around when the nausea faded, making sure that no one had heard his cries, and tried to lower his busted left hand down to aid his right.
He had taken the clasp up, and was just starting to pull it when the heavy steel door began to creak open.
The sound of it was loud over the silence in the room. Alarmed, he leaned back into the chair, dropping his hand into his lap.
Oh, fuck it all. What bad timing. He'd been so close.
Oh—
Christ, what would they do when they saw how close he had been to getting out?
What would they do?
Felt so sick, so sick, he was gonna puke, he knew it.
Chest heaving, he fell completely still when two men stepped inside, shutting the door behind them. Soft voices. Murmuring. They were speaking quietly amongst themselves in a language that he did not understand, but he had a suspicion; Russian.
Were they Russians, visiting the GDR for a stay?
Reds.
Hated them.
Their fault that that damn wall had ever been built in the first place.
He shuddered, and hung his head.
He'd been so close. Ludwig was standing out there now, in the dark in front of that wall, staring off into space and waiting.
Waiting.
He'd wait in vain.
Ludwig would stand there all night, and no one would come to see him.
The men before him fell still, and silent, and then he heard steps on the floor.
He didn't look up.
Hoping to god they didn't notice his fuckin' hand.
Hoping.
Just wanted to get out of here.
One of them was suddenly directly in front of him, and reached out, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look up whether he wanted to or not, and he whispered, "Vi govorite po-russki?"
Gilbert found himself frozen under an unreadable, too-calm stare, and could only furrow his brows in distressed confusion.
Didn't understand.
But those eyes boring into his were absolutely terrifying.
Had never seen eyes like that.
"You don't speak Russian, do you?" the other one suddenly asked in smooth if not accented German, from the corner, but Gilbert did not respond, caught in horrible, pale pools of unnerving blankness.
"Kak vas zovut?"
"What's your name?"
He barely heard them.
Couldn't break himself away from that gaze.
God, how could anyone have eyes like this? There was nothing there, no hint of normal human emotions, no feeling, and Gilbert would not have been surprised if this man suddenly declared that he had never been afraid of anything a day in his life. If he had never felt empathy, or mercy. Eyes like that. Hadn't ever seen eyes like that.
They said that the eyes were the window to the soul.
Sometimes, Gilbert had wondered if that still held true if there was no soul to look at. He wondered what people saw when they looked into his eyes. Maybe they felt the same sense of alarm he was feeling now. He'd never been 'normal'.
Like this man.
Made him scarier, somehow, trying to find comparisons.
The man studied him with scrutiny, his impeccable cap gleaming in the dull light, and Gilbert took note of how his features seemed to sharpen when he was focusing.
Intimidating in every possible sense.
Gilbert shuddered, and the man finally released his chin and took a step back to converse with his comrade. Free of the hypnotizing eyes, Gilbert was finally able to take them in in their entirety.
The one that spoke to him in German was not particularly intimidating at first glance. Average height, not the tallest guy in the world certainly, with smooth brown hair that was pulled back and rather shapely eyes. But then there was his stance, his uniform, his sneer, his gun gleaming at his waist, and then he was no longer nonthreatening. He might have been Gilbert's age. The mottled bluish-indigo eyes would have been pretty if he weren't so damn scary, and he spoke his German with a strange, trilling accent. Fluent, certainly, and maybe no one would have guessed he wasn't a native speaker if he could have just stopped trilling his 'r's like that. A sharp, straight nose. High brow. Rather bored, from the look of him.
But the other...
That man.
The scariest thing Gilbert had ever seen in his life, that man.
The exact opposite of his counterpart, the taller one was intimidating at first glance. Didn't need a look-over to make him scary. Just a glance, and anyone woulda run for cover. A little bit darker in complexion, if only for being weathered by the elements, dressed to the nines with a smooth, flawless (maybe gaudy) military uniform, he removed his hat and held it in his hand, watching Gilbert with a tilted head of what could have been curiosity. He was still speaking, and although his voice was soft, smooth and gentle, it was not comforting. It might have been better if he were angry and shouting; then, at least, maybe he would not have been so absolutely terrifying.
That strange calmness.
He was overwhelming, for lack of a better word, in both his size and his radiating, suffocating presence. The stars on his shoulders, four of them, looked like those of a general.
Gilbert feared him.
Oh god, oh god, would he ever see Ludwig again?
Seemed so unlikely.
Ludwig.
He had only wanted Ludwig, always had, that was all he had ever fuckin' wanted.
Just Ludwig.
They conversed quietly amongst themselves, and then, suddenly, they noticed his hand, fucking figured, and the smaller one asked, a bit eagerly, "Did you do that?"
Not so bored anymore.
Gilbert could only nod, dumbly, and then the frightening one stepped forward and knelt down before him on one knee, as a mother before her child.
The air chilled.
Locking eyes, a tranquil smile spread over his face, and he reached up, ruffling Gilbert's hair with a strange gentleness that was somehow worse than a blow. Gilbert sensed the calm before the storm.
"Brave, you," he whispered, in clumsy, broken German, and Gilbert shivered at both the strong accent, and the sleek texture of the gloved hand as his long fingers ran through his hair, and then trailed down his jaw, and then his neck, and then his shoulder, lower, and lower...
He suddenly lifted himself up, bringing his face so close to Gilbert's that he could feel the Russian's warm breath on his neck.
And then, taking Gilbert's wounded hand within his own, he leaned in further and whispered gently into his ear, while at the same time he clenched his fist as tightly as he could, grinding the shards of broken bone in Gilbert's hand into the tendon as much as he could.
Gilbert could not stifle his scream of pain, and, as the Russian snapped his already abused thumb back in a manner that was all business, he heard that whisper playing over and over in his head.
Welcome to hell.