Chapter 19

Chasing Memories

It wouldn't stop bleeding.

As the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon and cut through the white clouds as the train chugged along, Gilbert could only clutch his arm to his chest, keeping it wrapped up firmly in his coat, and the deep gash from the razor wire that he had swum through just wouldn't stop bleeding.

The sleeve of his coat was soaked through with blood, and the dark red was visible even against the black-grey of the fabric. Thank god that the train car was empty, save for himself and one old woman asleep in the very back, because otherwise he would have attracted unwanted attention, dirty and mangled as he was. The blood was dripping down onto his pant leg. No matter how hard he pressed, it just wouldn't stop.

Dripping.

But he couldn't stop, either, and when the train lurched to a halt in the heart of Brno, Gilbert darted out as quick as he could, passing into the streets and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. For a moment, he only found himself walking around in circles, not knowing what else to do.

The snow had stopped falling. The streets were glittering like diamonds in the rising sun.

Felt so lost.

Where did he go? What clues was he supposed to find here? How could he possibly find out where the Russian had whisked Ludwig off to? Christ, where did he even start? Just grab people on the street and shout, 'Ivan Braginsky!' over and over again until he found someone who would point him in the right direction? What if ran into the wrong people? Someone like that had to have spies all over the place, and he was still in the middle of the Eastern Bloc, where no one could be trusted.

He ambled the streets aimlessly, holding his arm as tightly as he could, and he looked this way and that as he went, hoping against hope that he would just find something. Just run into something. Anything. Something to guide him.

Roderich had set him down in the middle of a maze.

The stores and buildings were just waking up, and the frosted glass made the lights from within shine out bleary and pale. He was dizzy, and sore, and mercilessly tired, but he still he walked on, and people passed him as he staggered forward, sending him looks of alarm and fright. He must have looked ghastly. It didn't matter.

Usually found himself looking that way, through one circumstance or another.

His head was starting to spin against the exhaustion and hunger, it was starting to become difficult to breathe, his heart was racing with the effort of just walking, and then he looked over to the left, and saw behind a panel of glass a huge shelf of old books.

A library.

That was as good a place to start as any, lost as he was.

He lurched across the street and pushed through the door, and even though the woman at the counter looked up and froze when she saw his disheveled appearance, he didn't pause to acknowledge her. Anyway, if he stood still for too long he was gonna fall over. Already bleeding all over everything.

He passed shelves and shelves of colorful books, the air around him warm and musty and comforting, and he went around corner after corner, and when he finally found what he sought, he slowed his pace, and sighed. A quiet, darkened corner, solitary and uninhabited, and upon its many shelves were enormous bindings, countless years of newspaper articles and town records wrapped up in neat succession. The light was low and yellow, and off to the side sat a great, clunky copying machine. A desk, and chairs. Tables.

He searched through the shelves, looking through the years, but there were so many.

Ah, hell. Fuckin' hated reading.

Gilbert reached up, snatching the bindings down as quickly as he could, reluctant to take pressure off of his bleeding arm for too long, and it was with great effort that he hauled them over and sat them on the table.

He took whatever years would seem relevant. The Russian was his age probably, a little older, and he took down '59, '60, '61, anything he could find, until '65, and he tossed them all down on the table. By the time he had them all, the table was buried, each binding at least six inches thick, and as he sat down before them, he was momentarily overwhelmed.

There were just so many pages. So much information. So much to sift through, and he didn't even really know what he was looking for, but he leaned forward and flipped open the first book nonetheless. The newspaper articles of years passed flew before his eyes, and he scanned every photo, every headline. Page after page. The minutes ticked by. The paper was musty and warm.

Hours.

'59 went by, slowly, without incident. Nothing. He started on the next, and now his eyelids were getting heavy. The cushioned chair was comfortable beneath him. Blood loss was making him woozy.

Time passed. The sun was rising ever higher outside. The black and white photos started blurring together. The heater above was warm. The letters were blurring too.

'60 passed, and nothing.

What time was it?

Lethargically, he reached out and grabbed up the next book, and by now the edge of his vision was black, and he had made it only halfway through the massive tome when he was overwhelmed with the desire to rest his eyes. Just for a moment. He was hardly even looking at the pages as he turned them. Blurry.

He was exhausted.

The musty book beneath him, he flipped another page, mindlessly, and the warm air of the library was dragging him down. His head slipped, lower and lower, and finally his nose was touching the cool paper beneath, and he nodded off.

Space. Everything got colder.

Don't! Go home!

His head was starting to throb. The air was thin. He thought he felt something dripping down from above. Something always felt so wrong, even though he couldn't put his finger on it. Ludwig wasn't here. Nothing was like it should be. Everything was wrong.

A cold steel all around. A snap.

Something was wrong with Ludwig.

Welcome to hell.

Wrenching awake so hard that he nearly knocked his chair backwards when he bolted upright, Gilbert looked around in a horrible panic, adrenaline lurching through his veins as his heart raced in his chest, and oh god, he could swear that someone had been whispering in his ear. Could swear it.

A hand in his hair.

But as he looked this way and that, shuddering, there was no one standing beside him, and when he looked down, there were no shackles on the chair. He fell back, a cold sweat on his brow, and raised his hands above his eyes, wearily. He realized his hands were trembling. He scratched his head, feeling those fingers yet in his hair, and when he pulled his hand back there were specks of dried blood under his fingernails.

Felt so overwhelmed. Terrified. He couldn't handle this. It was all too much. He was not cut out for this, not stuff like this. Not daring acts. Brave rescues like this should have only been attempted by brave people, like Ludwig. People who were good enough to risk themselves for others.

He wasn't.

Exhaling to gather himself, he lowered his hands, and turned his eyes back to the book before him. He couldn't sleep.

The page came into focus.

And when he saw the photo, really saw it, he felt another cold lurch of dread. A shock. He squinted his eyes to be sure.

Well. Damn. There he was.

Him.

A black and white newspaper article from '61, the year the wall had been conceived, and he was standing there, tall and smiling, hands behind his back, encircled by other Soviet military as they stood before the great clock tower in Prague. It was him.

Gilbert ripped the huge book up, earning a renewed flow of blood from his arm, and hauled it over to the copying machine and set it down, and as the bright blue light shined from beneath, he could feel a change in his fortune. He just couldn't tell if it was good or not. He made as many copies as he could afford, just in case, and on each of them, he took out a black marker and made a circle around the Russian's face. By god, he would find that son of a bitch. One way or another. Wouldn't let him go, not ever, not with Ludwig. He'd raze down all the USSR to find that man.

Tucking the papers away in his coat, Gilbert left the warmth of the library, and stepped back out into the city. Now...

Didn't know how to start.

Everything was bustling now, as the late afternoon sun hung over the horizon.

How would he possibly find someone who knew that guy? He would need dumb luck, and maybe more money. He would just have to revert to his original plan of stopping people at random.

Taking out a copy of the photo from his coat, letting his arm rest as the blood finally started to coagulate and slow, he stopped everyone that he could, and shoved the paper in their faces, pointing to the Russian and shouting, loudly, "Hey, do you know this man?" even though he was sure that hardly any of them understood him.

Most of them broke away from him, sending him wide-eyed looks of alarm, as though he were crazy—and rightfully so, because he was—and some of them studied the photo, thoughtfully, helpfully, and then shook their heads.

He pushed on.

He fell quiet whenever he passed a police officer, and stood straight and still, and when he was out of their sight, he would start right back up again. It was foolhardy. Stupid. But what else could he do? He kept asking, and sometimes he would grab someone, and when they looked at the photo, something shifted and darkened in their eyes, and he just knew that they recognized him, but then they would just pull away and shake their heads, and walk off briskly.

God, god. Would no one help him? Wouldn't anyone be brave? Ludwig had come for him. Couldn't someone talk?

Then, finally, he grabbed the shawl of an old woman, and when she turned to hit him with her purse, he shoved the paper in her face, and pointed. His eyes were as desperate as his face, maybe, because she furrowed her brow, stopped whacking him, and then looked down. She humored him because he must have looked close to tears, and adjusted her glasses upon her nose.

A moment of silence.

And then she snapped her fingers and looked up at him, waving her hand in the air as she said, voice quaking and warm, "Ano...Dobrá tedy." She reached out her wrinkled hand, and pointed in the direction from whence he had came. "Tam! Vlakové nádrazí."

Gilbert didn't understand, didn't know what the hell she was pointing to, but he reached out and grabbed her hands and clenched them, crying, eagerly, "Thank you!"

So grateful for something. So grateful.

He walked down, farther and farther, and the trains were looming in the distance again, and he kept asking everyone he saw. Some of them knew, and they all said, "Vlakové nádrazí!" But he didn't know what that meant, and it was frustrating, because they all said it, over and over and over again, but what was did it mean?

As he stood in the middle of the train station, agitated and annoyed and feeling helpless, he paced back and forth, staring at the pavement. He bumped into someone, accidentally, and when he looked up to tell them to move it along, a huge sign above caught his eye. In big, bold letters, it said Vlakové nádrazí. He looked around, dumbly.

Trains. The station was bustling.

And then it hit him like lightning, and he realized that it meant 'train station'. They had been telling him all along to go back to the train station. Now he felt something like hope, because he was in the right place. There was something here that he needed to find. Someone here knew.

He looked around, and a payphone caught his eye. His wallet felt so light, too light, and if he got a clue here then there was possibly a long journey ahead of him. He had to be prepared. Needed more money.

Slinking over to the phone, he picked it up, and dropped in coins and punched the numbers, pressing his palm against his left ear to shield it from the roar of the trains around him. It rang. He waited.

Then a stiff, bored voice drawled, "Hello?"

Gilbert paused for a moment, shuffling his feet awkwardly as he bowed his head, and then he gathered his strength and muttered, "Hey, Roderich. It's me."

A silence, and then Roderich's voice came alive and he hissed, fervently, "Gilbert? What took you so long? I thought you had died off in the woods somewhere!"

He furrowed his brow and grumbled, "I almost did."

Roderich didn't seem overly concerned for his well-being, however, and asked, eagerly, "So! So? Well? Where are you? Did you find him yet? Do you have him? Oh, Christ, please tell me you have him. Don't you have him?"

Ludwig.

Roderich just wanted Ludwig. Didn't care if Gilbert died in the process.

Now came the part he was dreading, and he could feel the hammering of his heart as he tried to delay the inevitable. It would happen eventually, though. Roderich had to know.

"I'm here," he began weakly, voice low and deep as he tried to hide his shame, "In...in Brno."

The volcano exploded immediately, as he had expected.

"IN BRNO?" came the shriek from the other end, and he pulled the phone away as Roderich's voice pierced his ear, "In Brno? It's been two and half weeks! Why the hell are you still in Brno? How long have you been there?"

Roderich's shrieks were painful in his ears. Gilbert couldn't really blame him for his anger.

"I just... I just got here earlier."

"Earlier? Where the fuck have you been? Jesus Christ, Gilbert! What do you think this is? This is not a vacation! You could have cruised up to Moscow by now, Gilbert! Ludwig is out there and you've been sitting on your ass for over two weeks? Have you even found out where he went? Have you even looked? What the hell have you been doing? See? You see? I knew this would happen! I knew it! I should have just gone MYSELF!"

Shame.

Gilbert bowed his head silently, and when finally Roderich calmed down (no doubt because he could hear Erzsébet chastising him in the background) he lowered his voice and grumbled, in a strained tone, "Listen, Gilbert, just find him. I don't care what you have to do."

Well. That was as good an invitation as any, and Gilbert blurted, quickly, "Roderich, I need more money!"

For a second, Roderich sputtered, "More mon—" and then he fell still, and Gilbert could practically hear his teeth grinding as he gasped, "How much?"

"Maybe... Maybe another couple thousand. At least."

A strangled sound.

"I think I'm really close to someone that knows where they went. There's someone here in the train station. I'm about to start asking around."

"Do you have a pen?"

"Yeah."

"I'll wire it to you," came the grumbled reply, and as Gilbert scribbled away, he could only pray that he didn't let Roderich down, in the end.

Like he always let Ludwig down.

"When you get there, call me. I'll need at least an hour."

"Alright."

"Don't fuck it up, Gilbert."

And even though he knew he was wearing Roderich's thin patience, he just had to bring it up. Had to, because he needed more help. Needed more guidance. He wasn't smart enough for all of this, wasn't resourceful enough. Wasn't like Ludwig and Roderich, brilliant and cunning, he couldn't do all of this without help.

"Roderich, I'm—I'm having trouble getting across the borders. Tunnels are so hard to find, and I can't climb fences so good right now, it takes me so long to get across—"

Roderich didn't give a shit about Gilbert's comfort, about how much it hurt to climb, but Roderich did give a shit about Ludwig, and was quick to say, "I'll take care of it. I'll call in some favors. Let me know where you need to go. See, this is why I make sure I stay on everyone's good side, Gilbert. You should try it sometime!"

Gilbert fell silent, bending underneath unspeakable weariness and Roderich's fury, and he could only grumble, "Thanks," as he meant to hang up.

Roderich stopped him.

"Gilbert?"

"Yeah?"

A moment of hesitation, and Roderich hissed, voice barely a whisper, "I want you to call me every time you stop. I've had this job for a long time, and I'm way past the point of diplomatic formality. I'll get you wherever you need to go, no matter how many ethics I have to stomp on along the way, and, god help me, if you need to shoot someone, Gilbert, don't even stop and think about whether or not you should. Just get in, get Ludwig, get out, and I'll do what I can to make it disappear later."

Gilbert fell still, and for a moment, he almost smiled. That was probably the most endearing thing Roderich would ever say for the rest of his life. The first time Roderich had ever wanted to break any rules.

"Thanks," he finally said, again, and set the phone down.

As the trains whistled and chugged around him, as the people passed by, as the sun rose higher and brighter, Gilbert somehow felt that he had passed a point of no return. He sensed something terrible on the horizon.

But it was too late for him now.

Straightening his shoulders, he furrowed his brow and set off, and the tellers around him were numerous. Guards stood in every corner. No matter what happened, he was getting Ludwig. No matter what he had to do along the way.

So, who was it here that he needed to find?

He waited until the crowds thinned, and then he slunk up to the first ticket counter, and pulled out the paper. And even though the first man was unhelpful, the second was a little more useful, and only pointed discreetly down the row. Agitated and nervous, Gilbert fell down to the next, who shook her head. He moved on, and there was another shake of a head, and then below another point, and then, finally, he had reached the very last booth.

Well, then, this had to be it.

Stalking up to the counter, feeling confident that he had cornered his prey, Gilbert slammed the paper on the counter and barked, "Hey! You!"

The teller looked up, brow low in annoyance. Yeah, if he worked in this shithole he'd be annoyed all the time, too.

"You know this man?" Gilbert asked, petulantly, and the teller's eyes fell down, and there was a horrible moment of silence, and his heart was pounding in his ears.

And then the man averted his eyes and inspected his nails, saying quickly, in pretty good German, "Nope! Can't help you. Sorry."

Bullshit.

"Are you sure?" he ground out, and Gilbert could tell just by the shifty eyes and cool attitude that he was being played. "Don't you wanna look again?"

"Not really."

"I really, really need to find this man," he continued, and now his voice was a muffled hiss as he spoke through gritted teeth, and he had never been patient. Never had been. Was gonna snap soon, he could feel it. Not in the mood for any of this.

"Listen, man, I told you, I can't help you."

Gilbert's fingers contracted so hard that he accidentally crumpled the paper within them.

Anger. Fury. Underneath, inescapable terror.

"No! You listen," he hissed, his patience waning, and the pane dividing them was the only thing that kept Gilbert from throttling the man, "I've asked everybody, and everybody is sending me to you! I've been out here for weeks! I've been looking forever. Now, are you gonna tell me or not?"

A silence, and the man's brow was low and stern, and he shook his head.

"Don't fuck around! I know you know him, now tell me! Please!"

The man looked around, anxiously, and now he stared down at Gilbert with something that looked like disbelief. "I'm doing you a favor," he finally said, placing his palms on the counter, and there was something dark in his voice as he added, "No one goes looking for Braginsky. Most people spend their entire lives trying to avoid him."

"Well," Gilbert muttered, "I'm looking for him, and I'm gonna find him, and if you don't help me, then you're gonna regret it! We have unfinished business."

The man stared up at him, unfazed, and only shook his head. Looking at Gilbert like he was a whacko.

"You're crazy! Just let it go, whatever it was. And don't threaten me, either. You're nothing. I came here from Poland. I've seen what Braginsky can do."

The guy looked around then, and lowered his voice into a whisper, a hiss, trying very hard to get rid of Gilbert without causing a scene. Gilbert had to lean in to hear him through the pane.

"Listen here, there was this little town, next to mine, that sheltered a student group. They did all kinds of stupid things, sabotage and staging rebellions and whatnot, and when Braginsky was finally brought in to take them down, do you know what he did? He didn't even bother knocking on doors and looking for them. He rode through with his men and their tanks and he burned the entire town to the ground. All the women and kids, too. I could see the smoke from my house! I could smell it. I left the next week. You're an idiot if you go after him. Everyone died. Ran that whole town over."

Run!

A sudden smell of gunpowder, and Gilbert remembered the searing heat and black smoke of the grenade he had thrown, and for a terrible second, he could only imagine that little blaze magnified tenfold, engulfing an entire village, and the whole while the Russian stood up on top of a tank in front of a blood-red sunset, hand shielding his eyes from the bright light of the fire as embers and ash floated around him, pale hair and eyes glowing orange in the inferno, watching with a calm smile and loose stance from behind a veil of shimmering, scorching air as people screamed and ran and burned—

Gilbert shuddered, and for a moment, his resolve foundered, and he fell back, horrified and so scared he could barely breathe.

No one ever went looking for him.

Except Ludwig. Maybe Ludwig hadn't intended to seek him out, not intentionally, but it had happened, and he had offered himself up willingly, even though he had sensed too, perhaps, what kind of terror lay in wait.

Let the towns burn, then, as long as Ludwig stood safe on the sidelines.

How could he convince this man to speak?

Well. When all else failed...

"Just tell me what you know," Gilbert said, as he dug for his wallet, "I'll pay. Just tell me what direction he went."

He tried to keep the desperation from his voice, but it wasn't working, and the man crossed his arms above his chest defiantly, but his shifty eyes made Gilbert press on.

"You're way in over your head. I'd send you to your death, man."

"What do you care? You don't know me. Look, times are hard, you need the money. A hundred," he offered, and the man scoffed.

"Marks? For Braginsky? You'll have to do better than that."

"No," Gilbert snipped, pulling out his wallet, "I mean American!" He pulled the bill out, and added, eagerly, "Let's let Mr., ah..." He looked down at the paper, "Mr. Franklin do the talking!"

A short silence.

Eh. ...it was smoother coming from Alfred's mouth. Sounded kinda stupid from him.

The man paused and looked around nonetheless, and then lifted a brow.

"American, eh? That's better."

Relieved, Gilbert set the bill upon the counter, but kept his fist firmly upon it, muttering, "Talk!"

A hesitation, and then the man sighed in defeat. "Look, I'm only doing this because I need the money. I don't know exactly what happened. All I know is, the train was coming in from Prague and, for some reason, it got stopped down in the middle of the line. We were about to send out assistance, because we thought it had derailed, but then it started up again later that night. When it arrived, the conductor looked like something had scared the holy hell out of him—Braginsky probably put a damn gun to his head to make him stop—and the train was supposed to go to Budapest, but the conductor came up, looking kinda crazy, sayin' that no, no, no, they weren't going to Budapest anymore, he had to go to..."

The guy paused, and appeared to be struggling, and Gilbert leaned forward, hanging.

"Where? Where?"

"...a straight line, to Moscow. No stops. No one else was allowed to board that train. And I don't wanna know why, either. And that's all I know. Moscow was the last I heard."

And then the man reached out and snatched the bill out from under Gilbert's fist, and Gilbert could only stand there for a stunned moment, head spinning.

Oh, god. He had not expected Moscow. He had not expected to have to set foot in Russia. Maybe Hungary, Serbia, or Bulgaria, but not Russia. Not there. He had hoped he would have intercepted them before they went that far. He didn't want to go there.

Well. No choice.

Swirling around on his heel, Gilbert meant to walk off and find the bank that Roderich was using, because suddenly he needed a lot more money—

"Hey," came a cry behind him.

He paused, looking over his shoulder in irritation.

"What?"

"Hey, do me a favor, now. When he finds you—he'll find you before you find him—don't ever tell him I helped you. I got two little girls at home. I'd like to see them grow up."

Ice down his back, and yet Gilbert lifted his chin defiantly, and said, "Don't you mean 'if' he finds me?"

"No," was the immediate response, "I mean when."

Gilbert only frowned, a rush of adrenaline in his veins at the seriousness on the man's face. But he nodded nonetheless, tucking his wallet back into his pocket, and turned on his heel, walking off.

And a warning followed him :

"You won't ever come back."

He shuddered. Still, he walked forward. He would not stop. He couldn't.

The day was young.

Didn't care about other people.

Just Ludwig.