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Chapter Text

New York. December 15, 1957.

Oh, little Sputnik, flying high

With made-in Moscow beep

You tell the world it’s Commie sky

And uncle Sam’s asleep

Alfred hasn't slept in a long time. An attempt to close his eyes after a sleepless night did not lead to anything – he continued to toss and turn, staring at the ceiling, disturbed by the oppressive fears of millions. The launch of the Soviet satellite made confidence in their own invulnerability crack at the seams. The most skeptical ones were speechless when the signals came from any radio station. A short "beep-beep", triumphant on the other side of Atlantic, here counted the beating of hearts that went into alarm and horror.

America was undefended now.

Not everything was lost – in December everything should have been got back to normal. Millions clung at their screens, only to watch the explosion of a ballistic missile a moment later, which was supposed to restore trampled pride. Such despondency, that Alfred had never ever felt, crowded upon him.

He got up with a crumpled back and moved to the balcony. The frosty air relaxed his head, buzzing with migraine, but the color of the sunset sky – red, as luck would have it - again stirred up burning hatred in his soul.

Braginsky. Wow. Somehow he managed. Gee, how many scientists should have been threatened with Gulag for their relatives in order to create at least something technically advanced?

America knew he was lying to himself. Could not help but know.

He left the frosty balcony. Took a bottle of whiskey in his hands. Splashed it into a glass sharply, swallowed it in one gulp – to forget himself a little, to disconnect from this stuffy red haze.

It hurt. Vague fragments of memories of Braginsky stirred the soul. Already after the war, it was impossible to look at him without fear: the nation that wrested itself and half of Europe from the jaws of national socialism now wanted to put this very Europe on a red chain.

And not only Europe.

Still in bandages, Russia could not help but intimidate. The wounds and scars were healing up, and the glint in purple eyes – in this abyss that promised death – turned steely.

“Oh, Alfred. I see you through”

Ivan's words, spoken that very evening, burned a hole in his heart.

“Hypocritical. Deceitful. Money-hungry child. Power-hungry. Nothing will stop you. You will save mankind from evil – and how much blood will be shed for this? Will you get enough of it, Alfred?”

Scum. Scumscumscumscum.

The glass cracked. Cold whiskey poured down his arms.

"I will destroy you"

“Fuck you!!!”

An already cracked glass flew into the wall and broke into thousands of fragments – a picture of an exploding rocket appeared before his eyes, inflaming even more anger. What a scumbag!

He remembered rage. He remembered fury. He remembered pain, so deep, that the soul was about to crack.

His president – a man with a high forehead and round glasses – patted him on the shoulder then.

“See, lad? This is what we have to stop. You already saved the world once. New challenges are right around the corner. Will you become the new hope of humanity?”

Yes, Mr. Truman, sir. He will become it. Cannot help but become. He will bring them freedom, he will bring them happiness. This poor, war-weary old world – how many tyrants it had seen, how many tears it had shed! It's time to put an end to this. The brown dictator had fallen. Now it's time to knock down the red one – and the world would be saved again.

His chest felt like it was squeezed in a vise.

There was something about that pain that Alfred didn't understand. He had to fight in the past – and more than once. The war was something he came out of, defending freedom and himself with iron and blood of his people. He happened to hate – he hated and fought, taking the lives of strangers so that they would not take lives of his people. The blood boiled and pounded in the temples, anger, soldered with perseverance and faith, brought him to victory.

But he did not want to break down and throw out anyone except Russia.

Tear him apart. Take everything he has, everyone he has. Do not bomb his soil, no, no, he is not a monster, he is the one who defeats monsters – but to make him suffer, sink into despair, howl from powerlessness...

It became difficult to breathe, and tears appeared in his eyes.

Whiskey from a broken glass spread across the floor. The dark liquid reached Alfred's toes, licking his skin with an unpleasant cold.

This is how it always happened. As soon as he drew the image of Braginsky – humiliated and broken – a lump rose in his throat, and a wave rose in his soul, a wave of hell knows what, but it hurt so much... How can this be? After everything he said, how he... he... Why he felt so sick, like he was burning from the inside, like he had a hole in his chest, sucking black hole...

America straightened up, pulled off his glasses and wiped tears from his eyes. How much can he take? He wallowed in these feelings for God knows how long, until Truman pulled him out of there, gave him a direction. Until he collected him, broken, together.

He will become the new hope of mankind.

He rolled up his sleeves, picked up the glass pieces. He can do it. Getting ahead and fly up – higher, higher and higher – is only a matter of time. His people, he himself, will reach the other side of the sky.

Six months later, on July 29 – a belated birthday present – he received his wings.

Vienna. June 4, 1961

A gallery of baroque halls, golden stucco everywhere you look, the reflections of hundreds of candles in brilliant mirrors – America flew along the corridors of an аustrian palace.

He was late. The meeting of his president with the Soviet leader was to end soon - and he got lost in a series of corridors, arches and candelabra, finding himself at the same place over and over again. He was out of breath. He bent over to catch his breath.

He lacked speed.

His wings lacked speed.

The sensation was nasty, and had been more frequent lately than Alfred would have wanted to admit. To be honest, it was present since April.

April this year could not be worse. If Khrushchev's thunderous statements about a separate peace treaty with the GDR were in the order of things – Soviet leader had an annoyingly constant habit of pulling verbal stunts, prophesying a funeral for the Western world – and if the wind was knocked out of him in the Bay of Pigs, then…

The flight to the other side of the sky – now, in June, at sunset, it was blazing orange – was made not by him.

The unparalleled flight to the stars was annunciated from the podium of the Mausoleum – not from Capitol Hill.

The jubilant crowds, wiping away their tears, were on the streets of Moscow, not New York.

An astronaut with a smile brighter than sun in the spring – not his.

He was late, he missed it, just for a month ...

They came to pick up the pieces of this April here in Vienna. Austria kindly provided a whole palace for negotiations – here, in the halls where Roderich played music, now the fate of Cuba and Germany was being decided – he should worry about this, America knew, but he could not stop thinking, could not get that video footage and the figure on the Kremlin podium out of his head, that figure, so happy, like he was absolutely over the moon…

“You're running here for the second time”

Alfred straightened up sharply.

Russia stood at a high window that was painted up to the ceiling. The ends of his blond hair burned in the light of the setting sun. The jacket was off and thrown over his shoulder – but a scarf, a beige scarf, was wrapped loosely around his neck.

That was all he needed right now.

“Are you looking for your people?”

Irritation immediately flooded his face.

“What is it to you?”

Ivan gave Alfred a long appraising look from his amethyst eyes. America could not understand what pissed him off more – that look or those eyes.

“Okay” Russia shrugged nonchalantly. A slight smile appeared on his lips. “Then I’m going to mine”

He walked past America, into the gallery, from which he had just run out – Alfred did not even have time to catch his breath. Wherever the Soviet delegation is, there must be his as well... This bastard said where he was going on purpose, in order to make Alfred look like an idiot if he followed him! But the time passed. Braginsky's steps were moving away. A decision had to be made immediately.

Alfred made it with a snarl of annoyance.

“Wait!”

After hearing a shout, Ivan turned on his heels. America quickly followed him, trying to look as respectable as possible – as much as possible with his collar knocked down from running and his face flushed.

He caught up with him. Ivan slowed down, waiting for Alfred's blush to subside and his breath to calm down.

“So you’re lost after all” he half-asked, half-grinned.

“And you, I see, sniffed out the whole layout here”

Don’t lash out. Kennedy was waiting for this meeting, waiting for the time when it would be possible to unravel the tangle of their problems – its threads ended on so many continents. It would be bad if he ruins everything by being rude to Braginsky. He just needs to calm down the seething something under his chest ...

“I walked the Winter Palace far and wide. With Roderich everything is simple. Let's go to the yard – it's better to go around the building. They should be outside by now.”

They turned onto the marble staircase that lead to the first floor.

“Oh, right. I keep forgetting that you’ve got palaces”

America blurted out the first more or less harmless thing that came to mind. Russia arched an eyebrow questioningly, without slowing down. Really?

“Well, you know. Palaces with kings are Arthur’s thing. Or Francis’. But not yours. Yours are factories. And at the factories – congresses of Soviets.

Russia laughed, lightly and loudly.

“Where do you think the first congresses of Soviets were held?”

He opened the door outside, into the park, letting Alfred go first. Laughter settled in the air, dug into the lungs with needles. For some reason it became difficult to breathe. Good thing they were outside.

“Very proletarian” Alfred's thin lips stretched into a smirk. “And how did Comrade Lenin feel about that?”

“Comrade Lenin moved to a fortress with turrets”

The sky shifted more and more from orange to deep purple. There was something surreal in this – in walking with Russia along the palace and exchanging words about Lenin and the Kremlin turrets almost in a friendly way. Ivan was not rude to him – he knew how to be rude so that teeth were cramping, hundreds of years side by side with the Europeans definitely  left a mark – he was not trying to nettle him – when was the last time such thing happened? Alfred didn't want to snap back, but wanting to snap back was a familiar, comfortable feeling. Now he was thrown into the unknown – a new sensation frightened him. Disoriented him.

He could not pick a name for it.

They walked along the back of the palace in order to go around it to the facade, to the main entrance – already from here America could hear the voices and noise of numerous reporters. The first stars lit up in the sky.

“You are... kinda gracious tonight” Alfred himself did not understand how these words escaped from him. He continued in response to Russia's puzzled look. “This is just unlike you”

Ivan shrugged. They stopped – they had only to go around the side wall.

“Maybe. But we really looked forward to this meeting. Nikita Sergeevich, he... wants to sort things out. With your new president. He wanted before as well, but... after that incident with the pilot...”

Alfred cringed – another story – of a year ago, however – which he would prefer no one to remember.

“What was his name again…” Russia continued, as luck would have it. “Peters?”

“Powers”

“Yeah. Powers. The dialogue did not work out then”

That was an understatement, honestly.

“Do you want the dialogue?”

“Yes. I... I think it's important. I want to solve problems in Berlin. For the sake of peace for all of us”

Was he not lying?

Was he really…

Wind started to blow. Russia did not move – his hair was tousled at the top of his head, his gaze was calm. For some reason, the sounds subsided – the noise now came as if through the thickness of the water.

“Pilot. Gagarin is also a pilot?”

Alfred blurted the first thing that came to his mind. But this – all of this – June, the sky, Russia, his laughter – threw him off course, he no longer remembered that damn course, he just went with the flow...

Something flickered in those violet eyes.

“Yes” Ivan answered breathlessly.

Alfred squeezed his eyes shut. The Kremlin towers were imprinted on the other side of the eyelids. Red stars. Stars on the sky. The jubilant people. He wanted to ask – a long time ago, back in April – he hid the thought at the very bottom of his soul, but he could not help, could not help, since he saw him, Ivan, beside himself with happiness...

“How was it?” his throat went dry. “In space. What does it look like?”

Silence. Nothing but the rustle of leaves in the wind. In the silence, he heard only Ivan's voice – quiet, it got under his skin.

“Like sea” Russia smiled. “It’s like walking on the sea shore at night. And there are pebbles around you. Blue, red and green. And they glow. You run your hand over them, but you don’t take them – you leave them to lie. And the Earth is... white with blue. Like foam. White foam on the blue ocean”

Alfred was silent.

It was so... Light. Ivan said this – as if he was glowing, softly, evenly. From within. Nacreous stardust streamed through his eyes.

America couldn't take his eyes away.

“And why are you suddenly so gracious tonight?” Russia tilted his head playfully. The mischievous tone brought Alfred out of a trance.

His head buzzed. Something warm spread through his heart.

“I'm happy for you”

What the hell is he talking about?

An hour ago he would have strangled himself for such words.

“Well, I... I threw the phone at the wall when I found out – and then I threw the table too. Found out, that you launched a man into space. But I'm... happy for you"

“Thank you”

His smile was so quiet. So sincere.

They slowly moved forward. The world around started to take shape again – density, taste and smell. Alfred returned to reality. Still not fully able to think clearly – Braginsky was to blame for this too often – he quickly licked his lips. Fixed his tie.

“Count yourself lucky. If you had delayed the launch for a month, we would have bypassed you.”

They rounded the corner. A huge yard with fountains – crowds of journalists, camera flashes, cars in the distance – it seemed like they made it just in time. Their delegations were leaving the palace.

“Yes, I know. That means we should hurry up with the spacewalk” Ivan answered half-jokingly. Suddenly his eyes flew open – the mischievous spark went out, as if covered with a glass. The face was drawn.

“What” Alfred could hardly contain the giggle, rising to his throat.  The smile stretched against his will. “You shouldn't have told me that? Right?”

“Right” he said slowly. Russia's gaze was just as unreadable. “However” Was it him, or did daring notes return to his voice? “You would have find out anyway. Let's say your plane would take air samples over Nagasaki and Tokyo – and cut off through Baikonur – and then you’ll find out. What's the point of hiding?”

What the hell...

Before Alfred could answer, a group of reporters surrounded him, distracting him with camera flashes - they were asking something, he did not listen, he made his way through them – but there was no trace of Russia. America kept turning his head, but could not find him in the crowd of white shirts and black jackets, even Ivan’s height did not help – he probably went to his people... A dull feeling settled in his stomach. Frustration? Yes, probably it really was a frustration. He wanted more, to exchange a few more words – it was not clear why, he needed some kind of conclusion. Maybe in a hotel, their delegations were accommodated in the same hotel...

America made his way to his people, opened the car door – Kennedy was just getting in it from the other side. Only when he and the president were sitting on the back seat, the flashes stopped blinding him.

“Sir, I'm sorry, I got lost, and…” Alfred broke off. Kennedy, whose disarming charisma was shining in the morning, now looked darker than a storm cloud. “Looks like Khrushchev read a lecture on Marxism-Leninism to you” he tried to lighten the atmosphere with a joke, but Kennedy looked at him in such a way that America's smile faded. Come on. Did he guess right? “Is everything that bad?”

The driver started the engine. The car moved.

“Alfred” the president turned to him, locking his fingers together. “Do you remember the talk about the hope of detente? About the solution of the Berlin question? About world peace, after all?”

America nodded. An image of Braginsky rose before his eyes – with his hair tossing in the wind, under the stars. Something very bad was emerging inside – and something seemed to break off when Kennedy said:

“This world peace – as the Soviets see it – must be established at the expense of our weakness” The president's gaze was directed forward, but not at anything in particular. Like he was watching inside himself. “The winter will be cold this year”

The tension in the center of Europe spread in the air, as tangible as if that very air could be cut with a knife.

He allowed himself to believe – at least for a couple of minutes, but allowed – that the words of Braginsky came from the bottom of his heart.

That he also wanted peace. That the hegemon on the other side of the Iron Curtain – even if he was a strangler of freedom, even if he was warmongering all around the world – but he also knew when to stop. Knew what self-defense was. And what provocation was.

Alfred thought – he bit his lips until they bled in anger and thought – that Braginsky had common sense. That he knew when not to poke a tiger with a stick, hoping that this tiger would run away with his tail between his legs. Instead of biting the hand off in fury.

The disgusting gray wall around West Berlin, entwined with barbed wire – that was his answer. This was the answer of the one who spoke with inspiration about world peace: fending off, taking control, locking away.

He thought he'd get away with it.

They will demolish this heinous barrier – Alfred swore this to Ludwig, assured him with fervor that he would be able to see his brother not only from the tower through binoculars again. That they will keep the West Berliners safe – they are the Free world, after all. That's why they are bound by one fate, one common goal - to break the walls of tyranny, destroy its shackles. But we need to be strong; we need not to give in to fear...

Ludwig was silent. Alfred didn't ask, but he knew he agreed with him. How could it be any other way?

They didn't succeed right away. Day, painfully long day in October at Checkpoint Charlie – the Soviets reacted to the advance of tanks immediately; their vehicles took a position opposite the American ones, a couple of tens of meters left – and Europe could become a battlefield again. That battle would last not years, but hours – and after that: scorched earth, miles of scorched earth on both ends of the planet, burning cities with millions of ghost people burning inside, groaning with thirst, shadows on the walls from the bodies that disappeared in the nuclear whirlwind.

Kennedy preferred not to take risk.

The tanks drove away, the wall remained. It will be demolished – someday, for sure, this abscess on the tormented body of Europe will be gone – he will not leave it just like that, he will not allow it – but they will have to wait. Just a little. We'll find a way, Ludwig. We’ll definitely find it.

It wasn't long before the outcome took its place.

Washington. Night of 27-28 October 1962.

The light of the lantern outside the window of the Ministry of Justice hurt the eyes even through the half-closed blinds. America closed his eyes – cloudy balls of light shone through the eyelids, so exhausted in recent days, blurring and pulsing. He took out the devil knows what number of cigarette in the day-night-day - he lost count, he did not sleep anyway – and lit the cigarette up.

Alfred was with Bobby Kennedy when the Soviet ambassador entered the office. He was still there; every minute of conversation dragged by like viscous pitch. America did not allow himself much hope, even if Dobrynin himself showed up on the doorstep of the president's brother.

There is no hope for anything while a hundred kilometers from Florida Soviet missiles were aimed right at his heart.

Panic again, millions of anxious and frightened souls. He had never felt so sick. The fifth day has gone since the president announced full combat alert. Every muscle in his body ached with tension, hot energy was coursing through his arteries. It was waiting for a discharge. It was afraid of a discharge.

The smoke swirled and rose upward, taking on the shape of a mushroom for a barely perceptible moment. Alfred laughed, abruptly, nervously. He must be going crazy if he sees such things.

“Couldn't sleep?”

America flinched at the sound of an all-too-familiar voice.

A tall figure in a Soviet uniform floated out of the darkness towards the window. A figure whose silhouette he had imagined too often in recent days.

In the light of the lantern, Braginsky was as white as chalk.

It took a lot of self-control for Alfred not to cough.

“Are you with him?” America did not answer the question of Russia, instead shaking his chin in the direction of Robert Kennedy's office.

Ivan straightened the peaked cap that had slipped onto his forehead. Took a cigarette out of the pack with black-gloved hands. Alfred did not offer his lighter.

He was shaking.

“Did you find the time to break away from Havana?”

Russia shook his head.

“From Moscow. I thought it would be nice if I were... here. This might calm everyone down a bit. Nikita Sergeevich gave the go-ahead”

America could physically feel a wave of rage rising within him. The way Braginsky behaved – calmly, even relaxed – how slowly he lit a cigarette, how slowly he took a drag – his teeth gnashed from this sight, and a tight hot lump twisted in his stomach. How can he do all that? Threaten. Provoke. And then show up here, stand there and act like everything is all right?! Piece of shit.

Ivan exhaled smoke. He flipped the ash through the open window.

“That would demonstrate our peaceful intentions. And that we are serious, of course. About removing the missiles from Cuba – if you are ready to make a concession, of course. 

Peaceful intentions, my ass.

Screw it.

“I'm glad you're here” America chuckled angrily.

“Seriously?”

His tone was weird. Though not weird enough for Alfred's knuckles to stop burning.

“Yeah. I’m glad you’re gonna take the rap for your mess. And so shamefully”

Russia was silent. A very strange and long look was replaced by a sharp words.

“I don't know what else I expected, Alfred”

“I know, though” America stubbed out the cigarette butt with force, threw it into the ashtray and turned to Russia. He even dares call him by his name, scumbag. “You were expecting that you could blackmail me with the help of your Cuban friend. Orient missiles on me – all of me – and be able to get away with it! And now you flip back with the tail between your legs! Change the conditions on the fly!”

“Your "Jupiters" Ivan snarled every word, coming closer to Alfred, towering above him. “They have been standing in Turkey for a year. They're aiming at me here.” He slapped his chest. “They are targeting my sisters. The Baltics. The Caucasus. Did you think you could get away with it?”

“I’m protecting my NATO allies. It's not my fault that your neighbors – all of them – hate you”

Russia laughed, viciously, resoundingly. The smoke from the exhale touched America’s lips.

“Seems like yours adore you so much that I already have to protect them from the invasion. Or did you sail to the beaches of Carlos last year only to sunbathe, eh, Alfred?”

His hands clenched into fists. America could see every hair on his blond brows, drawn together in anger.

“Don't you dare call me by my name”

“As you say. Hypocrite” A drag, an exhale, cigarette smoke in the face. Purple iris darkened. “Nikita Sergeevich gave me some documents, actually a long time ago. Did you do the same thing at my place thirty years ago? Did you spy? Or do harm?”

“Have you rinsed your brains with vodka? I haven't been in your shithole for seventy years”

Russia’s eyes went wide. Confusion on Ivan's face, somehow childish, helpless – it did not fit, did not fit with the blue uniform, did not fit with the bitter smoke, as if glued on top, it made him sick...

Fuck you.

“But…”

Alfred's fist slammed right into the bewildered face.

Crunch. The head tossed back – the cap fell to the floor. Russia was thrown away – his temple crashed into the window pane, it clinked plaintively and covered with a web of cracks.

Blood rushed to his face, predatory, joyfully. The strength that had stagnated for several days found a way out – Alfred made a lunge...

Ivan dodged and knocked him down with a swing of his foot.

A sharp pain cut through the shin, rushed through the coccyx to the back of the head – America crashed to the floor. A heavy weight pressed down on his hips – Braginsky sat on him, grabbed him by the collar with both hands – blood gushed from a broken nose, pouring on his chin – hot drops burned Alfred's lips. He clutched at the gloved hands, trying to shake them off – the iron grip did not weaken for a moment – and understanding pierced him: he had been put on combat-ready alert as well…

He's about to crack my skull.

Well, – Alfred’s broken grin craned his lips, the face opposite of him was distorted – If everything really ends worse than ever, he will drag Braginsky to hell with him...

Russia's arms and shoulders relaxed. He leaned back. He spat out a clot of blood and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

Ivan looked at him for a long time, intently, bored his eyes – Alfred could not break eye contact: Braginsky was not going to beat him? Resentment pricked him – as if somebody took his candy away. Russia parted his lips, wanted to say something...

The door creaked behind them. Ivan tossed his head and beamed – with the remnants of blood around his mouth:

“ Anatoly Fedorovich! How was it? ”

Alfred could not turn his head, but he could feel the expression on the face of the Soviet ambassador behind his back.

They exchanged some words in Russian. Dobrynin – angrily and irritated, Ivan – too cheerfully not to sound like a douchebag. Finally, he got off America. The end of the scarf brushed across his chest as Russia swung his leg over him.

“Another time, solntze”

Alfred shuddered all over. It was as if something turned in his stomach, unsettled him – he jerked his head, twisted on his shoulder blades, caught Ivan with his glimpse – how, how did he...

“HEY! Wait a minute...”

But Russia, having already picked up his fallen cap from the floor, was moving away in the darkness of the corridor together with Dobrynin, without turning around.

America stayed on the floor. It turned out to be so pleasant to lie down – after that roller-coaster of fear and aggression; the tension seemed to have left him. He still remained up in arms, but now he could just look at the light bulb flashing under the ceiling with a half-empty head – legible thoughts disappeared, the rest stuck together into a buzzing ball, which he had neither the strength nor the desire to unravel.

The dark figure blocked the light and moved its chin towards the window.

“Your handiwork?”

“Yeah. I'll fix it”, the voice sounded hoarse, as if it was not his own. “We exchanged…” Alfred licked someone else's blood from his lips. “…Courtesies”

“Better that than nuclear strikes” Robert sighed exhaustedly. “If we're lucky, it’ll be just an exchange of courtesies”

He gave America a hand. He got up, staggering a little, grimacing from the pain in his lower leg – it seemed like it was broken, after all – and went to the office. Hope stirred inside: another time John would give him a thrashing for such a diplomacy (a broken nose of the RSFSR), after which the general officers would grant him a bottle of Hennessy, but Bobby didn’t even paid attention now, which meant... Did they agree on something? Will everything be sorted out?

Hm. Solntze.

He had to look in up the dictionary. Unless he forgets everything to hell tomorrow.

Washington. November 20, 1962.

“They've removed all of them!”

Several hours of unceasing flights in the skies of Cuba – and Alfred rushed headlong into the working office of the president (Kennedy was already tired of chastising him, adding America's manner of flying into the office to his scheme of things – all his bosses made this habit sooner or later) and slapped a thick folder on his table.

John Kennedy looked up. Alfred – he didn't even bother to take off his flying helmet – grinned from ear to ear.

While the President was carefully examining the pictures – pictures of goddamn empty airfields of Cuba – America plopped down on the sofa against the wall, throwing his head back.

He liked this office. Although there were no windows, the beige tones of the walls and soft lighting made him feel cozy. And once there was an aquarium with fish – Alfred liked to look at them.

The President leaned back in his chair with a satisfied face.

“So they kept their promise. Are you relieved?”

“That's for fucking sure!” Alfred clapped his hands on the upholstery. “Oh. Sorry. Etiquette. I remember. That's for fucking sure, sir!”

He had already forgotten what it was like not to be on the verge of a nuclear war, balancing between reason and screaming panic that demanded to click on the red button and finish everything off. Until everything was finished off him.

He winced. An unwelcome memory stirred and rose to the surface.

“Your “ Jupiters ”. They're aiming at me here”

“And what about the missiles in Turkey? Will we... take them away?”

“Well” Kennedy entwined his fingers and spoke slowly. “Eventually, yes. We have agreed to this”

“So... Did they succeed?”

The President paused before answering.

“We agreed informally. “Jupiters” will be removed. But not now. Not when Cuba and the agreements with the Soviets are on everyone's lips”

Alfred began to understand.

“It's as if one has nothing to do with the other”

Kennedy nodded with a confident smile.

“Didn’t you think that I would make you look weak?”

“No thought of, sir”

“...weak...”

Not only fish caught Alfred's interest. Paintings hanged on the walls of the office. Mostly portraits: both Roosevelts looked at them from above – but there were two more, those that Jacqueline hanged here more than a year ago.

One depicted a sun-drenched Russian troika. The peasant on it was waving the Stars and Stripes. He was carrying grain, and the people, these emaciated silhouettes, half-hidden by a haze – their faces were not visible, but their hands were outstretched to the troika, they were rejoicing, waving their handkerchiefs...

On the second one the gloomy northern sky descended over the ship in the harbor under the same flags, carrying a priceless cargo.

He was there. On one of these ships, in 1892. He gave bread to the hungry. He even saw Russia – painful again, he shook his head – he remembered vaguely, but it seemed like he was not such a... son of a bitch then. And what has it come to now...

Almost came to.

The President not only worked in this hall – he arranged press conferences, hosted delegations, negotiated with ambassadors. And with the Soviet ambassadors too.

It felt like Jacqueline hanged the paintings just in time.

The last days of November were sunny.

Jump on the Harley, start the roaring engine and drive, drive, drive – along the land, rugged with the bays, from Washington to the north. The wind tousled his hair, the Atlantic wind, salty, thick, Alfred sucked it in, filling his lungs.

If birds cut through the sky, then people saddle Harleys.

He left the cities behind – Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York – to the north, to the north, to the zigzag of Cape Cod. He reached the beach at sunset, the eastern ocean was merging with the darkening sky in the distance, and lay on the sand until the first stars started to shine. Excited by the speed, by the wind, by the troubles of the last weeks, he felt

America felt

That everything was all right.

He was born here, on the East Coast. He opened his eyes, saw a blue-blue sky, jumped up and ran – towards people who had arrived from across the ocean.

Behind him – an endless sea.

Ahead of him – boundless lands.

Above his head – an endless space.

Alfred was obsessed with space. He wanted to scoop up a handful of stars with a bowl of palms and dip his face into them. As a child, he wanted to lick the Milky Way – what was it like? Sweet like sugar? Salty like sea water? Once, someone special to him said that people would stop fighting, and then, holding hands, they would be able to touch the stars together. The thought spread under the skin with a soft light, warming him, lulling him together with the rustle of grass and the sound of waves.

He didn't want to go home to New York yet.

Alfred hadn't been in a simple two-story beach house for many years. A white building near the lighthouse, with a sloping roof and square windows – his first people settled in such houses. He had one like that too.

America closed the door. A dim light bulb – it needed to be changed, everything has burned out after so many years – lit up a simple interior: a simple kitchen, a bed, half separated only by a bookcase. A couch stood opposite of the fireplace, and behind it was a staircase leading to a littered attic. Alfred regretted that he had been lying on the beach until darkness – his stomach grumbled unpleasantly, and all the shops were already closed. It was okay, he just needed to kindle a fireplace and collapse on the couch – he would last until the morning.

Although, judging by the sensations, he would lie on the couch for three days.

A few pieces of firewood were still lying by the fireplace, but kerosene was nowhere to be found, no matter how thoroughly Alfred looked for it. Dishes and clouds of dust (he sneezed because of it) were lying in the cabinets of the kitchen. He had to climb into the attic. There was no electricity, the light from the lighter was barely enough to see where he was going. America stepped carefully, finding his way between the mountains of old rubbish, crates and boxes...

Just to trip over one of them and crash down.

In flight, Alfred grabbed the rack – it collapsed with him, hitting his back painfully. The glasses remained intact, against all odds – America, cursing, crawled out from under the rubble, flicked a lighter – it also went out for a wonder, without burning anything – and began to pick up everything that had fallen: first the rack, then the boxes, some pieces of paper (why did he keep them in such quantity? Everything needed to be sorted out), utensils, letters yellowed with time, unfolded, with bizarre diagonal folds. His eyes flickered over the neat handwriting – it looked familiar...

Don't you mess up on the sea either.

Van ya.

Alfred froze.

The lighter has fallen. He seized it frantically, brought it to the letter – to the yellow piece of paper, tattered along the edges – so hastily that it almost flared up – no, no, no, he was just imagining things – and glared at it. The heart skipped a beat – on one of the quarters formed by the diagonals was his name: "To Alfred F. Jones", on the remaining surface of the sheet...

12/20/1941

Alfred, hi!

Merry Christmas! Although, you will receive a letter not any time soon – so Happy New Year. The previous one turned out to be tough, right? I heard you got shot in the back. Get well soon. But I can’t help but be glad you're with me now. And Arthur.

I didn't reply to your letter, I was pressed for time. My heart was squeezed with a pincer, but we fought off. Аnd the front was pushed back. Now it’s getting better, and – apparently – for good. True, my head hurts. The blood flow are not enough – almost everything is blocked there. My shoulders are burned. But I can handle this. I will fight to the outrance.

Don't y ou mess up on the sea either.

Vanya.

He knew it. He knew this handwriting.

America grabbed the box – the one into which he threw all the sheets – rummaged around with his hands on the floor – in case something fеll out, in case he missed something – jumped over to the stairs and rushed to the light, down – shook out the contents onto the floor. Three more sheets fell on the carpet, with diagonal folds...

12/05/1943

Alfred!

I'm holding on like I promised you. I can’t tell where I am - you never know, the letter will fall into the wrong hands. But I am in the thick of the fighting, as always. They've sent me to the most difficult front sector, especially after Ludwig himself showed up – as Tigran recently reported. And I'm glad. I am looking for him – I want to treat him for all the good things. Haven't come across him yet. Well, it's just a matter of time.

Recently we were taught how to drive “Studer”. Once again I remembered you, sunshine. The guys admire, the truck is excellent. And when they found out that the cabin could be heated, they were absolutely delighted. I'm still moving forward, slowly but surely. Left hand healed, can you imagine? Forgive me for not being at the conference – not now, not at this moment, I could not leave the front. And for writing rarely.

We freed Olya. Not completely – the battle is still going on - but she is already with me, by my side, for a month now. I haven't seen her in almost two years, Alfred. She was happy, smiling, the same as before, and then I caught a glimpse – her back was covered in burns and scars... A little more – and I will see Natasha. In the early days, I was afraid that she had died... Then contact was restored with her. I’m still scared for her.

We'll see you soon too. I heard the latest news. How do you get along with Lovino? How are you, Alfred? Answer soon. I want you to be okay so much.

Alfred threw the sheet aside, grabbed another one, frantically...

09/12/1944

I met Natasha!!!

I could not write to you about this before, but now I can. I thought she had died, back in 1941. She confessed – she thought that as well. That she had died. Then she went underground, blew up the rails and created diversions. Entire villages turned into partisan lands. She helped me a lot last summer when I was under Kursk. And now she’s free. She also had scars all over her. I swear on my life, I will cure her and Olya.

In the south everything is fine, we are moving forward. Stefan negotiated with us, and then he himself arrested Antonescu. It must be he looked up to Feliciano.

Glad you and your brothers are coming to meet me. Write how Francis and Arthur are doing. And you, of course. See you soon... very soon. Hug you tightly.

Vanya.

A lump rose in his throat, he almost felt sick from anxiety.

America took the last letter.

02/27/1945

I'm sorry I didn't write you – it was rather hot in Budapest. I knew that Erzhebet is steadfast, but the defense for five months... Ludwig disappeared again. Did I write that I almost caught him in the Baltics in the fall? I recognized him, rushed after him and came under shelling. I recovered soon, but his trace was gone. Olya gave me good dressing down for my negligence, of course. Well, I myself told you not to jump into the fire, but still stuck a bull's eye on my back.

I was not present at Yalta – they did not let me go until we took the city. I miss you so much . How many years have I not seen you, sunshine ? I'm afraid to count.

And yet... The war will be over soon. Soon, Alfred. I... I think about that – and I can’t believe it, I’m afraid to wake up, I’m afraid that this is a dream, that there won’t be any more bombs, that there won’t be any more deaths! I thought that I would get used to it, I thought that the day would come when I would stop noticing the deaths of my people, I would wake up and fall asleep with them. I didn't stop, though. But we will finish everything.

We will meet where it all began, we will build a new world. Together.

Remember how you helped me once? Long ago, even before the first major massacre? Do you remember what we talked about then? Maybe... maybe now it will be possible? And we could do what we wanted back then ?

Answer me soon. I miss you, I’m waiting for you.

Vanya.

His sight blurred; he had tears in his eyes.

He had letters from Soviet Russia.

He had letters written by Soviet Russia.

His heart was ready to break through the chest. He sat down. Fragments of thoughts knocked against his skull, buzzed, intertwined...

Alfred wiped away his tears impulsively and ran over the lines again. It was not fake. This is his handwriting – his, Braginsky’s – he saw it so many times, under documents, in the CIA materials, studied every squiggle – but how did he... why...

War. These were letters from the war. Braginsky wrote to him from the frontlines.

«Hug you tightly»

They were allies. Aid treaties were signed long before Pearl Harbor – but they never met during the war.

«Answer me soon»

He also did not appear at conferences. At none of them.

«I miss you, I’m waiting for you»

His chest squeezed. He remembered – he remembered the joy with which he held these sheets in his hands, already peeled then, on the Pacific Ocean, in Italy, in France – he remembered warm, aching feeling...

They did not see each other until the very day when Braginsky said he would destroy him.

A dark, terrible figure threatening death – and these lines, tender, affectionate, painfulpainfulpainful, how, why, they were written by the same person, but how...

Another thought took possession of him, got stuck and hung in the silence of the empty house. America froze.

Why didn't he remember any of this?

Footnotes:

1. Oh little Sputnik, flying high... – a poem by G. Mennan Williams, Governor of Michigan, dedicated to the launch of the Soviet Sputnik (its first part). The poem ridiculed President Eisenhower as a barely competent slacker, allowing the Soviets to open the space race and overtake the US.
2. Not everything was lost – in December everything should have been get back to normal – since 1955, the United States has been developing Vanguard – a project to launch the first artificial satellite of the Earth. Due to the successful launch of the Soviet satellite in October 1957, the US government decided to speed up the project, the launch was rescheduled to December 6, 1957. The rocket that was supposed to put the satellite into orbit exploded almost immediately.
   
   
3. Six months later, on July 29 – a belated birthday present – he received his wings – on July 29, 1958, President Eisenhower signed an executive order creating NASA.
   
   
4. The meeting of his president with the Soviet leader was to end soon – reference of the meeting between Khrushchev and Kennedy in June 1961. According to the Russian wiki, it took place in Schönbrunn palace in Vienna. In the late stages of editing the chapter – that is, when the episode was written, the emotional beats were thought out, the dialogue of the characters was connected with the environment – thanks to cross-checking in German wiki it turned out that only a banquet was given in Schönbrunn on the day the two delegations met, and the negotiations themselves took place in the Soviet and American embassies in Vienna :) It was a shame. After a brief but intense thinking, I decided to leave the episode as it is.)
   
   
5. ...and if the wind was knocked out of him in the Bay of Pigs – this is about the operation in the Bay of Pigs on April 14-19, 1961, with the help of which the US government planned to overthrow the regime of Fidel Castro in Cuba. The landing of the Cuban counter-revolutionaries ended in a complete disaster, causing a scandal on an international scale: at a UN meeting representatives of 40 countries condemned the US aggression against Cuba.
   
   
6. The flight on the other side of the sky… was made not by him – Yuri Gagarin's flight into space took place on April 12, 1961.
   
   
7. He was late, he missed it, just for a month… - the first American astronaut, Alan Shepard, flew on May 5, 1961.
   
   
8. Here, in the halls where Roderich played music, now the fate of Cuba and Germany was being decided – the purpose of the meeting was to resolve issues related to the Berlin crisis, the civil war in Laos, and the ban on nuclear weapons tests. Khrushchev decided to apply pressure on Kennedy in order to resolve the Berlin question, threatened to conclude a separate peace with the GDR, which meant declaring all of Berlin the territory the possession of the GDR.
   
   
9. I walked the Winter Palace far and wide – as a person who has visited the Hermitage museum several times over the past couple of years, I will say: if you know how to navigate in the Winter Palace, you know how to navigate EVERYWHERE.
   
   
10. He wanted before as well, but... after that incident with the pilot + You would have find out anyway. Let's say your plane would take air samples over Nagasaki and Tokyo – and cut off through Baikonur – and then you’ll find out. What's the point of hiding? – On May 1, 1960, an American reconnaissance aircraft, which photographed military facilities on the territory of the USSR, was shot down in the sky over Sverdlovsk. The official response of the American government was that pilot Francis Gary Powers took air samples in the area of the Soviet-Turkish border, but then lost consciousness and flew into the airspace of Sverdlovsk. From Turkey. In the meantime, Powers, alive, had already been interrogated and gave out information that there were 20 such flights over the USSR even before him. This scandal led to disruption of the Paris Conference, where the heads of the USA, USSR, Britain and France had been going to discuss the Berlin issue.
    
    
11. Looks like Khrushchev read a lecture on Marxism-Leninism to you – Nikita Khrushchev is one of my favorite historical characters. At least for not missing the chance to have a discussion with Kennedy about the advantages of socialism over capitalism. And the inevitability of the collapse of the latter, of course. Kennedy, who nevertheless did not succumb to the pressure, later responded “He just beat the hell out of me”.
    
    
12. This world peace – as the Soviets see it – must be established at the expense of our weakness – much of this situation was due to Khrushchev's misperception of Kennedy as a weak and inexperienced leader. Not only he was under that illusion: the USSR ambassador to the United States, Menshikov, said that John and Robert Kennedy were “boys in short pants” who only brave it out, and then falter and retreat.
    
    
13. The disgusting gray wall around West Berlin, entwined with barbed wire –The Berlin Wall was erected on August 13, 1961.
    
    
14. Day, painfully long day in October at Checkpoint Charlie – On October 27, 1961, American tanks with bulldozer blades drove up to Checkpoint Charlie to demolish part of the Berlin Wall. Less than an hour later, Soviet tanks appeared on the other side of the checkpoint. Each side was ready to open fire in case the enemy opened fire. This could lead to the beginning of World War III with the use of nuclear weapons. It was possible to reach an agreement through diplomatic channels – the next day the tanks drove away.
    
    
15. Alfred was with Bobby Kennedy when the Soviet ambassador entered the office – informal negotiations between Minister of Justice Robert Kennedy and Soviet Ambassador Anatoly Dobrynin took place on the night of November 27-28, 1962 at the end of "Black Saturday" - the most intense day of the Cuban missile crisis.
    
    
16. And now you flip back with the tail between your legs! Change the conditions on the fly! – On October 26, Khrushchev sent a letter to Kennedy offering to remove Soviet missiles in exchange for a promise from the US government not to violate the sovereignty of Cuba. But the next day, Soviet radio began to broadcast a message from Khrushchev saying that Soviet missiles could be removed in exchange for the removal of American "Jupiter" missiles from Turkey and Italy (installed in early 1961) that were able to reach the European part of the USSR.
    
    
17. He liked this office. Although there were no windows, the beige tones of the walls and soft lighting made him feel cozy. And once there was an aquarium with fish + Paintings hanged on the walls of the office… but there were two more, those that Jacqueline had hung here more than a year ago – it’s about the so-called Fish Room or Roosevelt Room in the White House – a conference room next to the Oval Office. From 1961 to 1964 it was adorned with Aivazovsky's “The Relief Ship” and “Food distribution”, taken by Jacqueline Kennedy from the Corcoran Gallery. The paintings depict the assistance of US citizens to the starving people of the Volga region in 1891-1892.
    
    
18. He was born here, on the East Coast. He opened his eyes, saw a blue-blue sky, jumped up and ran – towards people who had arrived from across the ocean – In the inner part of Cape Cod Bay lies the Plymouth Stone - a rock, to which, according to legend, the pilgrim fathers landed from the Mayflower ship in 1620.
    
    
19. Letter dated 12/20/1941: at the time of December 1941, the counteroffensive of the Red Army in the Battle of Moscow had already begun, the fourth month of the blockade of Leningrad was underway. In December 1941, the United States entered World War II after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.
    
    
20. Letter dated 12/05/1943: “Studer” - short for Studebaker US6 – is an American truck that was the most widespread vehicle supplied to the Soviet Union under Lend-Lease (and it was also the main means for transportation of “Katyushas”). The first trucks began to be delivered in 1941, they were tested until May 1943 – operating brochures were translated into Russian, drivers were trained.
    

    Forgive me for not being at the conference – the Tehran Conference was held from November 28 to December 1, 1943.
    
    We freed Olya. Not completely – the battle is still going on – during the Battle of the Dnieper, which went from August 26 to December 23, 1943, the territory of the left-bank Ukraine was liberated, and on November 6 – Kyiv.

    How do you get along with Lovino? – In July 1943, Anglo-American (and other allied) troops began the liberation of Italy. Already in early October 1943, Naples came under the control of the Allies.

21. Letter dated 09/12/1944: She helped me a lot last summer when I was near Kursk – partisan operation “Rail War” paralyzed the railway traffic in the rear of the German troops in Belarus for 15-30 days.
    

    Glad you and your brothers are coming to meet me – since June 1944, the Second Front had been opened.

Chapter Text

Moscow. October 31, 1961.

Russia flew home from Berlin as soon as he could. The cold air of Moscow, touched by the first frosts, hit him in the face while he was descending from the plane, cooled him, heated after the events of all the last days, weeks and months.

He rushed to Gilbert a week ago: he was disheveled and bristling like a cornered wolf, as soon as his people revealed the suspicious activity of Americans on the other side of the newly erected wall. Several days passed in anticipation. Ivan regretted that he was missing the end of the Congress – Nikita Sergeevich always knew how to bring elements of entertainment in such a formalized procedure as a speech to members of the Communist Party. Like the last year, for example. Ivan did not remember the last time he had had so much fun at a UN meeting.

When American armored vehicles with bulldozer blades drove to Friedrichstrasse, it suddenly became no laughing matter.

His and Gilbert's tank was camouflaged – the Soviet markings were smeared with mud. Jones' people weren't supposed to know that Ivan was here. They couldn't help but have a hunch, of course. But there was no need to give them extra cues.

Ivan looked into the optics, looking for a familiar face among the soldiers. Alfred was not a tanker. He was a pilot. But he might show up here. And then...

Ivan did not know what then.

“You know, when Ulbricht started advocating for the wall, I thought the problems would end here, not start” Gilbert said.

“You can expect anything from Jones”

It seemed to Russia that the GDR wanted to say something else. But he kept silent.

He knew Jones. He knew that he would not rest until he got what he wanted. Rivers of blood across the globe were the fuel for his industry. The millstones of his war machine devoured people, grinding bones into gold. The brilliance of this gold blinded, eclipsing the poor and the destitute, hunched under the weight of the yoke. The rustle of bundles of dollars made him deaf to their moans.

Russia hated him. Outwardly detached, inside he burned like coals, evenly and unchangingly – from the hypocrisy with which Alfred prophesied about freedom and equality, while behind his back Congress was choking the workers with laws, laws that were beneficial to the New York moneybags. And those daredevils who managed to challenge them ended up behind bars, beaten and broken.

Greedy, cruel child.

He was happy for him.

His body was in the cockpit of the tank, but his thoughts were in the palace park, open, spacious. America's hair gleamed like gold dust in the setting sun. He stared with blue eyes, breathing so heavily. And he asked what space was like.

Impossibly blue eyes – thought Ivan then. Like cornflowers. No. Like sea.

Space was also like the sea.

Something big grew in his chest with every inhale and exhale. Warm, on the verge of burning. Alfred was happy for him.

And then, through a gap in the border, he flooded East Berlin with his agents.

Arson, sabotage, "human trafficking" were only a small part of what was listed in the report from East Germany. Jones' people recruited citizens of the GDR, spread propaganda, sowed the seeds of lies. The result was not long in coming – the flow of people inexorably seeped through the gap in the barrier.

Gilbert lost two hundred thousand men.

After the wall was erected, the crisis was bound to end. No one else could get in from outside. No one could destroy them from the inside. But that wasn't enough for Jones.

“Would you like to kill him?”

Gilbert's question hung in the tight space of the tank. Somewhere outside of Friedrichstrasse negotiations were going on. The vehicles on either side of Checkpoint Charlie were not moving, remaining up in arms. For several hours in a row – and God knows how many more. Muscles cramped from the tension.

“Gilbert, if I shoot, we'll exchange nuclear strikes, and then…”

“I'm not talking about that” the GDR drummed his fingers on the wall of the tank. “I'm not asking if you could. Would you like? That would kinda solve all your problems”

Russia thought. When it came to Jones, it was difficult to think clearly – feelings carried him like a deep flow.

"No" he finally said. “I wouldn't want to”

“Does he want to kill you? What do you think?”

“Why are you asking such questions?”

“The atmosphere, you know. It’s conducive”

Two images changed before his mind's eye: Alfred at the UN, surrounded by faithful lackeys – not a smile, but the grin of a predator, too well-fed – yet – to reveal his true face, a defiant look behind the glare of glasses. And the second one – Alfred, excited, bewitched. Quickly running his tongue over thin lips. Ivan felt hot in the cramped tank shell.

“He doesn’t. As far as I know. And in general, he doesn’t want the death of any of us. He wants power” Russia pointed his chin at the optics. “That’s what happens if you let things take its course.”

Gilbert's laughter was staccato and barking.

“So, we will all die in a war where no one wanted to kill anyone”

Gilbert was a little too previous with philosophical conclusions. Everything was decided the next day. Their tanks drove off first. Jones' machines disappeared next.

Russia flew to Moscow as soon as he was convinced that people on the other side of the wall would not back down. Now the Antifascist Protective Wall was secured.

It was already half past two when he went home. He quietly turned on the light in the hallway, began to take off his shoes. All the Soviet republics were already sleeping in their rooms.

“Vanya? Is it you?”

Belarus emerged from the shadows of the corridor in a nightgown. She yawned, rubbing her sleepy eyes with her fist.

“It’s me. Natasha, why are you not sleeping?”

Instead of answering, Natasha came up and hugged him impetuously – Ivan answered in the same way.

“I was worried” a soft whisper into his shirt. So thin and small, like a doll, she barely reached the top of his chest.

“Natasha, come on” Russia stroked his younger sister on the back, gently, reassuring. “What could have happened to me?”

Belarus raised alarmed sky-blue eyes. She had to tilt her head back to do it. A hug too strong for a fragile girl.

“Was everything resolved there? At Gilbert's place?”

“It was” he nodded. “Alfred won’t stick his nose in any time soon”

“Looks like he gave a tear immediately when he saw you” Natasha rarely smiled, but she knew how to do it so that his heart melted.

“Of course” Ivan's laughter was soft. “That's how it was. How are you here without me? Am I missing something important?”

The face of Belarus instantly turned gray. A wrinkle lay between her eyebrows. She leaned against her brother again, her cheek against his shirt.

“Joseph Vissarionovich will be carried out of the Mausoleum” her voice sounded muffled and a little dull. “They already took him out ... probably”

“Oh, I see”

Ivan exhaled, brokenly and lingeringly. He cuddled Natasha tighter to him, instinctively, without hesitation. They stood in silence for a couple of minutes, both immersed in memories, heavy and oppressive. Gone in the past, but still fresh.

These memories smelled of grave cold.

“Vanya” Natasha broke the silence. “Are you hungry? Maybe you want some tea?”

“Yeah, tea sounds nice”

They went to the kitchen, to the countertop. Natasha turned on the light, boiled the water, cut off a lemon. Ivan was still gloomy – she decided to distract him.

“Azim returned from his land a couple of days ago”

“Mmm. How are works on virgin lands going?”

“Weeell…” Belarus poured tea brew and boiling water into a red mug with white spots. Russia took it. It warmed his hands pleasantly. “He told how he taught medical students to collect grain in the summer. Then they started some kind of building works, like for a granary, and he redid everything three times after them…”

“What did they build there so terrible?” Russia brought the mug to his lips with a smile.

Natasha shrugged. “Don't know. Communism, perhaps”

Tea splashed into his nose – Ivan suppressed a cough mixed with an approaching laugh.

"Natasha" he cleared his throat. His nostrils tingled with lemon now. “You’d better be careful with such jokes”

Natasha grimaced in displeasure, waved her hand vaguely.

“Natasha” he repeated with pressure.

Something steely in Russia's voice made her look up. Their eyes crossed. Belarus shuddered. A small movement, blink and miss, but too strong for Russia not to notice. He turned away, awkwardly and quickly. Something tightened in his chest.

“I’m sorry, I…”

“I know” Natasha hastily tucked a strand of ashen hair behind her ear. She did not look at him, tightly clasping another similar cup in her hands. “I forgot to say. Some documents were brought to you today. They put them in your room”

“Documents?” Russia frowned. Only he and a couple of other people had the key to his room. Chairmen of agencies, to be precise.

“Yes. Probably, they were from Nikita Sergeevich”

“Clear. I'll take a look. Thanks, Natasha. I'm going to sleep” Ivan pulled her, quickly kissing the top of her head, feeling how she relaxed again. It felt better in his chest. “You should go as well”

“Uh-huh” Natasha brightened up, as if she remembered something. “Vanya, are you hungry?”

“A little bit”

“Olya, Naira and I baked a corn pie. Do you want some?”

“Uuuuh… “ Russia scratched the back of his head. Even the hopeful face of his younger sister could not make him eat anything made of corn for a couple of years already.

“There you are” Natasha interpreted everything correctly and frowned. “And you don’t want it too…”

“Give it to Dragoș!” Palming off a pie to Moldova suddenly seemed like a great idea. “He loves it!”

“We can't constantly feed all the corn only to Dragoș! Vanya... Vanya!”

“All the best we have is for children!” Ivan was already in a hurry to leave the kitchen. “Good night, Natasha!”

Leaving behind a disgruntled Belarus, Russia moved to the very end of the corridor. The key flashed in his hands – two turns – and he was in his room. Moonlight fell from the window onto the oak table, smearing blue on the smooth, shiny surface and the new, unfamiliar object on it.

Ivan lit the lamp on the table. He put down a mug of tepid tea and opened the folder, which changed its color under the yellow light.

A pile of sheets sewn together lay in front of him, the first small one fell out with a rustle: Russia recognized Khrushchev's already familiar sweeping handwriting. He ran his eyes over it: words about exposing Stalin's crimes and restoring justice, including in relation to him, Ivan, caught his eye.

His photograph was pressed to the documents with a rusty paper clip.

The yellowed pages of the dossier rustled under his fingers. He read – the farther, the stronger the feeling spread in him, which only barely pricked him in the hallway with Natasha. Dark feeling that was freezing his bones.

Sometimes his rulers, having lost faith in his inexplicable loyalty to them – and this happened often in the last two centuries – tried to curb him. Shackle him, wrap him in chains of religion and duty, reshape him into an obedient instrument of the will of the monarchs. He threw off these chains, broke them when he had nothing to lose but them – the ringing scattered all over the world; Europe, covered in blood and gunpowder, shuddered from a transformation never seen before.

Surveillance, denunciations, suspicions, fear; he did not remember who did not have fear of him in their eyes. It flashed, sooner or later, like a soul-sucking black fire – whether it was 1825, 1881 or 1905 – it was not the first time. But this...

Secret Chancery and the Third Section of His Imperial Majesty's Own Chancellery were losing out to the NKVD on a grand scale.

His past. His names. Dates and places of business trips. Military posts. Passport numbers. Dates and places of deaths – some of them with notes on how long it took to come to life again: 5-10 minutes, no more. Temperament and personality traits, in detail. Weapon possession. Scar on the neck (his stomach twisted). Contacts and relatives: Olya, Natasha...

The further list was hidden under a black stripe.

The entire last sheet was hidden under them. Russia picked it up, looked through it at the lamp – the lines were not visible. Whatever these lines hid, it was safely covered up under the printing ink. The document was crowned with the last unpainted inscription:

EXTREMELY DANGEROUS

Ivan put the sheets aside. He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. Not that he discovered something new – he suspected it, he really did.

Behind his blind and bone-crushing loyalty, he still managed to see – not the chains – the nets that entangled him.

Russia shook his head and returned to reality. The lamp flooded the room with yellow, this yellow flowed into the nooks and crannies, fell on his hands, warmed him, soothed him. He took a sip of his already cold tea. Reading between the lines – even covered with paint – was a skill he's learned a long time ago.

Why now? Five years ago Nikita Sergeevich was not so generous with him, but the effect turned out to be much larger. Was he afraid of the reaction to the reburial? Information must have been collected not only about him; such dossiers on Toris, Raivis and Edward would have been just as voluminous, if not thicker. But the folder was brought only to him. And these black stripes... Ivan strongly doubted that they were left over from Stalin's times.

His gaze fell back to the sheets. His photo seemed familiar to him – the same one was in his old party membership card. He pulled it out from under the paperclip.

A second photo fell onto the table, hidden behind the first, invisible because of its smaller size.

Russia missed a beat: he was literally frozen into a chair.

America smiled at him from the photo.

It took him a few seconds before he managed to catch his breath and pick up the photo with trembling fingers.

It was Alfred, no doubt. He nestled to the trunk of a birch, framed by foliage, in a simple checkered shirt. There was something wrong, unusual about him... Not even that his wrists were too thin, and his face was haggard, so that his cheekbones were pointed: a black-and-white photo set off too unhealthy shadows under his eyes on his always so fresh face.

His smile.

It wasn't the presumptuous mask at conferences, not even the playful grin in Vienna, and not the laughter that was ready to burst through astonishment when Ivan blabbed about spacewalk.

Alfred smiled warmly. Just as wide – he probably didn’t know how to do it differently – but there were wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and his gaze exuded such tenderness...

His heart tumbled as if something sharp and hot had been run over it.

Russia flipped the photo. On the back, twitchy and torn, in various places, as if in a fever, it was written:

Sunshine

At my place

192

193* - ???

Ivan froze for the second time. He slowly pulled out a desk drawer, took out a pen and a notebook, opened it at the first page spread that came across. Without looking, he repeated what was written on the back of the photograph.

The handwriting matched. The letters were the same, every zigzag, every squiggle. Even on the crossed out last digit after the three – it was crossed out so many times that it was not visible – the same hodgepodge of lines.

Russia spun around, flung open the cabinet door behind the table, pulled out a flask of vodka and took a sip. Tea was no longer enough.

This... this...

How.

Thoughts collided with one another like crazy. Ivan paced the room up and down like a hunted animal. It was impossible. He didn't do that. He didn't remember, he saw this photo for the first time, so why...

Sunshine.

He was blinded by the midday sunshine; his shoulders were covered with heat. He took refuge under the canopy of a birch. A weighty, black camera in his hands, a flash...

Fragments of moments crumbled like lost pieces of a shattered puzzle – he swayed. Ivan grabbed hold of the corner of the bed. He slowly sank to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest.

He felt like he was drowning.

This was not a fake. The photo was real. As well as his handwriting.

It took him time to calm down.

He would go to work tomorrow. Extend a big thank you to Nikita Sergeevich. And not a single muscle on his face would betray what he secretly discovered. Unless he’d be asked directly. Then he’d have to reveal everything. But if not... If the photo ended up in the dossier by accident...

The main thing was not to take rash steps. He must wait until he could see Jones face to face without arousing the suspicion of his own men. And then...

And then what? Shove a photo under his nose? Ask with a straight face why the hell was “sunshine” written on it with his own hand? Ivan laughed. It was the best thing he could come up with right now.

Washington. Night of 27-28 October 1962.

Talking to Jones on the threshold of the nuclear apocalypse wasn't the best idea.

It was an even less good idea to do so when their armies were up in arms.

And when he didn't sleep for three days.

And when this arrogant moron began to provoke him.

And when he snapped back and started blowing cigarette smoke in his face... And who was the bigger moron here?

Ivan left the Ministry of Justice, realizing that the conversation was postponed for an indefinite period of time. He really hoped that this period of time would not end tomorrow for the whole planet: Dobrynin hissed at him for arbitrariness, but the dressing-down did not last long. Anatoly Fyodorovich was... calmer than before. This was reassuring.

Russia did found out something, though.

Confusion at the mention of the thirties, overlaid with rage. Dumbfounded blue eyes as he whispered that word to him.

Alfred's emotions were not feigned.

Footnotes:

1. Ivan regretted that he was missing the end of the Congress – the incident at Checkpoint Charlie (October 27 – 28, 1961) occurred during the end of the XXII Congress of the CPSU (October 17 - 31, 1961).
   
   
2. Like the last year, for example. Ivan did not remember the last time he had had so much fun at a UN meeting – in October 1960, Khrushchev tried to disrupt a meeting of the UN General Assembly by tapping his boot on the table in disagreement with the speaker. Have I already said that Nikita Sergeevich is my favorite historical character?
   
   
3. Arson, sabotage, "human trafficking" were only a small part of what was listed in the report from East Germany – because of the ultimatums delivered by Khrushchev to the West, and the growing tension, the population of the GDR left for the FRG through a gap in Berlin, in fear (quite justified) that the border was about to close. Between 1961 and August 13, about 200,000 people left the GDR. Walter Ulbricht, the first secretary of the SED Central Committee and the de facto head of the East German state, repeatedly demanded a consent to "close the Berlin hole" from Moscow. From August 3 to 5, 1961, a meeting of the heads of state of the Warsaw Pact was held in Moscow, where Ulbricht painted a dramatic picture: through the open border, Americans and West Germans recruited citizens of the GDR, arranged sabotage and “human trafficking”, except that East German babies were not caught in order to be eaten for breakfast. Khrushchev finally succumbed to the pressure, giving the go-ahead for the construction of the wall, especially since his own "ultimatum" diplomacy had not worked out.
   
   
4. Gilbert, if I shoot, we'll exchange nuclear strikes, and then…– Did I mention in the last chapter that both sides were given the command to open fire if the enemy opened fire? One tank discharge – and the Third World War would have begun.
   
   
5. Now the Antifascist Protective Wall was secured – “Antifascist Protective Wall” is how the propaganda of the GDR called the Berlin Wall.
   
   
6. Joseph Vissarionovich will be carried out of the Mausoleum – At the congress, Khrushchev and his supporters significantly expanded the extent of revelations compared to 1956-1957. Words about "monstrous crimes" and the need to restore "historical justice", as well as stories about arrests, torture and murders that took place under Stalin’s rule were heard in the radio reports and on the pages of newspapers throughout the country for the first time. Stalin's body was proposed to be taken out of the Mausoleum, which was accepted unanimously. On the night of October 31 to November 1, 1961, it was buried in a grave near the Kremlin wall. A whole operation was carried out for this, including the cordoning off the Red Square, the selection of soldiers for removing the body from the Mausoleum, and masking the burial place with plywood sheets.
   
   
7. He told how he taught medical students to collect grain in the summer – since 1954, The Virgin Lands campaign was waged at an accelerated pace in different parts of USSR, including Kazakhstan, where citizens, in particular students from various universities, were taken to field work. Infrastructure, like everything else – roads, granaries, housing, repair base for equipment – left much to be desired. Sometimes there were not enough containers for grain storage, and grain was placed under sheds, in open areas, in unsuitable premises.
   
   
8. Don't know. Communism, perhaps – And the 22nd Congress is also known as the “Congress of the Builders of Communism”: a new Charter of the CPSU was adopted, containing the Moral Code of the Builder of Communism, as well as the Third Program of the CPSU, the purpose of which was to create the “material and technical base for the building of communism”. Khrushchev solemnly proclaimed that "The present generation of Soviet people will live under communism!" (and he also promised that by the end of 1965 nobody would pay taxes...). The Soviet jokesters reacted immediately, giving rise to a lot of jokes, like: “One old Bolshevik to another: - No, dear, we will not live to see communism, but the children... I feel sorry for the children!” or "Three-meter letters are stamped on the granite bank of the canal: "Long live the Soviet people – the eternal builders of communism!".
   
   
9. Even the hopeful face of his younger sister could not make him eat anything made of corn for a couple of years already – after a trip to the US in 1959, Khrushchev was fascinated by the idea of planting a good part of the Soviet fields with corn in order to overcome the shortage of grain and fodder crops for animal husbandry. “Corn, comrades, is a tank in the hands of fighters, I mean collective farmers; this is a tank that makes it possible to overcome barriers, overcome obstacles on the way to creating an abundance of products for our people” said Khrushchev. Virgin soil was also plowed up for corn.
   
   
10. Azim and Naira are my made up names for Kazakh and Azerbaijan SSR respectively. The name “Tigran” from the previous chapter was chosen for Armenian SSR.
    
    
11. All the best we have is for children! – famous quote attributed to Vladimir Lenin (however, there is no clear evidence for this).
    
    
12. It flashed, sooner or later, like a soul-sucking black fire – whether it was 1825, 1881 or 1905 – on December 14, 1825, the Decembrist uprising took place; On March 1, 1881, terrorist members of "Narodnaya Volya" killed Emperor Alexander II; On January 9, 1905, the First Russian Revolution started. Dates are given according to the Julian calendar.
    
    
13. Secret Chancery and the Third Section of His Imperial Majesty's Own Chancellery were losing out to the NKVD on a grand scale – Secret Chancery: a body of domestic intelligence, originates from the reign of Peter I, Empress Anna Ioannovna (1730-1740) is the most associated with it. The Third Section of His Imperial Majesty's Own Chancellery was a secret police, established by Nicholas I in 1826 after the Decembrist uprising, it was disbanded only in 1880.

Chapter Text

USA. 1962-1963.

He couldn't sleep until dawn. And when the furious beating of the heart subsided, allowing him to fall into oblivion, he woke up already at sunset, on the floor, in front of the still unlit fireplace. Legs cramped from the cold.

Alfred fell asleep next to the letters. He looked through them one more time – the hundred millionths time – and sighed heavily. Massaged his eyelids. No, he still wasn’t imagining things.

The attic of the house on Cape Cod was turned upside down, but America never found anything new – no other letters, nothing else as crushing that would bring the world down on his head.

He did not imagined things on the next day, and on the day after. The letters remained real, to the point of nervous laughter, of feverish trembling. Sunk into oblivion earlier, now they have ingrained themselves in his mind, to the last line – he returned to them almost every evening, after work, first getting used to their existence – to the fact that this was not a dream, not a dream – then reading deeper, trying to understand, to read between the lines...

His gaze now and then clung to the hodgepodge of lines in one of the letters between "Answer me soon" and "I miss you, I’m waiting for you". There were crossings in them – probably there was not enough paper, that's why the letter was not rewritten completely – but the short phrase was crossed out so tightly that it was not visible even through the light, and the paper stood out in a dark square on the reverse side of the sheet.

America covered his face with his hands, running his fingers under his glasses. The table lamp was too bright.

He might have thought it was a fake. That someone from the CIA - someone with an idiotic sense of humor and a ton of free time – imitated Braginsky's handwriting, slipped it into his house for ... for... hell knows what for! Everything could be explained, everything, if not for those bright feelings that made their way from the memories of the war, as soon as he took these yellow pieces of paper in his hands, about the existence of which he did not suspect a couple of weeks ago – and at the same time always knew about them.

As a matter of curiosity, was madness airborne? Because if so, Braginsky infected him. For twenty years now.

"I miss you, I’m waiting for you"

Only a madman could write such a thing, and then... then...

Alfred did not know what was worse - that something was growing and warming in his chest through all the pain, anger and rage from these words, or that he had absolutely no idea how to throw these letters to Braginsky in his communist mug without giving away that he knew absolutely nothing about them.

He did not know what to do next – and Kennedy did not make it easier for him.

This summer, under June skies, his president delivered a speech to his students dressed in a black sea of robes and academic caps. A speech that Congress would have never approved. Those words that even Alfred did not expect to hear.

“…I am talking about genuine peace, the kind of peace that makes life on earth worth living, the kind that enables men and nations to grow and to hope and to build a better life for their children”

He was glad, standing in the sun-drenched clearing in the courtyard of the university, that he had not have a look at the text beforehand. He would not be able to read it – and then also to hear it.

“Some say that it is useless to speak of world peace or world law or world disarmament – and that it will be useless until the leaders of the Soviet Union adopt a more enlightened attitude. I hope they do. I believe we can help them do it. But I also believe that we must reexamine our own attitude – as individuals and as a Nation – for our attitude is as essential as theirs. And every graduate of this school, every thoughtful citizen who despairs of war and wishes to bring peace, should begin by looking inward – by examining his own attitude toward the possibilities of peace, toward the Soviet Union, toward the course of the cold war and toward freedom and peace here at home”

The word "peace" scattered his speech like the stars scattered the dome of the sky.

He had heard something similar before. From other mouths. He also talked about peace. He spoke about the horrors of war – and he himself sowed its seeds. He had the audacity to accuse him, America, of enslaving Europe. Europe, which shied away from him like from fire. The Old World turned to the New in search of protection – he could not leave these prayers unanswered.

B egin by looking inward …

“World peace, like community peace, does not require that each man love his neighbor - it requires only that they live together in mutual tolerance, submitting their disputes to a just and peaceful settlement. And history teaches us that enmities between nations, as between individuals, do not last forever”

He was going to meet with Braginsky in August. If everything goes well, nuclear testing would become a thing of the past, and the world would become at least a little bit safer. It had already become. They've got the missiles out, they'd both have a direct communications link soon, and they'd be able to talk if... If...

Alfred couldn't help but notice that on that accursed November night, Ivan was as anxious as he was. Deceptively relaxed, but ready to fight back at any second.

Afraid, that "tomorrow" might not come for them.

The outcome of the crisis gave them something that even a year ago was impossible to even think about. They began, slowly but surely, began to negotiate. Right now it was only about disarmament, but if it goes on like this... Maybe... they will be able to talk... like then, in Vienna, and someday – maybe not now, maybe later – about letters...

America tried not to look inward too deeply. Tried to ignore the flame under the ribs.

“…For, in the final analysis, our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this small planet. We all breathe the same air. We all cherish our children's future. And we are all mortal”

A quiet splash of applause concealed an equally quiet sigh.

West Berlin. June, 1963

Joy. Joy gushing from under his ribs, so violent that it blinded his eyes, made him squint, shone from the pavements, from the town hall, from the faces of people; they shone, beamed, waved their handkerchiefs in delight after every phrase of his president. His president, who declared himself a Berliner.

The wind raged, swayed the banners on the podium, ruffled Kennedy's hair in a whirlwind; he thundered with his speech, shook the whole square, the whole fenced – under siege – fighting – city, to the very curtained Brandenburg Gate. People answered him – they roared, euphoria rushed, spread like a stormy stream through the city, splashed in waves beyond its borders – not a single wall could contain it.

Freedom.

These people might be locked, but their spirit was never broken.

Ludwig, collected, private and precise Ludwig now shone like a boy, the delight of his people swept over him, drove him up like the wind from the earth, up, up, indomitable. This delight filled Alfred too, dispersed through the blood - and the ashes of the doubts of the last months vanished, flew up and disappeared, dispelled by the wind...

America remembered what he fought for.

Millions of people – here and around the world – were desperate for his help. Those who were safe. Those who languished under lock and key – and they would live to see it.

He won't leave them, no way. He would not deprive them of hope, but would give it so that they could soar on her wings, and nothing would hold them back. Nothing. And nobody.

Alfred flashed a smile at Ludwig in response – even brighter, even wider, absorbing all the light, all the happiness of the world, thundering over West Berlin. Everything – all the effort – all the turmoil – every inch of the earth, every nation torn from the clutches of communism – that was what he lived for. For this, he would stand guard over the Free world, invincible.

He finally remembered. Even if it wasn't something he'd struggled to remember in recent months.

“…So let me ask you as I close, to lift your eyes beyond the dangers of today, to the hopes of tomorrow, beyond the freedom merely of this city of Berlin, or your country of Germany, to the advance of freedom everywhere, beyond the wall to the day of peace with justice, beyond yourselves and ourselves to all mankind!”

Well, he looked to the future with firmness. He would discard the past – with all its fears, with its suffocating yellow sheets, with its aching words that hurt too much – and step into the future, towards everyone who yearned for his protection.

He would sign the Moscow Treaty In August, put a sweeping signature next to Arthur's flourish, make the world a better place, and make life on Earth worth living. He would turn around and leave without stopping, doing what he must. He would suppress the feeling in his chest, sucking and desperate.

He would not notice the disappointment in the violet eyes directed at his back.

Footnotes:

1. This summer, under June skies, his president delivered a speech to his students dressed in a black sea of robes and academic caps – this refers to Kennedy's commencement address at American University on June 10, 1963. In this speech – against the backdrop of the Cuban Missile Crisis just six months earlier - he called for nuclear disarmament, spoke unusually (at the time) warm words about the Soviet Union, emphasizing that the USSR and the US had never been at war, which was unusual for great powers. The speech found a very warm response among the Soviet leadership: Khrushchev ordered it to be printed in “Pravda” newspaper without any changes, even noting that it was "the greatest speech of any American president since Roosevelt."
   
   
2. He is going to meet with Braginsky in August – August 5, 1963 in Moscow, the governments of the USA, the USSR and Great Britain signed an agreement banning nuclear weapons tests in the atmosphere, outer space and under water.
   
   
3. They'd both have a direct communications link soon – on June 20, 1963, the US and the USSR signed a memorandum of understanding, after which they established a Moscow–Washington hotline: a direct line of communication between American and Soviet leaders (which was initially not direct and passed through another countries), known as the "red telephone". This was done in case of new emergencies.
   
   
4. His president, who declared himself a Berliner – Kennedy's speech in West Berlin on June 26, 1963, during which he said "Ich bin ein Berliner" ("I am a Berliner"), boosting the morale of West Berliners, who lived in fear of encirclement by the GDR and/or a repetition of the blockade of 1948-1949. With this speech, the United States declared its firm position and support for West Germany (including Berlin). The Soviet leadership, in contrast to the previous speech delivered only two weeks earlier, was discouraged; according to Khrushchev, "one might think that these speeches were made by two different presidents." To say that West Berliners accepted the speech with enthusiasm is an understatement.
   You could find the fragment of Kennedy speech at American University here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=41xJiEPuAhg
   The “Berlin” speech – here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yBQvKXIDiuc
   The contrast in the reaction of the public is striking.

Chapter Text

Washington. February, 1965

What his newly elected president was saying sounded... correct.

“And if everything works out – and there is no doubt about it! – McNamara says everything will be over by the end of next year”

“That's... very fast, sir”

“But?”

Lyndon Johnson could not be fooled by writing off the crease between America's eyebrows as a squint from the bright sun in the Oval Office window. Alfred was hunched in the chair in front of him, frowning, fiddling with a pencil.

“I agree with you” He raised his eyes. “If we retreat in Indochina now, then we will definitely have to intervene somewhere else, because they will not stop” His jaw tightened at these words, and the pencil cracked perilously. “I've been through this hundred times myself! But... I thought I'd rather hear those words from Goldwater”

“Lucky for you, I speak them in this office” the president chuckled, turning in his chair. The smoking cigar made a semi-circle in the air.

Alfred chuckled. The victory in the elections thundered throughout the country – its echo would be heard for a long time to come. And still...

“What about the Great Society? What will become of him?“America straightened himself. “If we increase the military contingent, will we have enough money for...”

“Everything will come true. Make no mistake!" Seeing that the shadow of doubt in America's eyes did not dissipate, Johnson stood up, walked around the table and approached him. He put his hand on his shoulder. “You will return in a year and a half – in two years at most, no more, in a flash – and you will not recognize your home. There will be no misfortunes. There will be no destitute. We promised you this, remember?’

Alfred did not notice how he smiled at the image that popped up in his mind. His people would be happy. They have gone through so much for this.

“But our whole dream – remember that beautiful dream, Alfred? – It might go up in smoke if we do not protect ourselves... And others. Even more unfortunate and deprived. Have you ever seen her?”

Johnson turned to the table, pulled out a photograph from the folder and handed it to him. Asian girl, black smooth hair drawn back into a low ponytail on the back of her head. She looked somewhere to the side, with serious and stubborn eyes – their color was indistinguishable in a monochrome palette.

America remembered.

He had not seen her in person, only in photo frames at Francis's house, among those to whom he had only recently ceased to be an older brother. He kept his eyes on them and invariably sighed, heavily and sadly.

"I saw her" he nodded. “This is Vietnam... Phan Thi Tien, as far as I remember”

Lyndon Johnson scowled at him from under thick brows, through the gray smoke of the cigar in his other hand.

“Intelligence reported that she had not been seen for several years. In Saigon too”

The words "where is she" stuck in his throat.

He already knew the answer – it was burned in his mind with a red-hot iron.

“Apparently – she fell into the clutches of Uncle Ho. And risks staying there forever if we sit idly by”

America felt anger boil up inside.

No. Not anger. Red rage.

The pencil crunched miserably. Chips rained down on the carpet.

Rage at himself.

“Shit”

His eyes were already starting to sting. He took off his glasses, shut his eyes...

“Alfred?” the president slightly leaned in his direction, surprised by such a violent reaction. But what happened next...

“Damn it!!” America jumped up, knocking over his chair, almost knocking the cigar out of Johnson's hands – he didn't care; fury pounded too strongly in his temples – he rushed around the office...

He swore that he would extend a helping hand to everyone – to the window, to the window, to the cold frame, he needs to cool down, to calm down – to everyone who would be in danger! If Braginsky and his Asian buddies in Indochina have come to this...

Did he still hesitate?!

Letters, words, sentences from those damned yellow papers emerged before his eyes, burned, burned – God, it would have been better if he had burned them down! Because of his – the devil knows what – someone might end his life locked up, and he...

The flame in his lungs settled like ashes on the windowpane where he rested his forehead. Images – a dark-haired girl and another one – replaced each other.

He felt a paternal hand squeeze his shoulder. His head turned slightly towards the president.

“Not everyone can stand up for themselves, lad. Not everyone is as lucky as we are. Not everyone has strength. This poor, war-weary girl” he nodded towards the table with the photograph lying on it, never taking his eyes off his country. “Can only rely on you”

His fingers gripped the window frame – and relaxed after a moment.

He would save his rage for the future.

America tossed his head. A steely hue gleamed in blue eyes.

“I'm ready, sir. I will not let you down”

A month later, on the other side of the planet, his anger splashed out as a rolling thunder.

Da N ang. 1965-1966.

When preparing for war, all sorts of lofty and ridiculously pretentious thoughts about duty and honor popped into his head, which – as America knew from his own experience – disappeared as soon as his boots set foot in the war zone. So he, having arrived in Da Nang, only thought: it's hot, like in a buffalo’s ass.

It was even hotter in the high blue sky of Vietnam.

He was given a "bird" – a "Phantom", huge even for a fighter plane, which looked like it had a broken nose and was given a kick in the arse, and was stuffed with so many bells and whistles, missiles and radars that four hands were required to manage all this stuff. But there was not enough space for an ordinary cannon. He would rather soar from the deck of an aircraft carrier and smash the factories of Hanoi with this – but he had to drop napalm on gooks from a hundred meters high.

A flare from a reconnaissance aircraft flew into an impassable massif of the jungle, the incredible greenness of which hurt the eyes – after that he descended to a low altitude, and his partner opened the hatch, and...

Orange explosions thundered behind the tail of his “Phantom”.

Holy fuck – Alfred thought at first – he had lost the habit after fourteen years, after all. Then he got used to it somehow: to the calls, to the coordinates mixed with the swearing of the commander of the search platoon that was ambushed, to the orange flame as a dirty spot between blue and green. On days off he wandered around the city with the guys. America quickly became the life and soul of the party among the pilots of his squadron: not a single bar hop in Da Nang could do without him. Alfred Jones always found the best bars with cheap but strong drinks; Alfred Jones knew how to negotiate if they didn’t make it to the base by the lights out. Alfred Jones was loved.

Alfred Jones did not get close to anyone.

He fell out of reality again only a year later.

“Hello! I'm Davie” – a guy with copper-colored hair and the same copper-colored freckled face held out his hand to him. “Dave Harris”

America blinked.

Then he blinked again.

Then the first wave of disbelief subsided, leaving a growing, bright and sparkling ball of joy in his chest.

He had heard that such things happened – from Francis, apparently – but he didn't think... he couldn’t imagine...

“Why are you silent?” his new systems operator pilot stood in front of him, just arrived, with a travel bag, on the takeoff runway near the hangars and grinned from ear to ear. “Jones, right? And I was told that your mouth is running like a garbage truck”

America woke up – and answered with a wide grin, dazzling, like the sun scorching from above. He shook Harris's hand in a savory handshake.

“They said it right” the sky-blue eyes looked confidently from behind the transparent glasses. “Make sure your head doesn't swell up”

Da Nang. 1966-1967.

To say that they worked well with Harris would be an understatement.

He and Davie became one with the machine in the “Phantom”. He was well versed in the incredible number of indicators on the dashboard, fired missiles right on target – Alfred answered him with apportioned maneuvers, sharp turns over the targets – Viet Cong artillery missed the mark as they soared up – and then another pass, precise hits...

After sorties he made up for the lost time, many, many years ago.

Davie balanced his reckless nature, and somehow it turned out that he became closer to him, than everyone else. Alfred didn’t notice how soon he told him about his older brother Arthur, whose grumbling could be heard through the pages of letters and who raised them with the younger Matthew. The fact that they all had different surnames was due to their mother’s fascinating history of marriages. He found out that Davie was from Boston, and his parents run a shop, and when he asked if it was a flower shop, he only shrugged his shoulders in response to the amazed look of his comrade – well, I guessed it, Harris, what are you staring at?

The squadron's top performing crew, that's how they were known. Well, not only squadron’s, but regiment’s. He was brimming over with zeal before each sortie – after all, the more targets would be hit – the more gooks would be fried – the closer they would be to victory.

The sooner his men would stop Ho Chi Minh and find Phan Thi Tien.

The safer would be his guys – and not only his squadron, but everyone in general – pilots, sailors, infantrymen...

... Whose number grew every month.

The death toll was in the thousands.

It would exceed hundreds of thousands at the Viet Cong, America reassured himself. Indeed, his goals, his means, his firepower in the end – how could these Charlies – even with handouts from Braginsky, or Wang Yao, who replaced parties of Kalashnikovs going to Hanoi from Central Asia with his Chinese handicrafts, and then he pocketed them, ha, - how could they oppose him at least in any way?

Time passed – and the deaf irritation, which had sunk into the heart like a grain back in Washington, sprouted and took its roots, prickled the soul with thin needles, like wild tropical flowers – hundreds of his children died from them. Irritation spread through the body, like ants, the bite of which drove to the hospital – and even to kingdom come.

Soldiers died from sharp, mud-stained stakes hidden in the ground under a cover of leaves. They died from trees whose empty trunks and foliage hid undersized gooks, and no matter how many times they poured chemicals from orange-marked barrels into the jungle – there became no fewer of them, they grew out of the ground, disappeared on one end of the jungle and appeared on the other, like ghosts, they were mowed down by artillery – and they returned back, hiding in the jungle, in the tunnels, among the peasants...

His people went berserk – and the villages of South Vietnam were no longer considered rear.

Boats and launches moved along the river channels of Da Nang. People lay on them, maimed and half-dead – their bodies were covered with mattings. They rowed to the city, to the hospitals; there was no hope that such injuries would be healed in their remote villages. Davie called out to one of the boaters – just a boy – they exchanged a few gestures and words in broken Vietnamese – and Harris knew where they were coming from: a place a couple of dozen miles southwest of town.

From the area of their yesterday's sortie.

Alfred spent that evening at the crapper – he vomited for several hours in a row.

His two-year term of service was almost over: soon he was due to fly home. But black-and-orange explosions were imprinted on the back of his eyelids – they rattled muffledly even when he was sleeping, covering his mind with ashes and soot. He barely closed his eyes at nights like this, lost between the reality of their barrack and oblivion with the roaring flames. Dawn began to glimmer through the windows – and only then, quite a bit...

A terrible roar, heat – he was thrown off the bed by an explosive wave.

Alfred opened his eyes: solid fire everywhere he looked, blackness instead of a ceiling, green like a forest; he would have thought it was a dream, another damned dream, if it wasn't for the pain all over his body and if it wasn't for Davie lying next to him, his face contorted in shock...

Still alive.

Smoke filled the burning barracks, the exit was blocked by flames; there was no point in even trying to crawl towards it. There was only one way left, fortunately for Davie and the others, the shortest one.

Alfred threw Davie's arm over his shoulder, dragged him to the wall. He lowered him to the floor – where it was still possible to breathe somehow. He pulled up his shirt with one hand and pressed it to his mouth.

His fist landed in a concrete wall, leaving a crater and a web of cracks running from its center.

Another blow, again and again. The dog tags under the T-shirt became hot, burned the chest, eyes stung from the acrid smoke, but America continued to drive his fist into the wall. The knuckles were already torn to blood on both hands – there was no time to wait until they healed – he leaned back, and...

A piece of the wall collapsed under the impact of his headbutt. There was a gap in it, wide enough for two people to crawl through.

Alfred pulled Davie outside, to the air... to the light. He froze involuntarily, surveying the entire observable space: the blackness of the night parted. Columns of flame shot up from the runway to the sky, everything was burning – barracks, hangars, all buildings...

Soldiers ran towards him.

“Jones, how the fuck are you not dead, your whole head is covered in blood!”

“I don't give a shit! What the hell is happening…”

“The gooks launched rockets from the hills” One of the guys picked up Davie from the other side. “The planes and the ammunition depot were smashed to hell...”

A fire engine was driving towards the barracks under the deafening howl of a siren. Alfred left his comrade in the care of the guys and rushed back into the fire.

He managed to carry out everyone then. But some of the guys kidnapped from the fiery jaws turned out to be – or soon became – corpses.

The base was restored very soon. Davie was up and running within a couple of weeks, getting away with a minor concussion and a couple of burns. The wound on Alfred’s head – he ran all night with his face covered in blood, what a scene it was – healed, to the surprise of everyone else, quickly. But the rage, awakened again then, never cooled down in his chest.

America applied for an extension of his service a month later, directly to Westmoreland.

A positive response was not long in coming.

Danang. October, 1967.

“A year and a half, damn it. A year and a fucking half”

Alfred had been acting... aggressive all week. It was as if he forced himself to get on the plane, invariably fulfilled his duty – but upon his return he tore off his helmet, jumped out of the cab, made a report – and went to the barracks without talking to anyone. The rest were no longer consumed with the desire to communicate with him as well.

He snarled, when something displeased him, almost running into a fight, - surprised and angry words flew in his back: “what's bitten him?” and “fuck it, he’s completely lost his marbles”. Everyone shunned him. Except for one person.

Davie dragged him from the airbase to the beach on a day-off. The sun had almost set. Long shadows of Alfred and himself touched the waves that licked their feet.

And now it seemed to Davie that the guys were right.

Because Jones was laughing, loud and nervous, with a big smile and cold eyes.

“Johnson promised me that all this” he spread his hands. “It will end in a year, in two at most...”

“Johnson?”

“Lyndon Johnson, lying mug” Alfred leaned back and sprawled on the sand like a starfish. “You will return home – and you won’t recognize anything, yeah, I don’t fucking recognize myself anymore, this great fucking society...”

Davie wanted to say a lot in response to this stream of consciousness, but managed only:

“You changed your mind about going home yourself”

"Changed my mind" Alfred echoed. He covered his face with his hands and continued to chuckle. “But I can’t! I can’t! I promised! I want to save her from the clutches of these...”

Davie remained silent. His friend's laughter was drowned out only by the sound of the waves.

“Even if I go home – I'll still stay, you know? Because I’m stuck in this shit, just up to my neck... I thought – a little more, a little more, I’ll spray a couple of hundred hectares of these damn thickets, I’ll burn a couple more dozen villages – and that’s it, and it all would be over! So why the hell are they bringing in new troops?! For them to perish?! To rot in a ditch near Saigon, stuffing their guts back into their belly?!

Nervous trembling was replaced by rage – Alfred jumped up, staggered and almost fell, but kept on his feet and moved away without even putting on his boots.

“Where are you going?!”

“I’m gonna go and yell at Johnson! Or at McNamara – which of these bastards will pick up the phone, I don't give a shit already!”

America felt Davie turn him around and punch him in the stomach.

He took him by the collar and dragged him back to the ocean. Alfred tried to break free – and maybe he would have succeeded in something other than shouting “Let me go!” and pitiful flutterings, if not for the exhaustion of the last days.

“Come on, chill down a bit”

Davie threw him into the ocean and knocked him off his feet, so that Alfred flopped his face into the oncoming wave. He felt the bottom, pushed off with his hands and cleared his throat. Salt water flowed in streams from hair and clothes, from eyelashes to glasses, poured from the nose.

Davie did not move away, carefully but firmly resting his hand on his shoulder blades.

“Better?”

“Yeah” America pulled off his glasses, put the handle behind the collar of the T-shirt; everything was blurry anyway. His ardor diminished – he no longer wanted to yell at the president into the phone, what an asshole he was.” Thanks”

“Jones, who are you?”

Alfred twitched; tossed his head in Davie's direction, like a deer spotting a tiger among the ferns.

“What are you talking…”

“I've been hanging around you for a year and a half, Alfred. You're twenty-two, and you handle the machine like you've been flying it for forty years. You run to yell at the President and the Minister of Defense – and I would write everything off as going nuts if you weren’t freaking out so much – and every time during anti-war protests, for some reason. Like right now.

Davie glared at him like never before.

“I asked the guys about you. Walt says you're from Texas. Jeremy is sure you're from California... and every time you open your mouth, I hear your Boston accent in my ears”

America swallowed. Sea salt on the tongue began to burn too much.

“And... I remember how you broke through the wall to carry me out six months ago. I was conscious then. Alfred... who are you?”

***

“So that's it. A damsel in distress”

The sound of the surf, left far behind, was drowned out by the music pouring from the bars scattered through the twilight streets of Da Nang. They were illuminated by lights, enticing, promising booze, fun and oblivion – at least for one evening.

When the truth is found to be lies

You know the joy within you dies

Don’t you want somebody to love?

Don’t you need somebody to love?

Alfred knew that his people were inside these eateries – they would return to their bases and continue their entertainment, not with booze, but with hash from Cambodia, and if the commander gave up on discipline – with something stronger.

The fumes of weed stupefied both the soldiers and the striking flower children across the ocean.

“How many of you are there? People like you?”

He and Davie sat across from the club, the flickering lights in the window were casting colorful shadows across their faces. The spark of the lighter was added to the illumination.

“Two hundred-three hundred” America stretched out his legs on the bench, arms thrown behind his head. His clothes were already dry.

“And for each country...”

Alfred waved his hand vaguely in the air.

“Something like that, yes. There are two Italies, two Koreas...” He stuttered. “…From now on”.

“Koreas…” Davie scratched his freckled cheek with his protruding thumb; between the middle and the index he held a smoldering cigarette. “And what about the Soviet Union?”

“There are fifteen of them” America snorted. Something stirred in his chest, sharp and steely. “But one bastard runs it all”

Your eyes, I say your eyes may look like his

Yeah, but in your head, baby

I’m afraid you don’t know

Where it is

The music suddenly became too loud, and the air too stuffy, although it seemed that it could be stuffier than here only in zinc coffins that carried the bodies of his children home to their mothers. Alfred shook his head, decided to change the subject, especially since Davie was asking for it.

“Why are you so calm, by the way?”

His friend raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Dude, when one of the bigwigs finds out who I am, such a howl rises! Westmoreland was yelling all the time, "I'm honored to serve the United States, sir!", he nearly was lying in wait for me near the crapper for that. Australia and I arranged swivel chair races down the corridor, and Westmoreland entered the hall and saw it, and he stopped curtsying only after that. England is bombarded with questions every time, the same ones, he printed a booklet, because he was fucking tired of explaining everything for the hundredth time...”

Davie just chuckled at the pictures he was drawing in his mind.

“And how should I react?”

America waved his hands.

“As you wish! Fall into a faint. Stand at rigid attention...”

“I’m not eager to lie in wait for you near the crapper, thanks”

“Fuck it! And you could also check my pupils, sigh like an old grandmother – well, or like England, there is no difference, anyway – and grumble “you’ve been completely stoned, Jones” ...”

Davie inhaled and exhaled. The smoke made the window cloudy and the light bulbs dim.

“It is somehow difficult for me to be surprised after everything that I’ve seen here. So why shouldn’t you – and others like you – exist? To be honest, at first I thought that you were someone like Steve Rogers... Although... I almost guessed right”

When the dawn is rose they are dead

Yes, and you’re mine, you’re so full of red

The street stretched out into the distance, away from the shore and away from the buzzing music in the temples, and after taking a two-thousand-yard stare one could see stone buildings, interspersed with shacks, knocked together and molded from everything that came to hand. Yesterday's peasants from all over the provinces came in crowds closer to the city. To safety. To land without bombing.

America chuckled mirthlessly – Steve Rogers, unlike him, was not lost in doubt and pain when he fought the Red Skull.

“Why did you tell me?”

Alfred raised his eyes to the almost black sky. Unfamiliar constellations twinkled from its unattainable heights.

“You will be discharged in six months – and you will forget everything, like a bad dream. You’ll think you’d went nuts from the shell shock”

Davie chuckled softly. “I still have to live to see it… But it's sad somehow”

“What?” America turned to Davie. He had never seen him so gloomy.

“When I came here, I thought that I would serve my country... And I thought that I was doing the right thing. And now it turns out” the last drag, and the cigarette butt flew to the ground, crushed by the boot. “That my country itself does not know what it is doing here”

Don't you want somebody to love

Don’t you need somebody to love

Wouldn't you love somebody to love

You better find somebody to love

It was as if Alfred had been punched in the stomach for the second time that evening. Something tightened in his chest and hardened in a moment, became rigid and unbending. What the hell.

“I know what I'm doing here. I will save Phan Thi Tien”

If he could see himself from the outside looking in – through the eyes of a frozen Davie – he would understand at that moment: there was so much determination in him that Steve Rogers paled before him.

“And when I do, then all this” He spread his arms, trying to embrace everything with them – the streets, and the twisted shacks, and the air base, and even the ocean, even the jungle, even the sky. “Everything – tears, dirt, blood – everything will pay off”

Exactly. He was right.

Charlies and the northerners were getting weaker day by day. They had fewer and fewer people. They could not resist forever, and someday – very soon – their will would be broken.

The year 1968 was approaching.

Khe Sanh. March, 1968

The Viet Cong reminded Alfred of cockroaches. Hard-to-kill insects that crawl out of places you can't reach yourself; The crushed one would be always replaced by the next one. They appeared at night – but especially brazen ones went out into the daylight.

And now they were crawling out of woodwork.

Offensives were not expected at the end of January – the divided Vietnam was immersed in a riot of festivities and fireworks. This time everything went to hell.

“E-45 Chancellor, we’re approaching the target. E-45 Bravo, keep your powder dry”

“On it”

It had been a long time since that accursed offensive had begun – despite the intensified onslaught, his men had pushed them back, driven back into their burrows almost everywhere they could. Where this has not yet worked out, journalists were scaremongering, throwing hysterics because of the very fact of hostilities; this panic, thoughts, snippets, phrases, headlines – they swarmed in America's head.

They squeezed them out almost everywhere – soon they would squeeze them out of the Khe Sanh Combat Base. The Marine Corps had been on the defensive there since the end of January, surrounded by hordes of enemies – and this time not only partisans; the demilitarized zone was crossed from the north – the enemy stooped to anything.

Well, Alfred thought as the “Phantom” of Davie and him roared into the air, it's their loss.

Their element was flying north – to strew the jungle around the base with Niagara Falls of bombs and missiles.

Bombers and fighters hovered like wasps over a stirred hive in the skies over Khe Sanh. Dense anti-aircraft fire – oh shit, they managed to drag cannons through the jungle – made it troublesome to fly to the base at a distance of several miles. The flight commander informed them about this both at the briefing and before the flight – America grinned.

“Seems like they multiply like rabbits” Harris whistled on the air.

‘So we will cut them in half” America settled comfortably in his chair, squeezing the levers. “Are you scared?”

“I'm scared, just that you won't shut up about it for another month”

Laughter over the radio communication – Alfred laughed himself, adrenaline sparks spread through the blood.

Was it even a problem for him and Davie?

“Get ready! Turn to the left!”

A nimble white-winged scout aircraft O-1 flashed through the air, firing a smoke bomb at the target – their element made a turn.

Here we go.

A hail of shellings hit the hill – and the greenery disappeared under an orange explosion that took with it half the squadron of the North Vietnamese army, no less. Thunder shook his ears, anti-aircraft fire was no longer so dense. Alfred pulled the levers, the “Phantom” soared up, turned edge-on, and down again – one more pass...

A white line cut through the sky – the plane shook, the two of them were thrown up; America felt the “Phantom” tipping sideways, swooping down before his brain could catch...

“Chancellor, Bravo, you've been hit!”

“Fuck!!”

Alfred did not understand who shouted it out – he or Davie. He pulled the control wheel with all his strength, trying to get out of the spin – it was useless; they were already at a low altitude, the greenery rushed towards them at a wild speed.

“Eject yourself!” The commander yelled.

“Davie, jump the fuck out!” With this scream America pulled the emergency lever.

The roof fell back, he soared into the air, gray, green and orange merged and flashed before his eyes, weightlessness, free flight – he was shaken again, the parachute opened; he was carried towards the hill – he grazed the tree crowns with his feet...

An explosion behind him sent him flying forward; America crashed into a tree trunk, his eyes darkened from pain. He hit the ground, getting a new portion of sparks in his skull – everything around him became wet, he screamed. Waves of heat, somewhere very close, burned his skin.

He felt for the bottom – of whatever it was – pushed off and cleared his throat, half-blindly disentangled himself from the straps of the ejection seat, opened his eyes. He fell into a stream that flowed in a low-sloped ravine, but everything around was filled with the smell of burning, he got up – his leg seemed ready to explode from pain. His head was buzzing, explosions seemed to come from afar...

“...cellor, respond! E-45 Chancellor, can you hear me?”

“Yes!” America finally made out the words of the commander through the glitches in the headset. “Looks like the neck is not even broken”

“Fine. I’ll give permission for a rescue flight. E-45 Bravo?”

Silence on air.

“E-45 Bravo, respond!”

Nothing.

Alfred went cold with fear. He rushed forward to the place, where thick black smoke billowed from behind the trees. He parted the thickets, they whipped him in the face and body, his leg throbbed with fire, but he didn’t care, driving one single thought away from himself, nonono, he couldn’t, no, the commander continued to call, but Davie did not respond to the call sign.

A jerk – and Alfred ran out into the light. The wreckage of the “Phantom” split in two by the explosion burned on the hillside, breaking tree trunks under it. Nose and eyes stung from burning, from singed smell...

“Davie!”

America tore off the helmet – it fell out of his hands. He couldn't, he had to have time to eject, he should be somewhere nearby, a month before the discharge, damn it, maybe he got into the positions of the Vietnamese, and they caught him, maybe...

A piece of the hull came crashing down under its own weight with a loud metallic sound, revealing the second pilot's seat, and Alfred collapsed to his knees.

It felt like his heart was squeezed with pincers, and tears splashed from his eyes.

He didn't make it.

Burnt leaves, tree branches black from the flames, sparks in the air, ashes – everything floated. It was as if the soul had been taken out, and what was left was crushed into a thousand pieces with a hammer – and America barely caught a stir in the thickets at the other end of the clearing... he twitched –

 – Blue eyes met amber ones.

A short young girl in North Vietnamese green uniform peered up at him from the shadow of the ferns. She had a Kalashnikov gun in her hands, but she did not throw it up, frozen.

Her face.

America froze.

He looked at her – it was impossible to count how many times he did it in recent years, this profile, the look of those serious – amber, so that's what they were – eyes...

He found her.

"It's you" his voice was hoarse. “Phan Thi Tien”

Vietnam didn't run. She just watched his every move, tense, tucked up, was on the verge of... not of attacking him.

Of dashing away.

The thought pierced through the mind like an anti-aircraft gun and hit right in the heart.

“You hit him”

Alfred said it in French – she couldn't help but understand.

Thi Tien was silent.

“Why?!” a lump stuck in his throat, tears streamed down his cheeks. Something dark, sickly grew in his chest, it burned, choked – America almost screamed, loudly and plaintively. “We wanted to save you!”

Thi Tien shuddered at this cry; and everything that Alfred had missed out before converged into one image: a green uniform, a Kalashnikov gun...

“And you’re with them” the voice no longer trembled. Rage, brighter than thousand napalm bomb explosions, grew in him, seeping through his pupils. “SCUM!”

He rushed to her – Vietnam threw up the machine gun, pulled the trigger...

A loud click – and nothing happened. She pulled again, and again.

The machine gun jammed.

Thi Tien darted deep into the forest. Alfred rushed after her with all his might.

A tail of dark hair flickered among the greenery, shone in the glimpses of the sun, did not drift away – America rushed after it, without losing sight of it, catch up, catch up; he didn’t care that there might be an ambush in the depths of the jungle, he would slaughter everyone, burn them to hell, one charred corpse on the plane would turn into a thousand  bodies on the ground, they will            pay for everything, it-all-can’t-be-for nothing...

Closer, even closer – he caught up with her, grabbed her by the hair. Vietnam crashed to the ground with a scream, and America flung her away with his boot – Thi Tien sank between the roots of a tree like a weightless doll; she fell with a muffled sob, clutching her sore rib.

Alfred kicked the machine gun aside.

“Three years. Three years in this shithole – because of you”

He turned Vietnam by the shoulder, grabbed her by the collar, pulled her up and pressed her to the trunk with all his might. Thi Tien breathed through her clenched teeth, her black hair came out of her ponytail and fell in stray strands across her face.

“All this blood. My people. Everything was because of you”

Something burned behind his eyes. Rabies thundered with nuclear explosions.

“I won't let you leave it in tatters. I'll save you – even if I have to bomb you to hell”

Vietnam tossed her head.

The amber fear gleaming in her eyes disappeared, giving way to red-hot anger – she lunged with her foot, aiming at America's head – too weak; he easily blocked it, grabbed the collar with his second hand, shook her with all his might...

The fabric tore, revealing crimson burns.

They went from Thi Tien's neck to her shoulders and down under her uniform, a solid mass of red-brown. They bubbled, crimson scars tore her skin, the smell of burning blood hit the nose and...

Vietnam's wounds smelled of napalm.

Alfred froze for a second – it was enough for Thi Tien. A dagger, as if taken from thin air, ripped open America's arm, he screamed, released his grip, blood spurted like a shower rain, Vietnam's feet touched the ground. He lunged with his good hand, Thi Tien dived under it, too fast, the whistle of a blade...

“Get out of here!”

Pain.

Blood.

Out of his hand. Out of his mouth. Out of his chest.

A dark stain spread across the overalls.

Vietnam’s dagger stuck out of America's heart.

Alfred looked down. Eyebrows went up. Blue eyes stared in surprise and confusion at the palm stained with scarlet.

His legs buckled and America fell to the ground.

The faded consciousness was swallowed up by darkness.

***

He didn't know when he woke up.

He didn't know how the rescue team had managed to find him – so deep in the jungle and so far from the original coordinates.

He did not remember well what happened to him in the following weeks.

He remembered his own stupor. He remembered shock and tears.

He remembered a fresh scar on the left side of his chest – it did not disappear, adding to the wounds that remained with people like him forever.

He remembered a bullet pierced a man who was orating about the great dream – and the fragile peace broke into flinders.

He remembered President Johnson, hunched under the weight of unfulfilled hopes and deciding that it was no longer for him to realize them.

He remembered carrying a bouquet of blue forget-me-nots to the grave in Boston.

The base was recaptured, they could not help recapturing it. The people of Ho Chi Minh retreated from there, as they did from everywhere else.

Newspapers roared, prophesying the imminent – already arrived – defeat.

The light at the end of the tunnel had become as unattainable as the stars.

Moscow. May, 1968.

Ivan bent over the documents and found that he had dozed off only when he was startled by an outburst of drunken laughter at the other end of the apartment.

Poland popped in on the way from Hanoi to Warsaw: Feliks, flashing a white-toothed smile on his bronzed face, flew into the apartment about an hour ago and dragged Lithuania into the kitchen before he could come to his senses, and began imbibing, first into himself, then into Toris.

Judging by the volume and intensity of the laughter, primarily into himself.

The probability of spending the night quietly and calmly working more and more tended to zero with every minute.

Russia yawned, got up from the table and went to the kitchen. With every step he took, Feliks's voice became more and more distinct, and he could already extract separate words from the boozy buzz:

“...And then the border guard stops me with this junk, and I tell him... Oops, who showed up!”

Feliks and Toris, already being quite under the weather, were sitting at the table with the top buttons of their shirts unfastened, but if Lithuania almost sobered up at the sight of Russia, then Poland dissolved into a wide smile and waved his hand with a cigarette clutched in it – a wisp of smoke spread through the air.

“Wazzup, your little heart couldn’t bear the sight of someone getting hammered without you?”

“How is it possible to get hammered, if you, judging by your faces, have already drunk everything” Russia narrowed his eyes from the bright light of the lamp and looked at his wristwatch. “Are you going to sleep soon, night owls?”

“Yeah, right! The sooner I go to bed, the sooner I can get on a plane and see my precious bosses, and two years in Hanoi without these snouts is the best thing that has happened to me in the last twenty years! Even Jones' bombs didn't spoil the fun. And you” Felix pointed his index finger at Ivan's chest; rather for additional support – Poland staggered on a chair. “It’s lame for you to be in charge. You become such a party pooper, totally”

“Felix...” Lithuania said uncertainly.

“What “Felix”?” He turned to Toris with a flourish. “He did not even look at this beauty!”

A wave of the hand revealed an open bottle of yellowish tincture, inside of which floated a cobra with an open hood. Russia took it and began to examine it with interest, tilted his head.

“Like this dingus?” Poland dragged contentedly, resting his ankle on the knee of his other leg. “Thi Tien gave me a parting gift. She said, if I put it on my skin, then I’ll be healthy like a bull…”

“What do you mean “put on your skin”?” Toris stared in horror at his own glass. “Why are we then…”

“Yes, because I drank it, and everything was fine! Don't be such a killjoy... Ooo, Natasha!”

The door creaked, and a disheveled and angry Belarus appeared on the threshold.

“Can you stop yelling?! I'll call Vanya, and...”

She broke off in mid-sentence – her eyes fell on Russia with a bottle in his hands. Natasha sighed heavily, in her eyes it was written there you are too.

“Get wasted more quiet. All our children have been sleeping for a long time, and if you wake them up...”

“Are you talking about Raivis? Yeah, this “child” will out-do me and your brother in literball in a heartbeat! Natasha, come to us, huh?” Poland pulled Belarus by the elbow lightly; she pulled her arm back almost with a hiss. “Look what's there!” A moment – and the nimble Felix had already snatched the bottle from Russia’s hands, pressed it to his temple so that the cobra's eyes shone right into Natasha's. “Look what a cutie! Just like you, by the way, you and she are sooo alike...”

“Feliks!” Lithuania shouted louder and more indignantly.

“What “Felix”?! I'm trying for you! If... oh, kurwa...”

Another sweeping movement – and Poland knocked off the table his own glass and a plate with sliced cervelat and cucumbers with his elbow.

“Damn... Natasha, I'm sorry, we dropped everything, I'll pick it up, wait a sec...”

“Don't bother yourself” Belarus made a sound very similar to a hiss and began to clean everything from the floor. Efficient – even tipsy – Lithuania reached for a rag.

“Let me help you…”

Belarus did not shush him.

After the cervelat was sent to the trash, and the rag was squeezed out, Natasha left, waving an ashen bush of hair, and Lithuania suddenly followed her. Feliks whistled after them.

“Look, seems like I did help”

Ivan shook his head.

“Cupid of the entire socialist bloc, Łukasiewicz”

“I know, right?”

Poland – suddenly thoughtful and serious – turned to the table and, taking Toris's glass, poured himself another portion of amber liquid.

“I don’t get it – why did I manage to make friends with Thi Tien, but it doesn’t work with her? They are so alike”

“Because Thi Tien has known you for two years” Russia chuckled. He stood at the counter, pretending to be invisible for the last two minutes, and began to cut himself a lemon for tea. Feliks lost his drinking buddy, and Ivan saw a ray of hope of continuing his work. “And Natasha – all her life”

“Also an option” Felix took a sip. “But they are alike, totally. Especially when they're angry. Natasha would also be able to stab Jones in the heart”

The cup almost cracked – Ivan squeezed it so hard.

He stopped trembling. Slowly he turned around – Feliks sat with his back on him. He didn't notice anything.

“In the heart?” voice, as even as possible.

“Yeah. When they tried to surround the base near Khe Sanh, fancy that. Thi Tien shot down the plane with anti-aircraft gun, rushed in her joy, and Jones himself stood there and yelled at the top of his voice. She didn't give details, but it all ended with Jones…” Poland ran his thumb across his throat. “…Blacked out. He was even invalided out later!”

Russia silently crushed the sugar in the lemon. He did not notice how he added the fifth spoon.

“Well, your people trained her darn well. If she could lay out even Jones”

“Yeah” Russia answered absently "It's... yes" he finished stupidly.

He walked past the bewildered Feliks and dived into the darkness of the corridor – to his office.

The tea remained untouched. As well as the documents. Ivan immediately went to bed. The laughter from the kitchen no longer disturbed him, but sleep did not come.

It was unknown how much longer Jones would have been stuck in Vietnam, but if he was invalided out, they could meet in June – again the nuclear disarmament treaty, again the same members – he, Alfred and Arthur, even five years later.

Russia closed his eyes, trying to calm his excitement. It was... it was so...

Inopportune.

He felt it from the very resignation of Khrushchev, and especially clearly – for a year already. The familiar feeling of the nets placed around him did not leave him, only intensified with time, made him weigh his every step and grope his way, stepping as if in a boggy swamp.

It was good that Feliks came round, though – it would be difficult for him to get this information in another way.

Ivan touched the breast pocket of his shirt, not the one on the outside, but the one he had sewn inside, felt for the solid rectangle of the photograph, hidden from the eyes of each and every one – a habit that had become almost unconscious over the past couple of years.

Dark secrets were to be kept close to the very heart.

I usually don’t do this, but if you liked it or it caused any emotions, please, write a comment. I nearly died writing and then translating this chapter. And if you love realism, but have a little less than nothing to do with the army / aviation / military operations, my advice to you is to THINK TEN TIMES BEFORE WRITING SOMETHING ON THIS TOPIC. TEN FUCKING TIMES.

I also would be very grateful if any native speaker point out any mistakes with military terms or slang (and mistakes in general), because I’m not sure, if I translated everything correctly…

Footnotes:

1. If we retreat in Indochina now, then we will definitely have to intervene somewhere else, because they will not stop – Vietnam was divided into two parts by 1965: the communist North (Democratic Republic of Vietnam) and the pro-American South (Republic of Vietnam). The Communists of North Vietnam, led by Ho Chi Minh, who wanted to unify the country under their rule, supported the National Front for the Liberation of South Vietnam, better known as the Viet Cong, guerrilla groups that fought against the regime of South Vietnam. The wide-ranging US intervention in the Vietnam War was prompted by fears of a "domino effect" - according to which, as soon as one state in the region become socialist, others immediately follow.
   
   
2. .. I thought I'd rather hear those words from Goldwater – Barry Goldwater was the Republican nominee in the 1964 US presidential election. This election is known as the most unambiguous in history, as Lyndon Johnson – the Democratic candidate – received 61% of the votes. The Democratic team managed to portray Goldwater as a warmonger who wants to push the US into a nuclear conflict with the USSR (this was greatly facilitated by the statements of Goldwater himself – for example, support for the use of nuclear weapons in Vietnam), which was alluded to in the Daisy Presidential campaign commercial (I advise you to check it up, very spectacular: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2cwqHB6QeUw).
   
   
3. What about the Great Society? What will become of him? – The "Great society" was the program of reforms in domestic policy with which Lyndon Johnson entered his presidency. It was mainly aimed at combating poverty and racial segregation, which was closely related to the demands of the Civil Rights movement in the United States that took place in the 1960s. At first, among the establishment of the United States there was a feeling that the conflict in Vietnam would not last long, and there would be enough money in the budget for both the war and the reforms. Spoiler: there was not enough money L. But some carried out programs are still active – for example, the Medicare health insurance program.
   
   
4. He had not seen her in person, only in photo frames at Francis's house, among those to whom he had only recently ceased to be an older brother – Vietnam remained a de jure French colony until 1954, although France lost control over Indochina already back in World War II. After the surrender of Japan, France launched a war to regain control over Indochina, which ended in a major French defeat at the Battle of Dien Bien Phu (1954).
   
   
5. A month later, on the other side of the planet, his anger splashed out as a rolling thunder – big kudos to everyone, who managed to recognize a reference to the name of the military operation here!
   
   
6. Indeed, his goals, his means, his firepower in the end – how could these Charlies… - "Viet Cong" is abbreviated as VC. Each letter in the US military phonetic alphabet is assigned a specific word for ease of radio transmission, and VC looked like "Victor Charlie". As a result, American and South Vietnamese soldiers universally began referring to the guerrillas as "Charlie", in addition to the usual definitions of VC and "Viet Cong".
   
   
7. … or Wang Yao, who replaced parties of Kalashnikovs going to Hanoi from Central Asia with his Chinese handicrafts, and then he pocketed them… - relations between the USSR and the PRC had already completely deteriorated by the end of the 1960s (because of the de-Stalinization and a number of other factors), the unity of the socialist bloc was a thing of the past. Both the Soviet Union and China provided assistance to North Vietnam. Rail transport from the USSR got to Hanoi through China, so sometimes the described cases occurred.
   
   
8. … and no matter how many times you pour chemicals from orange-marked barrels into the jungle… - It is referred to the mixture of defoliants and herbicides Agent Orange, which was used to destroy rainforests as part of Operation Ranch Hand. This was done to make it impossible for the Viet Cong to move inconspicuously. Its application caused soil poisoning, the extinction of many species of animals and birds in the areas of its spraying, as well as terrible mutations in children whose parents interacted closely with it.
   
   
9. His people went berserk – and the villages of South Vietnam were no longer considered rear – often the South Vietnamese peasants hid the Viet Cong partisans. Some of the most horrific events of the Vietnam War, such as the Mỹ Lai massacre, are associated with suspicions of American soldiers of complicity with the guerrillas. This case became known to the public thanks to the work of a journalist, and only a year later after it happened. Such excesses are well shown in the movie “Platoon”.
   
   
10. Columns of flame shot up from the runway to the sky, everything was burning – barracks, hangars, all buildings... – often the Viet Cong made mortar and rocket attacks on air bases in order to destroy American aircraft and the infrastructure for their maintenance (therefore, relatively few soldiers died after such attacks). About five such attacks were made on the base in Da Nang until the beginning of 1968.
    
    
11. A month later, America applied for an extension of his service, straight to Westmoreland – It is referred to General William Westmoreland, Commander-in-Chief of US Forces in Vietnam, the creator of the famous "seek and destroy" tactics. Its general idea was that the unit was sent to an area controlled by enemy forces, where it was supposed to detect the Viet Cong (most commonly, this happened as a result of being ambushed). After that additional units were transferred to the area, blocking the enemy’s possible escape routes, while aircraft and artillery destroyed the detected Viet Cong.
    
    
12. So why the hell are they bringing in new troops?! – a constant escalation of hostilities were carried out from mid-1965 to the end of 1967 in South Vietnam. The size of the government army, the forces of North Vietnam, the US and their allies’ groups were increasing. The scope of operations carried out by both sides increased, and losses in manpower grew. In 1968 the number of American troops in Vietnam was estimated as 540 thousand people. The American government kept talking about the imminent end of the war, about the "light at the end of the tunnel", which, according to the feelings of soldiers and Americans, was getting further and further away.
    
    
13. … and I would write everything off as going nuts if you weren’t freaking out so much – and every time during anti-war protests, for some reason. Like right now – public opinion in the United States was one of the most important factors in the end of the Vietnam War. In October 1967 occurred the March on the Pentagon, which was one of the most massive protests against US involvement in the war, the culmination of five days of nationwide (sic!) protests against the military draft.
    
    
14. When the truth is found to be lies – song Alfred and Davie listen to: "Somebody to Love" by Jefferson Airplane; released in 1967, it belongs to the psychedelic rock genre, which had a close connection with the hippie subculture.
    
    
15. …they would return to their bases and continue their entertainment, but not with booze, but with hash from Cambodia, and if the commander gave up on discipline – with something stronger – drug addiction was quite common among the American military personnel in Vietnam. Marijuana, amphetamines, opium, barbiturates, and hallucinogens could easily be bought in the early years of the Vietnam War. The real game came in 1969, with the start of the troops withdrawal: then the inexpensive and extremely quickly addictive heroin came to fore, which was also cheaper than marijuana.
    
    
16. Australia and I arranged swivel chair races down the corridor – during the translation I suddenly revealed that the first swivel chair was invented by Thomas Jefferson, and is purported to be the chair on which he drafted the United States Declaration of Independence in 1776. So… I guess swivel chair races should be considered as a national sport in US. Or at least one of the Alfred’s favorite activities.
    
    
17. To be honest, at first I thought that you were someone like Steve Rogers – Steve Rogers is a character in the Marvel Comics universe, better known as "Captain America". His body was enhanced to the maximum physical form available to a human with an experimental serum in order to assist the US military in WW2. The Red Skull is Captain America's archenemy.
    
    
18. Offensives were not expected at the end of January – the divided Vietnam was immersed in a riot of festivities and fireworks – the Vietnamese celebrate the Tết Nguyên Đán at the end of January, the Vietnamese New Year holiday, a very revered celebration among them, on which North and South Vietnam concluded a truce for several years in a row. This truce was broken in 1968 when North Vietnamese and Viet Cong forces launched the Tet Offensive, a series of large-scale attacks throughout South Vietnam, on all major cities and American military bases, with the purpose of overthrowing the South Vietnamese regime and uniting the country.
    
    
19. They squeezed them out almost everywhere – soon they would squeeze them out of the Khe Sanh Combat Base. The Marine Corps had been on the defensive there since the end of January, surrounded by hordes of enemies – it is referred to the siege of the Khe Sanh Combat Base by the troops of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, which lasted from January 21 to July 9, 1968. It was one of the most famous and iconic battles of the Vietnam War. Khe Sanh was the westernmost point of the so-called "McNamara Line", the construction of which was carried out in order to stop the penetration of North Vietnamese units through the demilitarized zone. Westmoreland considered Khe Sanh a strategic military position, so he organized constant air support for the base garrison. The American media drew parallels between Khe Sanh and Dien Bien Phu, which seriously worried President Lyndon Johnson, so much that he ordered to give priority to the support of the besieged garrison over all other operations in Vietnam.
    
    
20. Their element was flying north – to strew the jungle around the base with Niagara Falls of bombs and missiles – big kudos to everyone, who managed to recognize a reference to the name of the military operation here as well!
    
    
21. I'll save you – even if I have to bomb you to hell – an allusion to the phrase of US Air Force Major Chester Brown "It became necessary to destroy the town to save it". It was said about the order to bomb the city of Bến Tre, which was occupied by the Viet Cong during the Tet offensive. The phrase became a great sensation in the United States and was repeatedly quoted by the media in the context of the absurdity of American policy in Vietnam.
    
    
22. He remembered a bullet pierced a man who was orating about a great dream – and the fragile peace broke into flinders – it is referred to the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. in April 1968, an African American church leader and civil rights activist, author of the great speech "I have a dream". His assassination sparked days of riots throughout the country.
    
    
23. He remembered President Johnson, hunched under the weight of unfulfilled hopes and deciding that it was no longer for him to realize them – On March 31, 1968, Lyndon Johnson gave a televised address to the nation, in which he announced the cessation of the bombing of North Vietnam (with the exception of the southern part of the country), his intention to begin peace negotiations with the enemy and his decision not to run for the next presidential election.
    
    
24. The base was recaptured, they could not help recapturing it. The people of Ho Chi Minh retreated from there, as they did from everywhere else – the irony is that the forces of the DRV were weakened after the failure of the Tet Offensive, and the Americans and their allies switched to active offensive operations. The defensive "McNamara Line" was abandoned. Thus, by the middle of 1968, the Khe Sanh Combat Base suddenly lost everything that had previously made it worth holding. The American command ordered to leave the base, the last American soldier left it in July, in the end everything was blown up, and then the base was immediately occupied by North Vietnamese soldiers.
    
    
25. Newspapers roared, prophesying the imminent – already arrived – defeat – If militarily the Tet Offensive ended in the failure of the DRV, then psychologically it turned out to be a turning point in the Vietnam War. Very widely covered by the media, it shattered public’s illusions about the US military victories in Vietnam. The very fact that the communist forces were able to carry out such an operation showed that they were not exhausted and were going to continue their fight. The number of journalists and politicians who spoke out against the war grew – in their opinion, it could not be won and was immoral. The United States began to reduce the military contingent since 1961.
    
    
26. I don't think Lyndon Johnson lied to Alfred about the motivation and location of Phan Thi Tien at the beginning of the chapter. He could speak sincerely. One of the reasons for the US defeat in the Vietnam War was poor intelligence, so he could rely on inaccurate data.
    
    
27. Poland popped in on the way from Hanoi to Warsaw – firstly, while I was doing research for the chapter, I noticed that close diplomatic ties were established between Poland and North Vietnam in the 1950s and 1960s (Poles played an important role in the Operation Marigold), modern Vietnamese are very gracious towards the Poles, and the poem “My dear, Poland” by the poet Tố Hữu is a real thing. Secondly, I wanted to write an episode with Feliks. He rocks, totally.
    
    
28. They could meet in June – again the nuclear disarmament treaty, again the same members – he, Alfred and Arthur, even five years after – it is referred to the Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons, signed in the summer of 1968 by representatives of the USSR, Great Britain and the USA. Its main goal was to establish a solid barrier to the expansion of the number of countries possessing nuclear weapons.
    
    
29. He felt it from the very resignation of Khrushchev, and especially clearly – for a year already – 1967 was the year when Yuri Andropov became the head of the KGB: the strengthening of this structure, the creation of the Fifth Directorate of the KGB (which was supressing dissidents), the creation of city and district departments of the KGB are associated with this person. Over the 15 years of Andropov's leadership, the USSR state security agencies have significantly strengthened and expanded their control over all spheres of life of the state and society.

Movie “Path to War” gave me an image of Lindon Johnson.

Movie “Rescue Dawn” gave a concept of the plane crash.

Movie “Platoon” gave an approximate image of the cooperation between the search elements and the aircraft.

And, of course, I can't help but mention such films as: “Apocalypse Now”, “Full Metal Jacket” and “Good Morning, Vietnam”.

Chapter Text

Prague. August 29, 1968.

Radio cabins, radio cabins. In basements, under the leads, they were endless – they grew like mushrooms after the rain, like mold, here and there, in nooks and crannies of Prague and its environs.

Mold and rain have burned into Ivan's lungs. Here, in the suburbs of Prague, where drizzling rain turned the surface of the river into opaque ripples.

He could not count, how many wires he cut in a week.

“I don’t understand. Andrei Andreevich said that the United States are in a deadlock”

“Looks like they are not so deadlocked, if they bring oil to the counter-revolution”

The thread of memories unwound a ball, and another one. A flash of fire. His tanks were driving through a crowded, seething street of Prague. People on both sides of the road were bitter, angry. Loud. They ignited his nerves.

“Hedvika and Loizo won't be able to handle what would happen to them”

They continued to drive, through the raging human stream. The commander reported that the reactionaries had seized the Central Radio. They had to stop – the road was blocked by barricades of empty trams.

People were outraged.

People were not excited at fraternal assistance.

Ivan threw back his head – a heavy leady cloud over the bridge did not even think about moving, covering his face with weightless drops.

“Maybe they’re making concessions, but imperialists are still imperialists”

The fire broke out in the tank; he jumped out with the soldiers – the flame from the broken fuel container shot up. Those who broke through it and set it on fire have already disappeared into the crowd, which willingly swallowed them up, absorbing them, like water surface absorbed the drops. Ivan saw them, briefly, but he couldn’t rush after them. Throw off the uniform and put out the fire – they had to go, to the radio station, people were intimidated, to stop broadcasting, they would understand, they could not but understand...

A heavy hand rested on the map.

“I don't want to scare you, Vanya. But the block is in danger . All of it. Moreover… We’re paying attention to the western border of Czechoslovakia – with the FRG. It’d be better to look on the east”

He remembered how he instantly tightened. How his fists clenched.

“I got it, Leonid Ilyich”

It didn’t end on the Central Radio. Next – television centers, underground studios, first in the capital, then in the villages, they were taken under control, connectivity nodes were chopped down. A week, just a week. It all ended when Hedvika and Loizo returned from Moscow, pale, too pale, they even walked off the plane clutching to each other. Exhaustion weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Ivan did not want to return to the base. He wanted to stay away. From any people, even his own. Farther away from the looks of the locals in his back, burning like broken wires, farther away from nervousness. The rain was already making him feel chilly, but he didn't leave the bridge.

Something was off.

It was over – they nipped the coup in the bud. And it was not even that his people weren’t allowed to go to the wells, and on the way to any place they had to wander because of the knocked down and upturned signposts, and twenty-year-old maps – how different everything felt then – could have been thrown away. Not even the fact that his people were losing their patience, and they were shooting – it’s good if it was in the air – and insults rained down on their faces.

A heavy, twisting feeling tangled in his chest at the memory of the meeting in June. Alfred’s token smile at the UN General Assembly was more forced than usual, like a poorly glued mask. That long look of blue eyes. Shadows lay beneath them again, dark and deep, just like...

Russia jerked his head, shook the image out of his thoughts. Droplets from the ends of his hair fell onto his shoulders, sinking into the damp fabric of the uniform.

He could not talk to him then, not in New York; the more painful was the fact that Alfred himself made his way to him. But Arthur caught him, and they parted ways. America managed to shoot one last look, miserable, pleading; Ivan was ready to swear, he...

The photograph in his chest pocket burned his ribs.

A familiar whistle sounded nearby.

“Look who's here!”

And too familiar voice. That was all he wanted for complete happiness.

Ivan mentally rolled his eyes as he turned to Gilbert.

The GDR rocked on his heels. He was in civilian clothes – a white shirt, hands in trouser pockets. Even an impudent smirk could not hide the weariness – the same heaped weariness, as Russia had himself.

“I thought you was stuck at the border”

“I really was. Then old Walter figured out how not to deprive you of fraternal assistance. You should have seen that face! He almost burst into tears when the troops had to stop”

“Help, then” Ivan crossed his arms over his chest. “And what did you do?”

“Who do you think took a bearing of every damn radio signal, huh?” Gilbert pointed his thumb at himself. “I thought my ears would fall off”

“Poor thing” A short grin. “Do you want to change? I'll be happy to sit for taking a bearing. While you’d be running around Czechia”

“You won’t like it. Too much... what do you call it... slanderous anti-party propaganda. Even I am tired, although Deutsche Welle broadcasts to me. By the way” the GDR walked past Russia, leaning on the bridge railing. “Why are you running alone? And where is the united and solidary socialist front?”

Russia puckered up his mouth against his will. If Erzhebet did not appear initially, then Vasil was stuck in some small village, and Felix, with the words “you, like, are so cool that you can handle it yourself” stopped halfway to Prague and so he stayed there.

“They didn't show any enthusiasm”

“Then you’ll get all the glory! Why such an acid look, Genosse? It is not every day that you save fraternal peoples from the clutches of the imperialists!” Gilbert patted Ivan on his tense back. Russia suddenly felt a desire to catch a fellow member of the socialist camp at his ironed – even now – collar and throw him into the river, but restrained himself.

“What a douchebag you are, Gilbert” it sounded more toneless than caustic.

“Well, I follow your example in everything” he answered with a slight accent.

Ever since Gilbert started learning Russian, swearing around him hadn't been fun at all.

He did not notice how small drops ceased to blur their reflections. A thin ray of sun peeked through a gap in the cloud, uncertainly touching the green crowns of the trees.

“I'm glad it's over. And that none of us is in danger anymore”

Something unpleasant slipped in his chest at these words. The GDR was silent for a couple of minutes with an inscrutable face. Then he turned his head sharply towards Russia.

“Hey. You don’t need to explain this to me. According to Ulbricht, Jones's agents hide in every bush, except that they didn't manage to climb into my ass. Yet. But… now? He's stuck in the jungle up to his balls. And their students went nuts, by the way”

“I know” Ivan leaned on the bridge railing next to him. “But he still drove his tanks to the Ludwig’s border”

“Yes, that's where they stopped”

The blond eyebrow arched.

“Should I throw myself into the arms of Jones for this?”

Something very strange flashed across Gilbert's face – Ivan himself did not understand what. He didn't like it. The way the red eyes narrowed and the sharp shoulders tensed.

“I thought it would be nice for you to start communicating. And then you will realize your fantasies. With throwing yourself into the arms. With all that implies – up to your taste.

The knot in his chest tightened. Ivan didn't show it – he just half turned to Gilbert.

“You are so worried about me” A smile on his lips, even – it could cut through the metal. He shifted his torso forward a little, leaning towards Gilbert in deceptive friendliness. Nothing had changed in the GDR’s posture, but Russia felt it in its gut – white hair was bristling at the back of his head. “I’m glad. But why?”

“Because I'm not eager to be trapped in your race of thrashing out, who has bigger and thicker guns”

Ah, that's it.

Russia sighed.

“Our race? Gilbert, this place was full of his agents. You heard everything on the radio, all these... lies” Ivan spat out this word, as if it burned his throat. “If we had not intervened, we would have lost both Loizo and Hedvika. We almost lost them anyway, back in February! The block would be cut in two! I don't want to fight him, but if he continues to provoke... If he...”

Gilbert said nothing, only frowned and looked at Ivan, heavily and appraisingly. A small section of the Czechoslovakian border, intersecting with his, Soviet one – a short wavy line on the map struck terror into him.

“He, too... doesn’t want to fight” The words fell heavily, as if they were leaden. “Probably. But arm-twisting is also a method” Russia's thumb slowly rubbed the knuckles on his locked fingers. “We will have to... Answer”

They were silent. The wind lowered the first yellow leaves onto the water.

“We're working on it, by the way. So that I could communicate with Jones properly” Russia said after another sigh.

Gilbert whistled. His shoulders visibly relaxed.

“And which brainiacs thought of it first? From the Politburo or from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs?

Ivan tilted his head slyly. “From KGB”

Even if the events of the current week had pretty much frayed his nerves, the range of emotions on Gilbert's face was more than compensation. The GDR folded his palms in a prayful manner, propping his forehead with his fingertips and giggling.

“So your Chekists have become the fans of Jones...”

“The change of decision makers works wonders” Ivan answered simply.

He remained silent about the fact that the change of decision makers made the nets around him thicker.

“Change of decision makers” Gilbert chuckled, for some reason very bitterly. “If it was able to affect even your guys…”

He stooped, suddenly, grew gloomy and drooped his head – so were stooping old wolves, tired of life. His gaze was directed into the distance – but was not defocused. The GDR looked beyond the horizon, to the West.

“Was it you who prompted Ulbricht to his last year's statement in Warsaw?” The face of Russia’s  companion stretched out in bewilderment. “That one, which sounded like «Hey, Ludwig! You won't have any friends in the socialist camp until you acknowledge me»?”

The phrase “What a douchebag you are, Vanya” hung unspoken in the tired eyes of the GDR.

“Yeah, it was me” he replied instead.

“I think it influenced him”

“If it doesn’t influence him, I’ll beat him in the medal standings at Miguel’s place” Gilbert grinned and took out a cigarette from the carton, flicked a lighter. White smoke dispersed into the sun-warmed air. “Since we are performing separately now, old Walter has prepared... a surprise” the corners of Ivan's lips turned up. If Gilbert loved anything in this life, it was showing off. “Let's see how he runs without my athletes”

“If the discussion about rapprochement with Jones doesn’t end up, maybe he won’t run for long”

“They'll go for it” Another drag. “If students don’t drive mad Ludwig, then they’ll do it with Jones”

Gilbert's cigarette, burnt to the short filter, was swept away by the stream of the river. He flexed his stiff fingers.

“See you, Genosse” a hand fell on his shoulder, but unlike the previous time, Ivan didn’t want to throw its owner into the river after the cigarette. “I’m gonna go and sit around in the cabin, doing             fraternal assistance”

“And you stay well too”

“Yeah. Be careful there, so that the counter-revolution couldn’t scratch your eyes out”

Ivan's eye twitched. Crap. The bastard knew how to transform the atmosphere with one phrase.

The GDR disappeared behind the trees, and Russia was left alone with – no, not even thoughts – feelings and sensations. They swarmed in his head, like midges. In silence, without the sound of rain on the water and the slightly hoarse voice of Gilbert, they buzzed even louder.

Counterrevolution.

Hands reached for his chest pocket. He took out a photo with Alfred's smile, warm even through the monochrome, less and less, trusting only the walls in his room. The edges of the card have worn away in seven years, but not the face on it. Ivan touched his cheekbones, sharpened by illness, and sparkling eyes rarely, only brushed them with the pads of his fingers.

Alfred on the photo and Alfred in real life have never been so similar to each other.

He was told that Jones was preparing a coup here. The newspaper reports named it a “restoration of capitalism” – too dryly and ponderously; but the fear of poverty and oppression was so much more alive. He was told, that Czechia and Slovakia must be saved, also saved from themselves – for they did not know what they were doing. He was told that healthy forces were waiting for his help, as they had been waiting for many years ago, so that he could etch out the poison that was ready to burn the inside of a white lion with a golden tint.

He expected it to be difficult. That the saboteurs would resist – maybe even with weapons in their hands. That people would be fooled by western propaganda. That he would have to be tough on them.

But not that all the people of Hedvika and Loizo would turn into counterrevolutionaries.

Contempt. Insults. Leaflets. Graffiti on the walls. Silence, heavy as lead, in response to any question from his soldiers about the directions or the well.

Was it possible – a gloved finger stroked the golden hair – outside of black and white shot it shone under the light of the sun – was it possible even for Alfred to achieve such an effect?..

“Hey, Braginsky, I forgot to say, Felix wanted… ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE TO STILL CARRY IT EVERYWHERE?!”

Ivan nearly jumped – the photo, fallen from his hands, slowly floated down to the river – he rushed, leaned over the bridge railing, grabbed the photo in the air – he did it!

He scooped up the card with his entire hand – a wrinkled fold remained in the middle. And only when the photo rested in the safety of his palms – only then did his brain caught the voice of Gilbert, yelling in German:

“Twenty years! Twenty fucking years have passed! «Jones doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself, Gilbert»! «Jones weasels out of the agreements, Gilbert»! «I won't fucking talk to him, Gilbert»!”

“The fuck are you yelling your head off?!” Ivan shouted in Russian. He didn’t care about idioms: Gilbert should have grasped the understanding thanks to his thunderous bellowing. “Miss getting clocked in your German snout by the locals?!”

The GDR did grasped the understanding – he didn’t stop swinging his arms, but he began to yell in whispers:

“I've been living with a pain in my ass in the form of a fenced-off piece of Berlin for twenty years, you two almost blew the world to hell twice in the last ten years! I only hear from you that Jones is a stupid aggressive piece of shit, and you, selfless dickhead, are busting your ass to save us all from this bastard! And all this while you’ve been jerking off to his photo for twenty years!”

“Beilschmidt, are you fucked up?! What the hell twenty years?!” The sky turned gray as the color of Gilbert's tousled hair; drops fell on his shoulders – but the red anger in his chest, spurred on by his heart pounding against his ribs – how did he know, he had been hiding the photo so carefully, how – completely obscured all consciousness.

“That’s you who’s fucked up if you thought that you’re such a goddamn splendid conspirator that I wouldn’t have noticed how you were almost making out with this piece of paper!”

“But when…”

“When you dragged me at your place after the war! Have you forgot?!”

His heart skipped a beat.

Ivan really wanted to growl in response. He wanted to shut Gilbert up and go to the base, away from the bridge – the rain was getting stronger – but he could not utter a word.

After the war.

“You're kidding, right?” he probably looked completely desperate, because the anger subsided from Gilbert's face, giving way to confusion in half with disbelief. “Have you really forgot?”

Russia shook his head vaguely. He loosened his tight scarf. He was out of breath.

“When did you see it? How did it happen?”

“When you thought no one was looking at you. Already in Leningrad. A couple of times. You took it out and looked for a long, long time”

In Leningrad.

He brought Gilbert to the Leningrad apartment back in 1945. Not to Moscow. It was necessary to take out the equipment that had survived in the ruins from the Soviet occupation zone – Gilbert, no longer Prussia, but not yet the GDR, was needed with an uninjured skull and spine. Stalin strictly forbade him to touch Beilschmidt, already half-dead because of the bombings – and because of Braginsky’s boots, breaking his ribs with all their might. With great difficulty, but Ivan obeyed.

He couldn't vouch for the rest of the Union.

"You don't remember" Gilbert breathed. He ran his hand through his rain-soaked hair. He muttered something, that felt like calling up to the saints. “You truly don't remember at all”

“I found this photo seven years ago” Ivan grabbed the bridge railing with his hand. A sense of unreality swirled his head. “I remember nothing about it until then”

Their silence was being interrupted by the sound of drops on the water and pavement. They ignored it.

“Did I say anything? About…” Russia nodded at the paper still clutched in his hands.

Gilbert chuckled darkly.

“You were not eager to let me in on your secrets back then. I asked, later, already in Moscow... You remember that you settled me to the others in Moscow, right?” Ivan nodded. “I asked Natasha. She didn't know either. She took a sneak peek at how you look at the photo. She said that in those moments your mug could be kept at night instead of a lamp”

“Did Natasha say like that?”

"I rephrased it" Gilbert waved his hand irritably.

He stroked his chin with his hand. Thought. Weighed his words. And suddenly said:

“So you don’t remember that incident in the summer of 1947 either, do you?”

Russia fluttered his eyelashes. “What should I remember?”

He remembered – remembered – that he was at a conference in Paris – he told the stubborn Jones everything he thought about him, how he quarreled with Western Europe – by that time the masks had already been torn off, they wanted to harm him, take away what he had received at such a high price...

“Well, how you broke into the apartment with a furious look and then threatened to rush to Stalin?”

He started to get sick. Ivan quickly ran his tongue over his lips, so strangely dry in the rain.

“Enlighten me”

"Yeah" Gilbert brushed damp hair off his forehead. “So, step by step. It happened shortly after you settled me in Moscow. In May or June, I don't remember exactly. You left on business in the morning, and then... You just broke into the apartment, almost knocked Raivis and Tigran off their feet, rushed to your room. You locked yourself in, and there was such a rattle, as if furniture was falling. You ran out, wild, yelling that you need to see Stalin”

“Why?”

“The devil knows, you did not bother to clarify! You ran away and came back an hour later. Ah, here's another thing. You forgot to lock the door in your room. We looked in... Okay, I looked in - everything was turned upside down there. Drawers were wrenched out, everything that had been inside was lying on the floor. And a dent in the wall. Seems like you hit it on the rampage”

The images described by Gilbert surfaced – no, not in the imagination, in the memory – brightly, colorfully; Ivan could have sworn he saw them himself, but why... His mouth went dry.

“So what? Did I get on to Stalin?”

Gilbert shook his head grimly.

“I have no idea, but you ran back even more lathered. Locked yourself up again. I decided to go to you – to see what kind of shit is going on. Toris tried to stop me, babbled some crap, like don't touch him now, he'll kill you…"

“And what did you do?”

“I guffawed in his face. And looked inside. You were writing something at the table, I didn’t even have time to utter a word, you threw me out in a moment. And that's all. You didn't leave the room until morning. And then they came to you”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Some core worker of yours. Not one of the decisionmakers, otherwise I would have known him. He left in just half an hour”

“And in the morning?” Russia was catching the words of the GDR so desperately, as if he would miss one thing – and immediately collapse dead. “What happened in the morning? When I left the room?”

“Nothing”

“In what sense?”

“In the literal one” Gilbert pursed his lips. “You left your room. Calm. Sane. As if nothing had happened. The rest were silent too – probably decided not to meddle. I was fucking baffled, but I thought that you in the Union…” he swung his hand. “…Have your own atmosphere, and shoving oar in is more trouble than it’s worth. Speaking of the photo of Jones… I haven't seen it since”

The sound of the rain was deafening, drumming against his head and shoulders. Ivan slid down the stone railing, hiding his face in his hands. He was trembling.

He didn't know what to think.

He didn't know how to react at all.

“Hey”

Russia removed his palms. The gloomy GDR sat opposite him, squatting. Almost at the same height. He bit his lip and looked somewhere sideways.

“You… You looked so… frightening”

Ivan chuckled. How could it be otherwise.

“As if I wanted to kill someone?”

The unwavering gaze of red eyes – Gilbert's answer hit his inflamed mind like a whip.

“No. As if someone wanted to kill you”

1. He could not count, how many wires he cut in a week – on August 21, 1968, Operation Danube began, during which troops of the Warsaw Pact countries entered Czechoslovakia. This was done to put an end to the reforms of the Prague Spring, which were launched by the First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, Alexander Dubcek, and which led to freedom of the press, and as a result, to calls for a transition to a market economy, to expansion of ties with the West, to separation of the Party from the state. The leaders of the USSR were afraid that Czechoslovakia might leave the socialist camp.
2. Looks like they are not so deadlocked, if they bring oil to the counter-revolution – official Soviet propaganda called the citizens of Czechoslovakia who took to the streets and numerous public organizations that protested against the entry of troops "counter-revolutionary and revisionist forces that relied on the support of the global imperialism".
3. The commander reported that the reactionaries had seized the Central Radio – as far as I understood, one of the main tasks of the invading troops was to establish control over radio, television and newspapers. At 8 am, Soviet soldiers took the building of the Central Radio, not without shooting and casualties among civilians. But by this time, radio workers had already managed to broadcast a message about an uninvited invasion. Later, broadcasting about the invasion of the Warsaw Pact troops continued, from another building, from underground makeshift radio stations in Prague and its suburbs. According to the KGB report “On the activities of the counter-revolutionary underground in Czechoslovakia”, “The counter-revolutionary forces, long before the arrival of the allied forces, created an extensive network of underground radio stations and radio transmitters, including state and military ones, provided for by the mobilization plan, as well as amateur radio transmitters. Foreign radio stations came to the aid of the counter-revolution – from Austria, West Germany, England, the USA and other countries». Subsequently, Soviet soldiers were engaged in the search for these radio stations and their neutralization.
4. The fire broke out in the tank; he jumped out with the soldiers – description based on a real event when one of the protesters from Prague set a Soviet tank on fire.
5. I don't want to scare you, Vanya. But the block is in danger. All of it. Moreover… We’re paying attention to the western border of Czechoslovakia – with the FRG. It’d be better to look on the east – the main danger for the Soviet leadership was precisely the prospect of Czechoslovakia leaving the Warsaw Pact (such slogans took place) and its transition to NATO. Czechoslovakia occupied a strategically important position in the bloc, practically dividing it into two parts. In the event of a war with NATO, it was the Czechoslovakian army that was to form the first echelon of the attack of the Warsaw Pact countries on the lands of West Germany. In addition, Czechoslovakia had a small but common border with the USSR. We remember that a little more than twenty years have passed since the end of the Great Patriotic War. Memories are fresh, Ivan's paranoia spins to its fullest.
6. A week, just a week. It all ended when Hedvika and Loizo returned from Moscow, pale, too pale, they even walked off the plane clutching to each other – at first, the Soviet leadership planned to arrest Dubcek and his associates, but the widespread civil protest took its toll. Members of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia were taken to Moscow for negotiations with the Soviet government. On August 26, they ended with the signing of the Moscow Protocol, according to which the reforms of the Prague Spring were abolished, and a permanent contingent of Soviet troops was established in Czechoslovakia (before that, there were no Soviet bases there). Dubcek signed this protocol only after he was given a sedative injection.
7. And it was not even that his people weren’t allowed to go to the wells, and on the way to any place they had to wander because of the knocked down and upturned signposts, and twenty-year-old maps – how different everything felt then – could have been thrown away – at the call of the government, the citizens of Czechoslovakia did not provide an armed rebuff, but the passive resistance of the inhabitants was widespread: the Czechs and Slovaks refused to provide the Soviet troops with drink, food and fuel, changed road signs to impede the advance of the troops, took to the streets, tried to explain to the soldiers the essence of what was happening in Czechoslovakia, appealed to the Russian-Czechoslovak brotherhood.
8. Not even the fact that his people were losing their patience, and they were shooting – it’s good if it was in the air – and insults rained down on their faces – according to modern data, during the invasion, 108 citizens of Czechoslovakia were killed and more than 500 were wounded. The mood that prevailed in the Soviet troops was not up to par. Mental stress, physical fatigue, the feeling of guilt experienced by the soldiers when the local population shouted curses at them in their native language, all this created a very oppressive Officially, for the period from August 21 to September 20, five suicides were recorded in the ranks of Soviet military personnel in Czechoslovakia.
9. He could not talk to him then, not in New York; the more painful was the fact that Alfred himself made his way to him – in June 1968, the Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons was approved at the UN General Assembly.
10. I thought you was stuck at the border – the troops of the GDR were also to participate in the invasion. As a result, German soldiers were refused to enter the territory of Czechoslovakia, leaving them on the border: the appearance of the Germans on Czech soil could cause clear associations from the recent past and provoke the population into armed resistance. The German People's Army, however, took a limited part, some of its units were used for the transport of supplies, targeted operations on the ground – and also for radio intelligence.
11. Even I am tired, although Deutsche Welle broadcasts to me – Deutsche Welle is a West German radio company that broadcasted in the direction of the GDR, the citizens of East Germany had the opportunity to catch its radio waves.
12. If Erzhebet did not appear initially, then Vasil was stuck in some small village, and Felix, with the words “you, like, are so cool that you can handle it yourself” stopped halfway to Prague and so he stayed there – Five countries took part in Operation Danube: the USSR, the GDR, Poland, Bulgaria and Hungary. 170,000 troops from the USSR (two-thirds of the total), 40,000 from Poland, 15,000 from Hungary, and 2,000 from Bulgaria. Romania, which was part of the Warsaw Pact, joined China in condemnation of the invasion of Czechoslovakia. Albania withdrew from the organization in protest. Have I already said that the unity of the social bloc was a thing of the past?
13. And their students went nuts, by the way – The year 1968 was marked by a wide protest movement of youth in different countries of the world (“Red May” in France, “March of a Hundred Thousand in Brazil”, the Battle of Valle Giulia in Italy, the student movement in Germany). The protesters demanded social justice and human rights, they opposed racism, conformism, environmental pollution. In particular, in August, protests took place in the United States during the US Democratic Convention in Chicago, they were directed mainly against the Vietnam War. At the same time, they protested against the entry of troops into Czechoslovakia (by the way, later, for the brutal suppression of protests in Chicago, their participants called the city “Chehago”).
14. But he still drove his tanks to the Ludwig’s border – at first I found a source which claimed that in August NATO tanks drove up to the border of West Germany with Czechoslovakia with the intention of crossing it. Then I considered this source biased. Then I thought that in this context it doesn't matter whether the tanks were really located there or not – the main thing is that Ivan is sure they were located there.
15. Ivan tilted his head slyly. “From KGB” - Yuri Andropov, the head of the KGB since 1967, was one of the main initiators of the détente of international relations in the Soviet government.
16. “Change of decision makers” Gilbert chuckled, for some reason very bitterly. “If it was able to affect even your guys…” - hereinafter, Gilbert refers to the Hallstein Doctrine: the policy of the West German government, which was aimed at not recognizing the GDR and isolating it in the international arena. In general, after a short research, one might be convinced that relations between German brothers during the Cold War are somewhat more complicated than crouching against the Berlin Wall (on both sides of it) with an oath "I'll wait for you, brother." The FRG abandoned the Hallstein doctrine in 1970, against the backdrop of a general international détente and a change in the ruling party from the CDU to the SPD, led by Willy Brandt, who, in line with the New Ostpolitik, sought to make relations between the GDR and the FRG less tense.
17. Was it you who prompted Ulbricht to his last year's statement in Warsaw? – the Ulbricht Doctrine, adopted at a meeting of the Ministers of Foreign Affairs of the Warsaw Pact countries in 1967, became a kind of response to the Hallstein Doctrine. According to the doctrine, the countries of the socialist bloc were not supposed to normalize relations with the FRG until it “ceases to claim the representation of all Germans” (in other words, until it recognizes the GDR).
18. If it doesn’t influence him, I’ll beat him in the medal standings at Miguel’s place – in 1968, the Olympic Games were held in Mexico in the fall. Since 1965, the teams of the FRG and the GDR have competed separately. Walter Ulbricht introduced such training programs for athletes (they were classified even from the countries of the socialist camp) that athletes from the GDR took third place in the overall medal standings.
19. Was it possible – a gloved finger stroked the golden hair – outside of black and white shot it shone under the light of the sun – was it possible even for Alfred to achieve such an effect?.. - in fact, the US government was wary of the events in Czechoslovakia and the Prague Spring, since liberalization there could jeopardize the warming of Soviet-American relations. Lyndon Johnson believed that the détente that had begun in relations with the USSR was of paramount importance, also because with the help of Moscow it was possible to end the almost lost war in Vietnam without losing face. All American officials vied with each other to assure the Soviets that the United States did not intend to interfere. Of course, the UN was outraged for appearances, but nothing more. In the words of the French Minister of Foreign Affairs Michel Debré, the entry of the Warsaw Pact troops into Czechoslovakia was only "a traffic accident on the way to détente”. But according to Soviet propaganda, the "counter-revolutionaries" served "the global imperialism" anyway.
20. He remembered – remembered – that he was at a conference in Paris – At the Paris Conference in 1947, the point of no return was passed, after which the Cold War became inevitable. The Soviet delegation strongly opposed the American Marshall Plan - a project to provide economic assistance to European countries with certain political conditions – saying that it might led to Europe’s dependence on the United States (in fact, fearing the loss of the USSR's sphere of influence in Eastern Europe). The satellite countries of the USSR (or those that were under relatively strong Soviet influence) – Poland, Czechoslovakia, Romania, Hungary, Albania, Finland – announced their refusal to participate in the conference and accept aid in accordance with the Marshall Plan.

Chapter Text

Washington. 1969

White foam on the blue sea – this is how the Earth looked from the Moon. Beneath the thin ripples of translucent white lay the brown crust of the continents.

The Earth from the satellite looked small, like a ball. A blue circle, half-hidden by a shadow, in the center of an endless sky strewn with shimmering dots, and underfoot – gray ground, all in shallow imprints-craters. Fifty new stars lit up above, in the sky, forever, where the astronauts hoisted his flag.

America couldn't stop  feasting his eyes.

He was right he was right he was right

The jubilation, so bright, so uplifting, from every cell of his being: it made its way through his eyes, came out with a blue glow. There was nothing left in him but this happiness, unclouded and pure, like...

He was there too

He felt that way too

The light blazed from within, from his very essence, painfully, up to spasms in his chest: Alfred smiled at the sky that summer night, to tears in the corners of his eyes. His wings, strengthened over eight years, straightened out in the sky – and the "Eagle" landed on the lunar surface, leaving its mark forever, forever...

Euphoria elevated him to the stars, but did not save him from earthly hardships.

Nixon's new star shone in public. Its president – no joke - was reconciling with China and the USSR, which is why his reputation was only getting stronger. He brought his people out of Asia – and the media, poisoned by grief and anger, curtailed their efforts.

Nixon came on the tide of protest – and did not believe that the enthusiasm of Alfred's people was sustained by itself. That Alfred's own enthusiasm was genuine.

Nixon did everything possible to lead him out of the impasse, but the contact went amiss. America did not know the exact reason: maybe because communication with the president had practically come to naught, and in order to get to him, it was necessary to haunt the thresholds of the Kissinger’s office; or because even during encounters face to face, the formalism went off scale, and the eternal invisible barrier and distrust drove him crazy.

Howbeit.

This man managed to build bridges across the oceans on both sides of Eurasia, and hope filled the air. The hope that the ghost of war would stop breathing down everybody’s neck, whether it would be a war in the green massif of the jungle, the wounds from which were fresh, raw (the cut opened, soiled the shirts with blood: Alfred, waking up in a sweat from a nightmare, was no longer surprised at the scarlet spot on the left side of his chest); or the war that had been living in the imagination for a quarter of a century – but one thought of it made the soul tremble, because there were no winners in it.

Two superpowers finally sat down at the negotiating table in Helsinki and Vienna in order to at least slightly ease the fears of the nuclear threat in minds of all the inhabitants of the planet. America was glad to get out of the administration’s face.

And unlike last time, he will meet Braginsky prepared – even though it took him more than eight years to take this small step.

Moscow. July, 1970

Negotiations on disarmament with the Americans have dragged on for more than six months.

Thought about that could not help but comfort.

One thing was annoying – Russia was not even present at the negotiating table.

The July evening turned the crowns of the trees into green ripples. Small clouds floated over the Kremlin in the reddening sky at sunset. Ivan stood at the open window in the corridor of one of the buildings, but even the idyll of a summer evening could not loosen the tight knot of annoyance in his chest.

Warming has been outlined not only between his people and the people of Jones: Ludwig will very soon recognize the inviolability of post-war borders; they discussed this formula for long six months. For half a year he seemed to be tied down – yes, the agreement with West Germany was important and generally late for more than twenty years; but other negotiations, where the person he needed was, did not go out of his head, did not...

“They are ready to give them up. They are strong at wagging their tongues, but who of them would think about the security?”

His shoulder was almost hurt – by someone coming out from around the corner, Ivan did not have time to make out who; the figure emanated irritation, the uniform, the heavy eyebrows drawn together in anger...

“Ah... Ivan, it's you”

“Good evening, Andrey Antonovich”

The Minister of Defense was clearly out of sorts, his interlocutor – a lower military rank – looked worried. Grechko was about to turn away, when suddenly his gaze lingered on Ivan for a second, two... The expression on his face changed.

“Vanya, let's go to your office”

He made a gesture to the interlocutor, who walked away without further words. Ivan moved after Grechko, down the corridor and to the left – wondering what he suddenly needed so much.

He barely had time to lock the office door when...

“Ivan, I'll be direct – Alfred Jones is present at the disarmament talks”

Russia was very, very glad that he still had its back to the Minister of Defense, because too much pressure on the doorknob could betray his pounding heart.

“I was told that he is not in the best condition”

“No wonder” Russia turned, slowly. Conversations with people from the Politburo had not made him nervous for a long time, but these conversations very rarely touched on Alfred Jones. “He shows aggression on all continents, and until recently personally – in Vietnam. No health would be enough. Even for him”

The oppression of the population under the yoke of capital – so he would say to Kosygin, the Chairman of the Counsil of Ministers. With Gromyko, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, he would have remembered racism. His words had an effect on Grechko – the crease between the eyebrows became less rigid, he grinned.

“It became noticeable even to diplomats. Why did they even send him?”

“He himself could have asked for it” Ivan shrugged his shoulders, trying to focus on the dust particles flying in the air. “Can't live a day without attention. Like a hundred year old child”

Grechko, who was a little relaxed, suddenly threw a strange look – Russia tensed up immediately. A slight chill ran down his spine. What did he say wrong? His words about Jones sounded pale, not as venomous as they should have been? No, that's not the point at all, so what...

Ah. Of course.

Too often people felt uncomfortable around him. Around people like him.

Especially when they were reminded of that.

The thought, which used to prick with resentment under the ribs, now helped to relax a little. And in general, he was not talking to Andropov.

“How often did you meet with him personally?” Grechko continued, making a visible effort on himself. “On duty”

More often than I thought before.

“It happened. Recently – only in delegations”

“But you know him longer than we do” the Minister of Defense approached him and looked firmly into his eyes. “What do you think, Ivan, can you put pressure on Jones now?”

Russia's mouth went dry.

If Grechko implied what he thought... If he wants to...

He must try – with all his might – to leave Grechko under the impression that sending Ivan to negotiations was his idea, and only his. Not dictated from above, not begged for by him, by Russia...

And maybe then...

“Yes... most likely” Ivan slowly nodded. Every word was weighed. “I won’t say that it was easy, but I succeeded a couple of times. About a hundred years ago, when Alaska was being sold”

He watched as Grechko's face became more and more pleased. A bit more.

“It can be done if you know where to push. Beneath all that bravado, he's pretty insecure. Andrey Antonovich…” On the face – innocent concern. “Are there any problems on the negotiations?”

Grechko shook his head, slowly heading for the exit. Russia stepped back from the door.

“Rather outside of them. But you, Ivan, do not be afraid” he smiled, there was even something paternal in this. “I think we can sort it out”

We.

The door slammed shut. Russia exhaled sharply and noisily, collapsed into a chair and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders rose and fell as he tried to catch his breath.

He happened to remain silent, to answer vaguely, hiding the truth behind a veil of abstract words, but to directly lie to a person from the Politburo...

He remembered absolutely nothing from their communication with Jones a century ago.

He really wanted his today excess to pay off.

The news that he was going to Vienna in August came a couple of weeks later.

Russia did not know how Grechko guided this idea through the Politburo. Apparently, there was more dissatisfaction with the course of the negotiations than he thought.

The world was moving towards détente, hope flooded the air, but one thing remained the same: missiles in Western Europe could still reach him in ten minutes.

The Americans did not want to include them in the agreement, and no one saw a way out of this impasse.

Russia thought he knew everything about the nuclear triad of the Union, but was not even surprised when he found out that he was wrong. He was surprised how wrong he was. He was quickly – as soon as possible – brought up to date.

Not everyone liked this: Andropov's prickly gaze scratched Ivan's back when he opened folders with materials so classified that the secrecy label should be removed from them only after half of a century. He soaked up the information, cautioned not to leak it under any circumstances – If anyone would suffer the most from this, it would be himself.

It was unlikely that this would happen. If everything worked out, he wouldn't be talking to Jones about disarmament at all.

1. His wings, strengthened over eight years, straightened out in the sky – and the "Eagle" landed on the lunar surface, leaving its mark forever, forever – Lunar module "Eagle" – part of the Apollo 11 spaceship – landed on the moon in July 1969. At the very end of the passage about Alfred, there is another reference to the on the moon landing: whoever found it, well done.
2. Nixon came on the tide of protest – and did not believe that the enthusiasm of Alfred's people was sustained by itself. That Alfred's own enthusiasm was genuine – there is an explanation for this, but if I give it now, it will turn out to be too massive spoiler for the next chapter.
   
   
3. Nixon did everything possible to lead him out of the impasse, but the contact went amiss – Richard Nixon, the president under whom diplomatic relations between the United States and China improved, under whom started détente, was a very reserved and buttoned up person. As president, he distanced himself as much as possible from the White House administration, having constant contact only with the heads of certain departments, among whom was Henry Kissinger, US National Security Adviser. On one occasion – after impeachment – Nixon was told that most Americans felt they didn't know him, even towards the end of his career. He replied, “Yes, it is true. And they don't need to know me." Such isolation left a strong negative imprint on public opinion regarding Nixon and his entire presidential term.
   
   
4. Negotiations on disarmament with the Americans have dragged on for more than six months – Strategic Arms Limitation Talks (SALT) were aimed at bilateral (by the forces of the USSR and the USA) control of nuclear weapons. Preparations for them have been carried out since the mid-1960s, and they opened in November 1969, the sessions were alternately held in Helsinki and Vienna.
   
   
5. yes, the agreement with West Germany was important and generally late for more than twenty years – On August 12, 1970, German Chancellor Willy Brandt, in line with the "new eastern policy", which was aimed at reducing tension between the FRG and the GDR, signed an agreement together with Kosygin on the recognition of post-war borders in Europe, which marked the beginning of a series of treaties between the FRG and Eastern European countries, including the GDR – this was followed by changes in the situation within Europe. In fact, this document was a peace treaty between the FRG and the USSR.
   
   
6. Russia did not know how Grechko guided this idea through the Politburo. Apparently, there was more dissatisfaction with the course of the negotiations than he thought – nuclear forward-based weapons (NFBW) have become one of the main stumbling blocks in the SALT negotiations. The Americans did not want to remove or somehow limit the number of missiles in the countries of Western Europe, referring to the will of the NATO allies, there was no unity among the Soviet leadership on this issue: the Foreign Ministry was ready to give in, while the military insisted on limiting the NFBW or their elimination. In the middle of 1970, the problem became so acute that the fate of the negotiations was called into question: at that moment, it could not be resolved either at official meetings of delegations or in the correspondence between Kissinger and Dobrynin.

Chapter Text

Ivan Braginsky had many crazy days in his long life. Despite this, he considered himself a reasonable country, calculating and careful enough not to rush off the bat towards thoughtless risks. Empire in the past, head of the Union in the present, on whose shoulders lay the fate of millions, Ivan was responsible. Maneuvering between the nets placed by the special services, he caught the slightest changes in the atmosphere. He was attentive. And cautious.

So he thought until the day when his caution went to hell – and until on a warm August morning he decided to run away to God knows where with Alfred Jones.

V ie n na . August, 1970.

The interiors of the Belvedere were as luxurious as they were exquisite: the walls twined with gold patterns against the ceiling, which was not inferior in beauty to the world's masterpieces of painting. Somewhere up there, on the upper floors, their delegations were negotiating for nuclear weapons: each proposed such a reduction option in order to weaken the other side as much as possible, and not lose the advantage itself. His people, as well as Americans, were clearly tired – they had been in Vienna for several months, unable to overcome the wall of misperception. The air was saturated with despondency, which was mixed with annoyance when Russia did not find the one he was looking for in the hall. He went downstairs, looked at the park spread out under the windows and, in order to drown out the feeling, which he was irritated to admit even to himself, started a conversation with Roderich.

Lights, chandeliers flickering with diamond fire, polished parquet – Roderich Edelstein, once his closest ally, he was still inseparable from this magnificence, like a revived baroque statue on a fountain in a palace park. The gold-embroidered caftan was replaced by a three-piece suit, but Austria behaved with all the same elegance as in the heyday of his glory: conversations with him always took Russia back two centuries ago, to the era of music and balls.

And Alfred Jones, fervently grinding a pretzel with his jaw, did not fit into this era at all.

Loud scream. From the next gallery, in the morning light pouring from the window, a silhouette waving his hand. Ivan caught his breath.

Alfred Jones was late.

Of course he was late.

“Hey, Roddie, dude!”

Roderich was slapped on the shoulder in a familiar way, his eye twitched under the elegant thin frame of glasses: Russia wondered what made Roderich shudder more – “Roddie” or “dude”. America returned the cup of coffee to his free hand, the half-eaten pretzel was clutched in the other – it didn’t stop him from grinning from ear to ear.

“I got confused in the corridors, again, here you can only find a buffet without any problems, by the way, I didn’t say, but desserts are goddamn jaw-droppers! I thought apple pies were my thing, but what are your people doing here” Alfred licked coffee from his lips with a laugh. “It's just...”

“Hello, Alfred” Roderich sighed, straightening the skirts of his jacket. It seemed that he was even pleased with Alfred’s arrival: if only he could avoid physical contact... “I'm glad that you finally found the way... for the fifth time. Ivan... I suppose I'll leave you two alone?”

Russia briefly but gratefully nodded. Roderich went to the gallery, from where Alfred fluttered like a cheerful bird a minute ago – he, being busy with coffee, did not have time to say goodbye, and therefore shouted out:

“Yeah, bye! See ya!”

Even if Roderich heard him, he did not consider it necessary to turn around.

They stayed together with Jones. Ivan, instead of a greeting, gave Alfred an appraising look.

“What?” America frowned, going into serious mode, but his bulging, pretzel-stuffed cheek killed all the effect. “I didn’t have time to have breakfast”

"So that's what you've been doing for the last six months. Studied Roderich's buffet”

“Studying buffet is more interesting than trying to persuade my die-hards to negotiate with your die-hards” America finished chewing the pretzel and slipped the napkin into his pocket. “It’s even funnier to think that they’re really deciding something here”

“You’re getting smarter, Jones. Haven’t expected that”

Russia wanted to say this sarcastically, but failed to add even a tenth of a usual venom. America chuckled, sparks of laughter flickered at the corners of his eyes. In general, Alfred Jones was in his usual mood: energetic, as if with springs in his heels, loud and smiling so much, that Ivan unwittingly wanted to grate his teeth. Only under the eyes were visible – already faint – but still noticeable shadows. Ivan held his gaze at them for a moment longer than it was necessary.

Russia jerked his head, inviting America to the exit – he was drawn to the park... to the air. First into the gallery, then onto the stairs, down past the few tourists at this early hour.

Ivan was seized by a strange feeling of irreality – and as if not for the first time.

He must concentrate. He's here to discuss nuclear weapons.

And not only that.

America walked by, drinking the last of his coffee. Something must be said. He must start somewhere. But what...

“Why didn't you return home? If you understand that it is useless to decide something here”

The smile on America's lips disappeared. It made the shadows under his eyes brighter and deeper – as if Alfred had died out completely. They stopped almost at the exit.

“I wanted to go back” America unconsciously tousled the hair on the back of his head. He did not look at Russia. A gust of wind from the half-open door whipped up the side of his jacket, and America tucked it in too harshly. “But I... I found out that you were going to come, and... I decided to stay”

Ivan was silent, using all his strength to ensure that not a single emotion reflected on his face. Alfred interpreted his silence in a different way and continued:

“I wanted to talk. With you”

"That's... reasonable" The tongue became too dry. Russia spoke further, automatically, he did not feel his words at all. “We can come to an agreement. We're interested in it... more than anyone else”

America nodded, belatedly. He calmed down a little, even began to seem younger, although it was difficult to seem younger than he already was…

Ivan shivered – and remembered why he went here in the first place. At least, according to the Politburo.

“I'm glad to see that you want dialogue...”

“Sure, what kind of question is that, I...”

“If so, how about starting by getting the missiles out of Europe?”

Jones did not flinch, did not get angry – when the meaning of the words reached him, his blue eyes rolled so much that rolling them even more was physically impossible.

“God, Braginsky... Not you too!”

A sweeping movement, a sip of coffee – America finally went outside. Russia followed him, hands in his trouser pockets.

“You said yourself that you want to negotiate. Now you resent that I care about my security?”

“I did not think that now I would have to go through this with you too for twenty-fifth time” Alfred pushed his glasses deeper on the bridge of his nose with his knuckles. “Your guys didn’t tell you that they’ve been chewing my ears with this for six months already?”

“I will chew, as you put it, your ears, until a weapon that can destroy me in a couple of minutes disappears from the map of Europe”

“You will destroy them all in five minutes and launch your own from submarines” America turned to him and spread his arms, walking backwards – he managed to do it deftly, until he almost ran into a green space.

“My ballistic missile defense system is not so reliable. And you know it”

Truth, presented like a bluff – Alfred bought into it and grinned, but his eyes were cold.

“And I also know that you can fire off missiles at me from your territory and make a mincemeat out of me, so what's the difference?” Something in his voice made Russia's brow twitch a little: a barely perceptible movement outside, but inside he began to seethe. “In that case I'll perish second”

“Thank you for letting me know. It will console me” a smile, cold as a shield, spread over his lips. Alfred shrugged his shoulders, throwing a too caustic responce:

“Of course it would console you. You are the stronghold of peaceloving forces, after all”

That son of a bitch.

Hundreds of thousands of his soldiers were still in the jungles of Vietnam, and he dared to stutter something about peace.

They approached the bench, but continued to stand, staring into each other's eyes, blue into purple. People bypassed them – even to go between their figures seemed to be life-threatening.

“And your missiles in Europe? Do they also stand there for the sake of peace?”

“Exactly” America grinned victoriously. “I’m protecting my allies”

It has already happened it has already happened it has already happened

“Are you under pressure from Europe? Jones…” Russia bowed his head, his voice was laced with honey. “Why didn't you say from the start that your will in NATO lost any support after your military adventures?”

“Braginsky, if you keep your satellite states on a dog leash, it doesn’t mean everyone does that” America laughed. The corners of the Russia’s lips stretched even wider. “My allies are free. They decide for themselves whether to remove my missiles or not, if necessary. And I...”

The voice of reason somewhere in the back of his mind told Ivan that it was a bad idea to knock Alfred Jones’ white sparkling teeth out in the middle of the Belvedere, but every minute that voice became quieter and quieter.

“…I didn’t want to talk about that at all”

The anger went out like a match dropped into water when Russia heard this suddenly so tired voice. Alfred changed again: he tousled his hair and pursed his lips – and in front of him was no longer a nuclear power and not the leader of the capitalist world, but a boy who looked nineteen years old, uneasy and confused, and Russia hated that this sight made him feel abashed.

At least he could keep it in secret.

His heart pounded against the photo with the frayed corners on the back of his jacket.

“About what then?”

"I... I don't even fucking know where to start... Ivan" Alfred paused for a moment and then blurted out. “Are you right in your head?”

“Jones...” Russia was so taken aback that all possible answers disappeared somewhere. And the very sight of America, who spoke not maliciously, but anxiously and with some kind of sympathy, was completely confusing. Alfred, who in the meantime understood the meaning of the phrase, waved his hands hastily:

“I didn't mean it! I mean... How's your memory? Do you remember everything that happened to you? For example... for example, in the twenties?”

“Be more specific” Ivan tensed, trying to catch his breath. Jones himself started the conversation, which Russia tried to think through for weeks, but because of him the whole plan went to hell. However, this was even better. If America was the first to decide to lay his cards on the table, then it was better to find out how many of them he had. He needed to put on a nonchalant face. “What exactly should I remember?”

“Nineteen twenty-four” Alfred exhaled. “New York”

Ivan thought. Even if he could lie, he didn't know what about.

“I buried Lenin in nineteen twenty-four. And I didn’t travel to New York then”

America's face changed, quite a bit. He hurriedly put his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, took out a piece of paper, unfolded it, almost spilling the rest of the coffee, and handed it to Ivan.

The paper was new, obviously a photocopy, but its original, judging by the font, was several decades old, no less. Russia held the document referencing an establishment of Amtorg Trading Corporation, a company that connected his country and the United States for almost a decade before the official recognition. After that reality finally opened Alfred's eyes that his stupid disregard for the Union had no sense whatsoever.

Disregard, however, did not stop him from raking in mountains of dollars through concessions.

And among the list of the first employees of Amtorg was his, Russia’s, name and surname.

He was hardly amused. The feeling when his past was reconstructed with the new the pieces of a broken mosaic was already becoming familiar to him.

But why then...

“You don't remember that you had been at my place for half a year” Alfred's gaze was wide open and a little wild. “Is it true?”

“How do I know if it's not fake? And why are you so confident that I'm not lying?”

“Because I’m…”

He broke off. America's gaze darted around in search of something incomprehensible to him, stumbled upon the semicircular bench they had forgotten about. He waved his hand sharply, either pointing at it or inviting him, and sank down on the bench. Ivan sat down beside him, sideways, putting the paper in his pocket, and locked his fingers. The dangling edge of the scarf obscured the sight, how he rubbed the knuckles of his hand with his thumb.

Something else lay in Alfred's inside pocket. He reached for it, but stopped, pulled off his jacket with a jerk – the sun was already beginning to burn – and only then took out another photocopy.

Ivan ran his eyes over it. An application to Amtorg from Ford Motor Company: long phrases, filled with officialese, the essence is simple: the Auto Giant asked for permission to send two and a half dozen engineers to the Soviet Union, straight to the construction of the Nizhny Novgorod Automobile Plant. Application was approved, the date next to the seal – October 1930, and to the left of it, at the very bottom of the list of engineers – “Alfred F. Jones”.

The plant in Gorky was one of the greatest Stalinist construction projects; how much work was invested, how much effort was plowed in – Ivan’s chest still ached with pride. He spent more than a year on it... and no matter how much he tried to remember, a dull, distinct pain resounded in his temples.

It reappeared – he had only to look at the names of American engineers.

They were there?

“I decided to rummage through the archives, because...” Jones hesitated and broke off. “Well, I decided to root around. And so. I’ve found it”

The next sentence was even more fragile.

“I don't remember anything about it. And for some reason, every time these memory lapses are connected with you... And you?“ America gazed intently into Russia’s face. He sat without saying a word for a couple of seconds. “I mean, it was your people who signed it. Maybe you remember how I came? We could see each other, in Moscow, for example, if I was passing by, I just... This is such nonsense, I have some kind of hole in my memory, maybe you...”

“I wanted to ask you the same thing”

Alfred straightened his back sharply. Ivan took something out of his jacket pocket slowly, with an unblinking, nowhere-directed gaze, and...

America held a photograph in his hands, without which Russia could no longer imagine himself; looked at his own forty-years-old image. Amazed and slightly shabby – at thin, but with a face radiating sunlight.

“This...”

“The photo was taken in the thirties. I received it among other documents ten years ago” he continued in response to silence. “I snapped it... apparently”

“And you?..”

Ivan shook his head.

“Didn't know about that, no”

America, shocked, returned to the photo, peering into his smiling eyes and the landscape of birches. He chuckled, nervously.

“What a tadpole I am here. I’ve already forgotten” Alfred turned over the photo. “What is written here?”

Damn it.

Ivan's eyes widened. He had been carrying the photo in his pocket for ten years – and he forgot about the inscriptions on the back of it at the decisive moment...

“Ivan” America slightly poked him with his elbow and Russia almost flinched: it was their first touch for today's meeting. “What’s up, lost your tongue? I can see the date, but what is this?”

“Look” Ivan rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers. The sun was getting too hot for him as well. “You won't like what is written there”

"Hey" Alfred chuckled. “The handwriting is definitely yours. And there is such things as dictionaries, and if there is something like "capitalist douchebag" – I'll know about that!”

“There’s written that you are in the USSR” Ivan locked his fingers with a sigh, regretting that the "capitalist douchebag" was not something really displayed there. “I bet it’s next to that same factory… How do you know it’s my handwriting?”

The smirk faded from Alfred's face as if it had been turned off. He turned to his jacket.

“I know…”

“What? Another surprise from your archives?”

Alfred shook his head strangely, distantly. He took out a stack of four letters fastened to each other, folded in triangles.

And if Ivan wasn't sitting now, he would definitely become week in his knees.

He took them with trembling hands and unfolded them, first, second, and so on to the end. The lines stuck into his agitated brain. Waves of heat passed through him. These words and phrases, affectionate, written as if not by him, but without a doubt by him...

The blood in his ears was pounding so loud that he could barely hear America's question.

“Ivan” it seemed that he spent all these minutes holding his breath, and only now allowed himself to let the air out of his lungs. Russia’s name came out like dust. He had never seen America so anxious. “Do you remember how you wrote them?’

“Yes”

Alfred's eyes lit up. He twitched, leaned closer to Russia.

“When? How?!”

“I remember that I wrote them” Ivan squeezed out the words, slowly raising his eyes. “But I don't remember exactly when or how”

They looked at each other as if for the first time in their lives. Alfred turned away first. He hunched over, hiding his face in his hands. Not even a minute passed before his shoulders started to tremble slightly.

From under the fingers came a scattering of hysterical chuckles.

“Jones?” Ivan glanced at him apprehensively. Laughter – no, already guffaw – became louder with every second and scattered through the park; Alfred laughed, throwing his head back, slammed his palm on the bench, all this to the accompaniment of Russia's deathly silence. The thought of calling the medics had already visited him, but...

“Braginsky” tears came out of his closed eyes. Alfred wiped them off, almost jackknifed. “Maybe… Maybe there’s something I don’t know about you? Maybe you're secretly just... a nice... guy, and you write to everyone in such a... friendly manner?”

“Jones, blyad” the idea to knock his teeth out sounded like a bell in Ivan's mind – since Alfred exposed them so invitingly.

“And Brezhnev, he too...” America was already suffocating. A couple of passing tourists turned around. “He started kissing everyone... after meeting... with you?..”

What a moron.

Surprisingly, but after a while, Alfred's laughter began to subside. The stream of his laughter had dried up, and now America sat with his hand in his hair and only occasionally flinched when the last grains burst out in convulsive gasps.

"So you don't remember New York" he summed up. “At all”

“Yeah” Ivan took on an absent expression. “And you – Gorky”

“What I…”

“Nizhny Novgorod. It’s Gorky now”

“Oh”

They became silent. Awareness absorbed into them, seeped inside, settled somewhere in the depths of the souls. The sun rose high in the sky, heating the air around them, making the lingering thoughts move even more slowly in their heads. Alfred loosened his tie. Ivan didn't move.

“What about everything before that?” America suddenly spoke up.

“What?”

“Before...” the unutterable word “revolution” got stuck in Alfred's throat. He waved his hand dismissively. “In the nineteenth century. We definitely saw each other. Even when I bought Alaska from you! Do you remember?”

“I remember how I signed papers at your place” Ivan put his locked fingers to his lips. “How I met you”

A minute of intense reflection passed. He knew that he met America then, could not help but meet at an event of such importance. But attempts to remember any specifics – what they did outside the official part, what they talked about – turned into the fact that the thread of thoughts seeped through his fingers like sand.

“And that’s all”

America nodded. And then he jumped up, as if he realized something.

“When the famine broke out? In eighteen-ninety-something... I was at your place! I brought you food”

“You did what?!”

Self-control flew off for a moment – Ivan turned around too sharply.

If the emptiness in memory has already become familiar, then the fact that not anyone, but Alfred – Alfred of all people – could help him during the troubles that over and over again fell on his head because of the tsarist government, pulled the carpet from under him. Russia went hot and cold all over. He couldn't... but Jones was a disgusting liar, everything was written on his face: for sure... for sure he demanded something in return: money or influence...

Alfred's eyes flashed a blue flame, too intense for simple annoyance. Burning resentment cut through his voice.

“I brought food! What, doesn't look like a greedy idiot?! On five ships, and I personally sailed to you, and we met, and I distributed food in your governorates! And... that's all I have left”

He exhaled – and with this exhalation his anger came out, the last drops, only some kind of fatigue remained. America rested his elbows on his knees, and his arms hung down like willow branches. And it was already too hard for Russia to maintain an appearance: he ran his fingers through his hair. He felt sick.

What the hell, why him, why Jones...

“I thought the Reds washed your brain after the revolution, so much so that all the convolutions were washed away” America laughed helplessly at his own joke. “But me? What went wrong with me?”

“What makes you think that your convolutions are safe and sound?”

“Since it is your system that kicks the crap out of everyone who does not react to the CPSU congress with such puppy enthusiasm as to the Rolling Stones concert” the irritation, which had almost gone away, was ready to flare up in Alfred with renewed vigor. “You must be a champion in the discipline "how to live joyfully with a KGB agent sticking out of your ass"!”

“Yes, Jones, that's it, I'm a champion, damn it”

America's mouth shut in amazement. Russia did not let him realize the full significance of his sudden confession and continued – a muffled voice concealed his anxiety:

“Therefore, I can at least assume that they are watching me, that I am under their thumb, that something is wrong with me... And you?”

“Hey, despite all the shit I'm stuck in right now, I still have such thing as human rights, and surveillance would be a violation of mine, and...”

“...it could be conducted in a way that you would not notice. Jones... Alfred” Ivan did not remember... did not know if he had ever pronounced his name with such gentleness. "Even you're not that naive. Have your intelligence services been somehow active towards you? Have they done anything lately? Or not lately?”

America wanted to continue to seethe. He really, really wanted to. But a ripple ran across his tanned face: Alfred was realizing something, slowly, inexorably...

"Your superiors might have kept this from you" Russia spoke softly, almost tenderly. “Especially anything related to me…”

"Nixon thinks you're sponsoring the anti-war movement" America blurted out sharply. His lips stretched back into a nervous smile. “He even got on my nerves, called me on the carpet, he is absolutely sure, he said that he would find this source, really, they can’t just want this slaughter to end...”

Alfred lifted his head and smiled straight up at the blue sky, but his gaze was not focused. Ivan guessed what was happening to him. He almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“If they're watching everyone now, they might have done that before... Right? And... and they might have done something to me”

“Maybe”

“And with you? You think...”

Ivan's sigh came out heavy.

“I don’t know. If that's the case, I won't be surprised”

“Has this happened to you before? Russia raised an eyebrow in surprise. America explained. Maybe you have memory lapses? Although, hell” he slammed his palm on the bench with relish. “How can you remember what you forgot if you don’t even know that you forgot something?”

“No, I don't know” Ivan shook his head. “Not with me... not with anyone else. Not that I have anyone to ask...”

America's face brightened suddenly. He slapped his forehead.

“Ask! Exactly! And why didn't I get it right away? We can ask ... Arthur!”

Ivan winced at the mention of that name. The thought of America talking about his – their – problem to anyone, especially England, was incredibly annoying.

“Why him exactly?”

“Because if someone understands the incomprehensible mystical bullshit, it's him” Alfred chuckled. “The dude has a whole library, maybe he got secret knowledge there, which the fairies whispered to him... I'm not joking about the fairies” America explained, seeing the gloomy expression on Russia's face. “He himself said that he met them, and he even seemed to be sober then – I mean, both when he met them, and when he spoke, and ...” his face suddenly took on a serious and sad expression. “Yes, and he is probably the only one I could tell... about this. What about your options?”

Ivan thought... and frowned again. There was a time when he bonded – as he thought – with a country that has been in this world longer than all those living today.

Two border conflicts last year completely wiped out the possibility of any dialogue with Wang Yao – and these memories irritated him almost more.

“I can't think of anyone with whom I would share such things. And who would share with me”

“I don’t see any other options now, except to ask someone else, for example, Arthur... unless you and I come up with something better” it was hard to agree, but Russia nodded, noting the strange and unusual appropriateness of the words "you and I come up with something". “Maybe he doesn’t know anything, but he won’t blackmail me later”

“He won’t blackmail you, indeed”

“Well... Where I am, there you are... in this case” America scratched his head. “So we're equally up to our eyeballs in this shit. And it is unlikely that he will be able to somehow harm you without harming me, if that's what you mean”

“That’s reasonable. But with two conditions. You will only talk to him in my presence” Alfred wanted to roll his eyes – this condition complicated everything – but changed his mind and nodded. “And we will show letters only when it’s absolutely necessary”

“Oh” he even blushed. Only a little. “Okay. So, it's settled, then” America slapped his palms on his thighs with determination. “We’ll bombard Arthur with questions as soon as we see him… Whenever that happens”

“Alright. I hope he will at least believe you, and not be indignant that you beat off the rest of your brains”

“Not that I had them in the first place, according to him” America laughed, unexpectedly loudly and contagiously, so that the corners of Russia's lips turned up.

Alfred was the first of them to get up from the bench, scooping up his jacket. Russia listened to his feelings. A strange relaxation filled him; the mysteries only grew in number, Arthur Kirkland's initiation into their problem did not seem like the best idea, but he and Jones finally had at least some kind of plan after a decade of waiting.

He and Jones.

It was ridiculous to even think about it, but it was true nonetheless.

The tension dissipated, echoing the cloudless sky, and even Alfred returned to his usual, teeth-grinding self-confidence. He turned to Russia, his eyes were full of relief.

“Hey” America smiled, a little bit shyly. “I don’t know where all this will lead, but… if I find out anything, I will tell you about that. You, of course, have been a pain in the ass for the last twenty-five years – but if our services are involved in the fact that we went nuts, then we were both treated shitty. I don't think I want to hide anything from you. At least regarding our memories issue”

“I think like that as well. About a pain in the ass” Russia allowed himself to grin a little wider. “And about new information too”

If earlier a semblance of a shadow glided across America’s face, now he beamed.

“Super. I'm glad we agreed!”

“I wouldn't draw conclusions so quickly, Alfred. We still have to negotiate for a long time”

Russia waved his hand in the direction of the Belvedere, where their delegations were unsuccessfully sharing the top floor.

“Ah. Missiles” Alfred's radiant expression faded, but not very much. They walked back to the palace. “Will you continue to press me together with your comrades about launchers in Europe?”

“You forgot about multiple targetable reentry vehicles” Russia retorted.

“I can hardly wait” there was no anger in America's voice. "If we come up with something acceptable, I'll be very...”

He paused in the middle of a sentence.

All the joy that had hatched, all the enthusiasm vanished like a bursting balloon; America froze on the spot, with glazed-over look, his fingers trembled.

“We can't go back there”

“Alfred, what are you...”

“We can forget everything. Again”

America's blue eyes were filled with pure desperation, and he could barely breathe.

“Listen... We could already talk about this”

Russia raised his eyebrows. “No, it didn't...”

“We think that it didn't happen because we don't remember it”

Ivan opened his mouth to object – but all possible answers got stuck in his lungs.

Understanding of what Alfred had in mind blossomed in his thoughts – and dissolved such a clot of anxiety that all the experiences of the previous ten years were not even close.

It was as if the sun itself had turned grey, and the air around them had become too dense to breathe.

"If all this time your and my people have been running their fucking experiments on us, who's to say they won't do it again? After we have learned so much, after we decided that we would help each other?”

“How can we remember what we forgot if we don’t even know that we forgot something” Russia echoed the phrase America had thrown earlier.

He felt he was about to vomit.

America, breathless, with tousled golden heaps of hair, looked no better.

"And if we go back now, they might do it again, maybe they've done it before, in the last ten or twenty years, maybe..."

“That’s reasonable thought”

Russia tried to come up with at least one reason why America was wrong – and could not. Nothing came to his mind.

“Maybe not right away” he kept talking, quickly, haltingly. "Maybe when we part ways, that's when..."

At the thought of what would happen when they part, Ivan felt like he received an electric shock.

The delegations had been negotiating for several months, with hardly any progress. His only goal here – to put pressure on Jones, to have missiles from Europe either removed or reduced in number – was not achievable for him: America was weakened, but not enough to give up his positions; his condition was clearly overestimated in the Ministry of Defense. To think that Alfred would make concessions for the sake of their secret venture would be foolish, which meant...

Nobody would let him leave the Union to see Jones anymore.

“We must get to Arthur as soon as possible” Alfred continued his loose, but still understandable tirade, clutching his head. “We need, we need to…”

“...Run away?”

America almost choked on air when he heard Russia’s voice. Russia himself barely recognized it: the words sounded alien to his own ears.

“Are you serious?”

His mouth went dry. Ivan swallowed slowly.

“If there is a possibility that our memory would be erased, and we do not know how and when this would happen, then this is the most reliable way out, otherwise everything that we have learned in ten years...”

“Yes, Yes!” America waved his hand hastily. “I understand. I didn't think I'd hear it from you”

Ivan himself could not imagine that he would say such a thing half an hour ago. He had to master the ability to adapt to the conditions of a changing world long before he became able to dictate these conditions, but even that was already too much: his reasonable, rational part was screaming in horror at his decision to run away from the negotiations with Alfred Jones, while adrenaline already rushed into the blood, and he – in shock of himself – was already calculating how to do it...

“The shortest way from here to England is through West Germany” Alfred himself looked like he was about to clutch his head, sit down on the ground and start screaming. “I think he's at home”

“Ludwig?”

“No, Arthur”

“Alone?”

“It's Arthur” the chuckle turned out to be too high. “How do you think?”

“Alright” Russia exhaled. He brushed his hair away from his wet forehead with both hands. “So we have to cross the border”

“Yeah. It is impossible to do through the checkpoint – they will detect us immediately” America bit his lip, thinking hard. His eyes were shifting nervously. “There is a river on the border between Germany and Austria. We can wade it or swim across it, I remember the location of the checkpoints, there is a spot there, the main thing is not to run into an identity check later...”

“Will we wade the North Sea as well?”

Alfred stumbled. Nuts, they went nuts, they completely lost their marbles – everything was clear with half-wit Jones from the start, but he, Ivan, was seriously thinking about escaping to England... and how that would look like for his superiors?

Russia turned around, glanced towards the palace.

“Heck. Everything can go up in flames”

“What?” Ivan was now looking into Alfred's dumbfounded eyes.

“Negotiations. If we run away, they might think that I took you to the West, and then there will be a huge scandal, and everything that we agreed to...”

“I'm not talking about that” Russia fell silent. He thought about the America’s words. “No, they are unlikely to cut them off”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s impossible to be completely sure here” trembling fingers clenched into fists. “But my government considers these negotiations very important, because…” He trailed off again, choosing his words carefully. No. There were things – they concerned his nuclear triad – that in no case should be disclosed to America. “Because there are reasons for it. And so does your government. I think you understand, which reasons”.

America followed every word. He nodded, briefly but firmly.

“And they will not think that we have run away to give away our nuclear secrets to each other...”

“...because it would put us on the brink of destruction. My people understand that for me and the Union this means death. And you...”

For me and the Union – it felt like a tub of cold water was poured on Ivan.

Jones was going to run away, remaining one on one with his secret services – but he, Ivan, would leave fourteen republics in the Union; the shadow of his act would fall on them. And as for the interrogation, neither his people – nor sometimes he himself – were used to being shy about means.

His insides went cold as he imagined his sisters being interrogated. Imagination drew a picture of Toris and Edward laughing to the point of hysteria – Ivan Braginsky himself, who followed their every sneeze after the war – and fled to the West...

Wait a minute.

If he already knew that all suspicious ties have been cut off  from all the republics, then the KGB could not but know this as well. Only he was sent on business trips to socialist countries in the last five years, the others were accompanied by him, at most. And besides, if it was made clear that Russia himself disappeared in an unknown direction during the negotiations in Vienna, then the seed of doubt would be sown in the souls of even the most trustworthy.

Exactly. There was no need to let the republics know that he had fled. And if they try to dig in a roundabout way, they would find nothing and leave empty-handed, because there was really nothing to find. For everyone it would be seen as if he’s still at negotiations, struggles for a peaceful sky over their heads with the greedy imperialist Jones, and the reason he does not go home for a long time – because so many positions still need to be defended...

“Hey, Ivan?” America touched his elbow. “What’s up?”

Russia came to its senses. He himself did not understand how long he stood like that with glazed-over look.

“Nothing. I think our disappearance will generally be kept secret for some time, so that... so that the consequences do not become unpredictable. My superiors would do it for sure. Yours would probably do the same. Even if they think that one of us kidnapped another, they will soon guess that we ourselves, together, escaped. And they will understand why”

“But they won’t understand where” America grinned, hiding a slightly wild expression behind the broken curve of his mouth. Ivan breathed through his teeth.

“If we somehow don’t give ourselves away. Alfred... Can you guarantee that we can rely on Arthur just enough that he would not only listen to you, but also not betray us?”

“I can” America's gaze was as firm as ever. Russia became silent. The decision was already made by him – it took a few seconds to realize this.

“Good. Then what do we do with the North Sea?”

“I can ask Ludwig for help, and then...”

Ivan almost hissed with indignation.

“Ludwig? You want to let the whole NATO in our problems?!”

“Listen to me!” America exclaimed so loudly that a bird flew into the air from a nearby topiary bush. He lowered his voice. “Ludwig and I get along! We bonded with each other very well during the time when I... uh... strengthened his defense against you” Russia met this comment with gloomy silence. “He trusts me. He even likes me, damn it! Me personally!”

"We'll cross his border behind his back, and your pig-headed confidence in your own irresistibility might blow up in our faces in such...”

“I'm confident enough in it to consider Ludwig my friend!”

Russia could almost feel a wave of anger rising within him. Which was replaced by condescension – and even strange pity – when he looked into the eyes full of righteous fury in front of him.

So that’s how it was. Friend.

Well, youngsters like Alfred and Ludwig could really throw this word left and right. Maybe even sincerely.

Ivan remembered everything that he managed to think about Ludwig over the past twenty years – and the system that Alfred casted him off – a system that swept the past under the carpet for a long time, leaving criminals without trial, from whose atrocities Ivan’s wounds had not completely been healed after decades – in exchange for reverent obedience.

Of course, Ludwig will consider Jones a friend. Who else saved him from the meeting with his own conscience so selflessly?

“Okay. We can ask Ludwig”

America was taken aback. The furrowed eyebrows relaxed in amazement: the change in Russia's expression had come too abruptly.

“If we don't come up with something better. But if we make a mistake and get caught” the violet glance clashed with the blue one, striking Alfred to the marrow. “That would be the end of everything”

Footnotes:

1. His people, as well as Americans, were clearly tired – they had been in Vienna for several months, unable to overcome the wall of misperception – hereinafter (regarding the dialogue between Alfred and Ivan below): at the second stage of negotiations, which took place from April to August 1970 in Vienna, the main stumbling block was the issue of forward-based nuclear weapons. The Soviets insisted on their inclusion in the arms limitation treaty, while the Americans (referring to the will of NATO) were sure that by and large it didn’t matter how many missiles they had: thanks to the missile defense system (the USSR had an advantage in it), the Soviet Union would still be able to shoot down these missiles.
2. Studying buffet is more interesting than trying to persuade my die-hards to negotiate with your die-hards… It’s even funnier to think that they’re really deciding something here – in fact, the broad terms regarding future SALT agreements were resolved in the correspondence between Dobrynin and Kissinger in first months of 1971. Communication of leaders in correspondence and in personal meetings was even somewhat more productive than meetings of delegations, because they could coordinate everything with the superiors much faster (which fitted the working style of the Politburo and Nixon).
   
   
3. Russia held the document referencing an establishment of Amtorg Trading Corporation – a joint-stock company established in New York in 1924 with the aim of promoting the development of Soviet-American trade in the early years of Soviet Russia. Amtorg purchased equipment from the USA for the needs of the USSR, accepted the purchased goods and controlled their shipment. It de-facto served as an embassy until the official recognition of the USSR in 1933. It was also the base for the underground work of the Comintern and the OGPU. A network of secret employees of Soviet intelligence agencies was revealed among the employees of the New York office of Amtorg already in 1924: there were about twenty of them (that was a third of the total number of employees).
   
   
4. the Auto Giant asked for permission to send two and a half dozen engineers to the Soviet Union, straight to the construction of the Nizhny Novgorod Automobile Plant – many foreign specialists were invited to the USSR in the early years of industrialization, mainly from Germany and the USA. The Great Depression aided their influx: American industrial giants (Ford, Albert Kahn, Inc.) set their sights on the USSR in search of profits and job opportunities, building many industrial facilities in the Soviet Union. The following industrial plants were built with the help of American companies: the Gorky Automobile Plant (GAZ), the Stalingrad Tractor Plant, the Dnieper Hydroelectric Station, the Magnitogorsk Iron and Steel Works, etc. I will tell you more about this in one of the next chapters, which will be published the devil knows when.
   
   
5. Nixon thinks you're sponsoring the anti-war movement – Alfred refers to Operation CHAOS, a CIA domestic intelligence project that was launched already in 1967 under Lyndon Johnson. The purpose of the operation was to uncover possible foreign (i.e. mainly Soviet) influence on the anti-war movement and its financing. The CIA conducted illegal surveillance of many Americans, compiling hundreds of thousands of dossiers. No significant funding was found: when Lyndon Johnson was informed of this, he was "unable to believe that American youth would voluntarily protest against US foreign policy," ordering the search to continue with redoubled zeal. Later, in the Nixon presidency, the scope of CHAOS, as well as internal surveillance, was The general public learned about Operation CHAOS only in 1974.
   
   
6. Two border conflicts last year completely wiped out the possibility of any dialogue with Wang Yao – it is referred to the conflict with the PRC on Damansky Island (border with the RSFSR) and the Lake Zhalanashkol incident (border with the Kazakh SSR), which took place in the context of Sino-Soviet split split.
   
   
7. a system that swept the past under the carpet for a long time, leaving criminals without trial, from whose atrocities Ivan’s wounds had not completely been healed after decades – In post-war Germany, despite the creation of such organizations as the Commission of Personnel Experts (it checked candidates for officer positions from colonel and above in the Bundeswehr), a fairly large percentage of former members of the NSDAP stayed in the public service: in the army, in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, in the Ministry of Justice and etc. The spirit of oblivion was especially strong during the time of Konrad Adenauer's chancellorship – the dominant ideological agenda was anti-communism then. At the same time, an image of the American way of life began to seep into mass culture: private house, car, foreign trips were broadcast to West Germans through radio and Hollywood films – West Germans liked this well-fed lifestyle. Elvis Presley and Bill Haley became youth idols. Advances in the field of denazification began in the 1960s: the Frankfurt trial (1963-1965) was held over former guards in the Auschwitz death camp, which launched the processes of awareness of society's responsibility for the crimes of National Socialism. The generation born after the war grew up: young people began to actively call their fathers to account (but still, “overcoming the past” did not reach its climax – otherwise Kurt Kiesinger, a former member of the NSDAP, could not have become the chancellor of the FRG). In addition, skepticism began to grow towards US foreign policy and towards this state as a whole in the 1960s: mainly due to US aggression in Vietnam. But in general, not only the FRG had problems with denazification – there were some excesses in the GDR, loudly declaring itself an anti-fascist state (google “Ernst Grossman”, for example).

Chapter Text

Vienna. August, 1970.

“In the worst case, if you are spotted, you can tell your people that you went to persuade Arthur to remove my missiles from Europe” America suggested this to him before disappearing from view and leaving him alone.

Russia sighed convulsively, looked impatiently at his wristwatch. Early.

They returned to the Belvedere nevertheless, shuddering at the prospect of going somewhere above the second floor. The details of their hastily drawn up plan needed to be discussed. The goal – to get to London as soon as possible – had been set. The only thing left was to figure out how the hell to get to the Austro-German border without CIA and KGB agents on their tails.

No big deal at all.

Both of them didn’t like that at the first stage they would have to split up. But if one of the two of them could walk outside the palace park without arousing the suspicion of would-be onlookers, it was definitely Alfred. Russia counted the minutes until the moment when the hands of the wristwatch converge on the covenanted numbers and he would be able to head to the appointed place. He made an effort not to start walking from side to side.

Ten minutes.

He replayed conversation with Alfred in his mind over and over, every little thing, every detail. Documents from the twenties and thirties rose in his mind's eye, America's words, his gestures, one after the other, as if it would help him if something was done to him in the hour that Alfred was not around.

In the inside pocket of his shirt, next to the photograph, rested one of the letters. More for comfort than for any real safety net.

A quick glance at the watch – five minutes. Finally.

Russia exhaled, letting out all the air from his lungs at once – and walked towards the exit.

He moved along the central avenue of the park, past fountains and green hedges, through densely heated air, ready to be stopped at any moment. Would he understand what's going on? Would he be able to react?

Would he get hurt?

Two stone stairs were left behind – Ivan quickened his pace, trying not to break into a run. The opposite side of the park was crowned by the second of the baroque palaces – the two-story Lower Belvedere. Go through it, pass the greenhouse and – thank all the gods in the world – go straight to the street (there was no fence) and go to the cafe on the opposite side of the street. Step confidently to the restroom, too fast for anyone to come up to him and ask him anything, step into the stall, lock it up.

Tap the agreed code with the heel – two quick hits, a pause, then three hits and one – with the knuckles on the wall.

A stuffed package flew at him from another stall. Russia caught it before it could land atop of his head.

Backpack lay in the bag, and inside it were two T-shirts, a light jacket with a hood, a pair of underwear and sneakers. Ivan took off his jacket and began hastily undoing the buttons on his shirt. Jones didn’t fail either with the size or with the palette: everything was as comfortable as possible, non-staining colors, with which it was easy to merge with the crowd.

As far as it was possible for a nearly two-meter fellow with door-wide shoulders and bandages around his neck to merge with the crowd.

That's just...

“Jeans? That is so classic you”

“I just thought they would help you fit in” The voice from the next stall rang with gaiety, which, however, didn’t hide the nervous trembling. “Do you like it, Alex? I aimed to please you”

Ivan, not without panting (it was difficult to wriggle in a narrow stall), pulled on his trousers and froze in mixed feelings. The blue rough fabric lay down like a second skin, not hindering his movements in any way. Pretty thoughtful of America. Especially if they have to run.

“I can walk. That will do”

Alfred couldn't help but chuckle.

Put his feet in sneakers, pull on a T-shirt – Ivan heard Alfred stomping, almost saw how he shifted from foot to foot in his usual manner, putting his hands in his jeans pockets (he probably put them on himself), leaning his shoulder against the wall of the stall, dishevelling golden hair. He was worried, trying to occupy himself with something. Therefore, when Russia was carefully shifting the photo and the letter into the inner pocket of his jacket, he heard an inquisitive voice from behind the wall:

“And why "Alexander"?”

They agreed to use covernames, at least until they got out of Austria, just to be on the safe side. It would be foolish to get caught if Alfred called his real name in front of an overly suspicious local resident: Roderich's country could not make boast of a large number of Ivans.

“Sounds both Russian and European” Russia frowned as he zipped up his backpack. “And why "Steve"?”

There was a short pause before America answered:

“That's my favorite character's name”

“Ah” he probably needed something to keep his head busy while he was tying his shoelaces, which is why he asked. “What movie is he from?”

“He's not from the movie” Silence again, this time more ringing. “From the comics”

Ivan froze with lace loops in his hands. A sonorous clapping of the palm on the forehead resounded throughout the whole room.

And with this greenhorn, he would be... he was already on the run – oh God...

“I'll show it to you sometime, he's cool!” America's voice was so joyful that it made his teeth hurt.

“Thank you, I'll manage” Russia threw a backpack over his shoulder and left the stall.

America was waiting for him at the bathroom window. The jacket and suit pants were replaced by leather and jeans, on the legs – light sneakers. He looked Russia from head to toe, whistled.

“You look good. I knew you would”

Ivan mentally noted his ability to make a compliment supposedly to the interlocutor, but in fact to himself, his clothes and his choice, but he was too anxious to be seriously annoyed by this. The same thing emanated from Jones: a quivering grin could not hide the nervous shiver.

“It will be good enough for a couple of days” Ivan turned to the door, but felt Alfred grab his elbow. Russia gave him a surprised look over his shoulder.

“Wait. Better through the window”

Russia turned around. The windows looked out on the backyard – the green foliage of the outstretched branches of the linden scratched the pane.

If suddenly their absence was noticed and their path was tracked down, then escaping from the cafe through the window would be the most reasonable solution.

Ivan couldn't help noticing Alfred's quick-wittedness, which came in handy, and how he was able to quickly grasp everything on the fly, while squeezing through the aperture of window of the Viennese cafe's bathroom.

Half an hour later, two three-piece suits and two pairs of dress shoes flew into a garbage can in the western part of the city, not far from its outskirts.

Some of the homeless in Vienna were in for a surprise tonight.

It seemed that they were following the sun – it had already managed to cross over to the western part of the sky. Its light blinded, forced them to squint, reflected as a blurry spot in the glasses.

America blinked.

The morning when he hurriedly tore off his jacket from the hanger and soared up the palace stairs, devouring pretzel, seemed to have remained somewhere in another life. The last three-odd hours had been filled with breathlessness, dashes, changes of transport and constant looking back – they needed to run, to break away, quickly, quickly – take three trams to the outskirts of Vienna, catch the first car that came across and drove westwards, jump out of it at the turn on Linz, long-arm unsuccessfully for half an hour and already have time to despair, jump into a slowed down truck, shake inside of it for another hour – and fall out not far from the forest that hid the blue ribbon of the river behind it.

Fortunately, they didn't have to undress, except to roll up their pants – Alfred found the wade pretty quickly. And now they were already standing on the land of Ludwig, again catching a car that would take them to Passau, and from there to Nuremberg, and from there to Frankfurt and Bonn, so wet with anxiety that T-shirts stuck to their bodies.

Unharmed and sane.

Everything was so… simple somehow?

Anxiety receded, a sense of calm (false, it's too early to relax – he told himself) slowly overtook him. He probably couldn't worry even longer. After all, what was the difference? They were already in another country, and the chase was still not to be seen. What was the point of flinching at every rustle?

“Hey, you're kind of quiet”

He hardly spoke to Russia, except for short, relevant remarks. Russia was sitting on the side of the road behind him, putting his backpack on the grass, resting his elbows on his knees bent in front of him. One of his hands hung down, the other lay on the collar – he rubbed the fabric with his fingers. His pallor seemed even more unnatural against the backdrop of a dark blue T-shirt and bright august greenery.

Ivan lifted narrowed icy violet eyes to him. He hesitated before answering.

“I'm trying to find a reason why Ludwig won't kick us out of his doorstep as soon as he sees us”

“You caught on a little too late” America replied absently. He waved his hand towards the approaching Volkswagen – it was no use; he rushed past at full speed, raising clouds of dust behind it.

“I've been scratching my head over this for three hours by now. Nothing reasonable came up, though”

Alfred grinned merrily. The smoldering adrenaline in his blood made his smile broken – although now it was barely noticeable.

“You can think of something. Some trick. You know, how movie cops do to make a criminal to cooperate. How about "bad superpower, good superpower"?”

Russia let out a dull chuckle, and America did not understand what it meant: either he really became cheerful, or behind this sound was hidden the nervously doomed "I am screwed with this idiot".

Not that one excluded the other, of course.

“And which of us will be a good superpower?”

“Another time, I would have done as usual” America's gaze rushed hopefully to the new upcoming car. “But now I can give in to you. For the sake of variety”

There was a very quiet pause.

“Thank you for your kind words” Ivan's tone from behind his back could be called anything, but not kind. “It really can work. It's not the first time you've played this game with him”

The smile was frozen on his face like a glued shield.

Another car sped by.

The thought that it was dangerous for both of them to give in to anger now flashed at the periphery of consciousness, but it was obscured by another feeling, stormy and deafening, when Alfred heard a caustic:

“Intimidate the boy with me so that he is completely caved in to you? You managed, Jones, no mistake...”

"Do you really want to discuss it now?!"

America spun towards him. The shout – almost a growl – was so sharp that Russia's eyes widened in surprise. He looked at him for a long time.

Maybe we’ll even get to Ludwig, and then you’ll show it to his face, to whom he caved in?! – words stuck in his throat when Alfred heard a soft "No".

Ivan lowered his head. America exhaled heavily through clenched teeth. His heart was pounding, now not only from anxiety, but also from furious anger. What a nice talk.

“Covername”

“What?” Ivan frowned confusedly.

“You called me by my real last name” Russia's eyebrows shot up, now in horror. “Instead of a covername, as we agreed. If a...”

“Hey, would you like a lift?”

America turned to the road. He was so lost in his emotions that he did not notice how a blue Volkswagen pulled up next to them, and the driver, an elderly Bavarian with a fleshy face, looked out of the window, his elbow hanging down.

Finally.

“Yes!” a smile blossomed on Alfred's face: he was good at getting people to like him – unlike someone. “Could you give us a ride to Passau?”

“I can go further if you need to get to Regensburg”

America beamed: this city was halfway from Passau to Nuremberg.

"Great" he waved his hand. Russia got up from the ground, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and they moved towards the car. “Sir, if you only knew how you are helping us out now!”

The next half hour passed in mostly silence, punctuated by the driver's questions and Alfred's curt replies. The Bavarian recognized his accent, and America made up a story on the spot: he and his friend, military personnel from one of the American bases (the way Ivan’s cheek twitched at this sentence, was priceless), decided to hitchhike around the country, and his comrade was so taciturn because of the sore throat. The sun was sinking lower and lower, and now Passau was left behind, Alfred reacted vividly to the harmless questions of the Bavarian, but his thoughts were far away.

Irritation was growing inside like a prickly ball.

It seemed that against the background of the experiences of the last days – and the events of this morning – he had already managed to forget what Ivan Braginsky was like. Luckily, Russia kindly reminded him every time he opened his mouth: a grim, caustic, passive-aggressive bastard, reeking of hypocrisy through and through. America could tell him so much which part of Europe – and under what conditions – caved in to whom, if they continued that sweet conversation on the roadside. Hey, they were on Ludwig's land – practically on his territory, right? There were so many things here that could teach Braginsky a thing or two. Perhaps a trip to Ludwig's house might get more fun if Ivan tried to practice his skill to get on his nerves on him again...

“Steve”

He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts – the shift from urban to suburban was a surprise – that it took him a moment to hear Russia softly pronounce his covername from the seat next to him.

America turned from the window to him. Ivan opened his mouth to say something. A wary glance flickered over the Bavarian behind the wheel – an accent, he might recognize an accent – and Ivan moved closer to Alfred, leaning close to his ear. A barely audible whisper spread over his skin, sending shivers down his neck and down his spine, and it took America a moment to make out the meaning of the words. And when he understood, he shuddered again – but not from proximity.

“A car is following us from the city”

Oh shit.

He turned his head to the rear window – and grimaced when Ivan squeezed his hand too tight.

“Don’t look back”

“What's the difference, if we’re already spotted...”

Several cars were driving at a short distance from them, passing and braking next to each other on a wide three-lane highway. Directly behind them was a small black Opel, the driver's face hidden under the brim of his hat.

“Black one?”

Russia nodded briefly.

America slowly turned his body, sat up straight. All thoughts flew out of his head at once, leaving only a panicky feeling that he suppressed with an effort – it was necessary to come up with something. Anything.

“How long has he been following us?”

“Fifteen minutes. From the town hall in Passau”

Ivan's voice was almost inaudible in the noise of the engine and the whistling of the wind from the half-open window. Just fifteen minutes. Hope lit up inside.

“It's not very much. He might just drive to the nearest major city”

Ivan nodded again – slowly and measuredly – hoping that America was right, but not believing in it for a single moment.

A crossroads appeared ahead. The green flash changed to red as their Volkswagen began to slow down. With a sinking heart, America looked in the rearview mirror: how the black Opel changed lanes and accelerates, approaching them, and then slowed down again, and now they were already level with each other, waiting for a green traffic light: so close that it was possible to see the pattern on the upholstery of the rear seat, the pile on the brim of the driver's hat, the way he rhythmically tapped his finger on the brown steering wheel cover…

The green light came on. The Bavarian and the driver of the black Opel changed gear almost simultaneously, almost simultaneously pressed the accelerator pedal, and set off – with a barely perceptible difference that increased with every second.

The black car was driving faster.

Already at the crossroads he saw its vehicle numbers. It moved away from them, slowly but surely – and as they picked up full speed, it finally disappeared into the distance, among other cars that were chasing at a distance when it was hardly possible to distinguish their colors.

America couldn't help but smile happily.

“False alarm”

Russia's face did not change: the same unreadable expression without a hint of friendliness, but a long, relieved exhalation was more eloquent than any words. He half shrugged. A soft “mm-hmm” sounded from his chest, and he turned to his window. One hand rested on the seat at his hip, the other he put down on a backpack in his lap, fingers fiddling with the collar of his T-shirt.

Alfred peered at the gesture. He had already seen it today, several times – and the realization stunned him: Russia’s scarf, this piece of fabric, which he always clung to, wrinkled in his hands, pulling it over his face, making it even more unreadable – should now lie at the bottom of the backpack.

A spasm, short and plaintive, blossomed inside at the sight of Russia with a bandaged – open – neck. It was only now that he noticed how stiff he was, how tense his shoulders were.

A sudden impulse to cover Ivan's hand with his own and squeeze a little, soothing, blossomed and throbbed inside, obscuring all other feelings.

Alfred suppressed it.

The sunset spread with fiery scarlet spills over the blue sky, painting the clouds with pink-violet stains. They thickened, flowing into the darkness, relentlessly following them from the east. Both Regensburg and even Nuremberg were left behind, the spiers of their town halls and cathedrals flashed before their eyes, the tiled roofs merged into one continuous mass in their memory, and Alfred felt fatigue accumulating in his whole body with an oppressive weight. Not from exhaustion, no; after all, he and Ivan spent today sitting either in the back seats or on the side of the road, thumbing. His physical form allowed him to run all day, and then night, and then day again anyway; but anxiety still fluttered in his chest, no matter what.

They managed to catch the cars pretty quickly after the Bavarian dropped them off at Regensburg, but it was starting to get dark. There was only one large city left before Bonn – but by nightfall the flow of cars began to dry up rapidly. The middle-aged Frau who was driving them now – Brigitte Bardot herself would envy the splendor of her beehive – turned out to be too sociable, so that Alfred knew by name all the relatives to whom she was going to Aschchaffenburg, as well as the vicissitudes of life of these relatives. He would have competed with her in talkativeness in any other circumstances, but now he had already managed to envy Ivan ten times already that he strenuously pretended to be mute, because he was “embarrassed of his accent” (this wasn’t even a lie). Repeating the legend like a mantra has already begun to be too much of a hangup: military friends from the base – vacation – hitchhiking; they should get to Frankfurt now and lie down in bed, but their friend is waiting for them so much, he misses them deadly, they can’t just...

Ivan squeezed his wrist.

America looked at him wearily. He didn’t think that he still had the strength to get anxious – and once again he was mistaken.

“They're following us. No doubt”

His heart skipped a beat. Outwardly this was expressed only in the fact that America blinked, tightly squeezing his eyelids. He didn’t even bother to turn around: mirrors, side and rear view, were at his service.

“Left, center or right?”

Ivan shook his head, shook again, then nodded.

A light-colored Audi next to two dark cars followed the side lane, speeding up and slowing down slightly, generally not changing its position behind them.

“How long has it been?”

“Forty minutes. As soon as we left Nuremberg”

America tensed up even more. A talkative Frau picked them up just not far from Nuremberg, and if this had not happened...

“He even drove ahead, then drove behind us again” Russia made efforts to keep his voice even. “We need to get off the road. Change direction and hide”

"Hey, hey, slow down" America threw up his hands. “Hold your horses. We won’t be able to catch a car soon because of the darkness, and she promised to take us almost to Frankfurt...”

“If we don't stop, we might get brainwashed, and then we won't have to catch anything!” Ivan hissed through clenched teeth.

“Boys, are you all right there?” asked the woman from the front seat. She tapped the steering wheel with a manicured fingernail.

“Yes!” Alfred waved his hand, perhaps too sharply. "It's okay, we're just...”

He pondered, weighing Russia's words. If this was indeed a chase, then it was dangerous to continue along the intended route; an ambush could be prepared at the next stop, and then nothing good awaited them... if they went out, hide in the forest outside the highway, then it was possible to get lost, and then they would get to Ludwig the devil knows when, but... Alfred bit his lip. The first time everything worked out fine, but who said that now luck would be on their side?.. But how did they manage to spot them at all?..

Ahead, a hundred meters away, a gas station was visible, with a roadside café next to it.

“We're just... Could you drop us off over there?” America pointed to the gas station parking lot with a sweeping gesture. “My friend feels not well”

The woman gasped, fussily pulled the lever, switching the pedals. And here they were, for the umpteenth time that day, getting out of the car into the cool August evening.

“Maybe we should go a little further?” Alfred was just about to say goodbye when the woman lowered the glass in the window and moved her large round glasses on the bridge of her nose. Her gaze was full of obsessive sympathy. “There is a hospital in the city, maybe it's better to give a ride to it?”

“No, ma'am, it's all right, thank you...”

“Really?”

“Yes, we just need to get some air, thank you very much, you...” it was not known how much longer his pleasantries would have lasted if Ivan had not grabbed his elbow and dragged him to the entrance of the cafe.

"The man in that light car drove on" whispered Russia as they moved forward. He didn’t loosen his grip. America at first beamed, but a brief moment of joy gave way to violent indignation.

“Why the hell did we go out then?!”

“Because the other one stopped”

The hinges creaked as they pushed against the glass door. Inside it was an ordinary cafe, unremarkable among thousands of others: a cash desk, four rows of tables, tablecloths and curtains – in the blue and white colors of the Bavarian flag. There were very few visitors left at this late hour. Ivan and Alfred sat down at the far table by the window, Alfred facing the hall, Ivan opposite of him.

“What other one?”

“A man at the table near the entrance. Don’t stare like that” Ivan hissed, although Alfred only glanced at where he described and moved his head a millimeter to the side. “Dark green jacket. He also followed us, next to a light car, for a shorter amount of time – that's why I didn’t attach any importance to him. But as soon as we stopped, he stopped too. Why else would he...”

“I don't even know” America spread his hands. Meanwhile, a waitress in a green apron approached the person Russia was talking about – a dark-haired man – and began to write in a notebook. “Maybe... he wants to eat? To fill up the tank? Didn't that cross your mind?”

Alfred was saved from an indignant, sarcastic answer by the same waitress, who had already approached them. Only now did he remember how hungry he was and he ordered what was cooked the fastest.

“Would you like something?” Ivan just silently waved, and the girl left. As soon as her footsteps died down at the kitchen window where she was passing the order, Russia immediately leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“I think it's one of yours. Maybe mine too, of course, but we're in West Germany, so it's more likely. Therefore, if we...”

“Wait, wait” Alfred again interrupted the flow of words with a wave of his hand. Ivan rolled his eyes and let out something like a low growl. “And what other evidence do you have that we’re being tailed, besides the fact that the dude was following us? And stopped to eat?”

“It's enough. We can't keep moving when there's a...”

“So, no evidence then” Alfred leaned back in his chair, exhaling through clenched teeth. “Iv... Alex, if we hide our heads in the sand every time someone follows us, we won't get to Bonn at all”

"I don't understand how you can be so careless" Ivan bowed his head and narrowed his eyes. “Do you think they can’t reach us?”

“I don’t have a fuck…any clue, how they can do that”

“Just because you don't have enough imagination for something, it doesn't mean it's impossible. Do you want us to be caught?”

“I want to get to Ludwig before goddamn Christmas, and if you get paranoid every five minutes... Wow, so fast! Thank you, ma'am!”

A plate on a tray was brought to them, with smoking scrambled eggs and a couple of Bavarian sausages. Alfred readily armed himself with knife and fork, not forgetting to wink at the pretty waitress and give her one of his most radiant smiles – the girl even seemed to blush – and instantly switched to food.

Ivan watched this scene with a excruciatingly deadpan expression.

“So, that's what on your mind. Сan't you go a day without showering everyone with the rays of your own magnificence?”

Alfred did not answer immediately – for this he had to chew the sausage first. The fire of gloomy excitement flared up in his chest (and warm scrambled eggs only spurred the heat). He wanted to plug Braginsky in the belt if he starts to balk? Well, now he had just a great opportunity.

"It's just that people are happy to see me wherever I go" he nonchalantly waved a scrambled egg on his fork. “Nice feeling, you quickly get used to it. You would understand me... if this ever happened to you”

Cold emitted from Ivan’s eyes – Alfred was able to feel it, despite the heat – and that damned smile stretched on his lips, which was not reflected in this amethyst ice. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Happy wherever you go...” Ivan slowly said, tapping his fingers on his forearm. “In Southeast Asia you were greeted with deadly joy”

Alfred shuddered – the corners of Ivan's lips spread a little wider.

America thought that nothing could piss him off – how many times a day had he been wrong?

Excitement was washed away by a wave of rage, which gave way to pain in the wound above the heart.

“Don't you dare" He could bend the metal fork in half if he squeezed just a little bit harder. “It’s not for you to talk about it, not for you, not after all that you...”

“Do you really want to discuss it now?”

The question sounded not enough... not angry enough, and somehow too tired – and America managed to notice through the veil of rage that the smile had left Russia's lips, and he was asking too... sadly?

Alfred blinked. The road, Braginsky's paranoia, the emotions that rolled over him one after another – he was ready to just explode...

“No I don’t want to. I... it was you who put on the show of the offended princess when I just winked at the waitress, okay?!”

“I didn't... da blyad” Ivan exhaled heavily, throwing his head back. Alfred remarked, not without satisfaction, that he was not the only one who at times wanted to smash his head against a wall. “Look, we don't even know what they can do to us. Let's... play it safe”

Alfred sighed. He scratched the back of his head and plucked the remaining piece of scrambled eggs from the plate.

“Yeah. Anyway, we're already here” He shrugged. “Do you have a plan?”

“Not yet, but they are unlikely to do anything to us in public” Ivan put his elbows on the table, interlocked his fingers and hid his chin behind them. “Maybe this person will eat and leave, and then everything will work out. If not... we need to think about it while there's still time”

“Escape to the forest through the window in a crapper?” Somehow it didn't sound as crazy as it might have sounded this morning. Ivan narrowed his eyes, thinking, also seriously weighing this option: probably, they both began to get used to such a rhythm of life.

“It’s an option. Then I'll go and see if it's possible to get through it at all” He began to rise. “I’ll come quickly. But you yell, if there's anything”

“Definitely” Russia got to his feet before America could finish the nod, and headed between the rows to the restroom.

Alfred twirled the fork in his hand, looking around the room. It seemed that there were more people: a couple more tables were now occupied, including ones in the next row – a couple more reasons for Braginsky's obsessive fears. The waitress walked between his and the next row of tables, back and forth, it was distracting, annoying; he did not notice how dirty his glasses had become from a day of running and nervous driving – the light of the lamps under the ceiling was blurred from the stains on the glasses – and America pulled them off, rubbing it with the edge of his T-shirt before he could notice a stir to the right of him – one of the newcomers in the light coat stood up and moved towards him – and what was next happened too quickly for him to pull them back – a click, a stomp, a wave, a rumble, a crack, a body falling to the floor...

The man lay sprawled on the tiles; Braginsky stood nearby, clinging to the legs of a chair so tightly, that his knuckles went white – its back was cracked, as if it hit something, as if...

“Are you fucking crazy?!” Jones jumped to his feet. Rage surged through his veins, mingling with panic. "What the hell are you...”

“He wanted to shoot you!”

America glanced – the prone man was holding a pocket Colt with a gunsight. His heart began to beat somewhere under his throat – he glanced back on Ivan. He was breathing heavily, his gaze was wild – a sharp movement behind his head: a man at the entrance stood up, his hand went up, there was a gun in it, aimed at Russia’s nape – and America reacted faster than he thought: he grabbed a plate from the table, threw it – Ivan’s eyes widened when the dish whistled near his temple; the plate split in half on the forehead, the man lost his balance, fell on his back – the shot rang out and went to the ceiling, to the screams and squeals of the waitresses.

Movement again, he caught it at the very edge of his gaze – another "visitor", short, blond, raised his weapon, at the far table in the next row – and then America himself collapsed to the floor under the weight of Russia, which caught him by the waist, knocked him down – he hit his tailbone, shoulder blades, the back of his head, so hard that the stars flew out of his eyes. Ivan crashed half next to him, half on top of him, knocking all the air out of his lungs. Through the ringing in his ears, through the pounding of blood all over his body, Alfred realized, felt that the rows of tables protected them from the firing that came... not diagonally, but from the right, from the opposite wall: a whistle resounded through the air where he stood a moment ago, and again the ringing, now from broken glass over their table. This was already – already the fourth, damn it, how many of them came crawling here, those sons of a bitch...

“What the hell?!”

The visitors – the real ones – must have escaped, because the stomping and screaming subsided. The firing also subsided. The voice of one of the agents – it felt like it was the one in the next row – angry, amazed, thundered throughout the cafe.

Alfred raised a little, leaning on his elbows. Ivan broke away from his chest, straightened his arms: he hung over him, eye to eye, and through a pile of thoughts that boiled down to “what the fuck is going on here” in different variations, and panic, thundering like fireworks, understanding came...

“They’re acting discordantly” Russia blurted out on a single breath.

America nodded at his words. This was their chance. They could get out of this shit. Taking out two people – even for him alone it was a cakewalk – one problem left: not to get under fire in the process... Exactly.

Alfred twisted his head: they almost collapsed on the man who was about to put a bullet in him. He seemed to be breathing, but the hand with the Colt rested motionless very close to him. America snatched his weapon; it felt cold in his palm.

“I have an idea” he quickly licked his lips, again catching the eye of Braginsky. “Of how to take them out. One for me, one for you. On me – well-aimed shooting, on you – brute force”

“I’ll take care of it” a grin. A purple iris gleamed in the shadow of his dangling blond hair. “What should we do?”

The agents hesitated.

It seemed that they exchanged a couple of phrases, but now everything was quiet. At least they hadn't been fired on for twenty seconds.

He grinned.

Maybe they'd been training for years.

He pulled back the cock.

But they did't have hundreds of years of combat experience.

Alfred fired – and if the agent who had previously aimed at Ivan had not jumped to the side at the last moment, the bullet would have entered him exactly in the leg.

America cursed, rolled under the next table, and then even further: they had already fired a couple of shots where he was sitting, crouching. The agent's legs disappeared from his view. Alfred heard a crack – agent jumped onto the table in the row in front of him, now he could fire from the top point, but he did not even know what a dead end he had driven himself into.

America pushed the table above him, with all his strength, up and forward – it tilted, and now nothing protected Jones at all. Shots from both sides, front and back, Braginsky, where the hell is he? – the table overturned, knocking over the next one under the rustle of a sliding tablecloth, the sound of breaking plates, and after it the next one – the table on which the agent was standing, staggered. The blond, who had been aiming at Alfred until now, reeled, kept his balance, but collapsed when Alfred jumped on him, knocking him to the floor to the sound of the second gunfire – Ivan, hurry up, we had a deal!

The agent should have been knocked out by a single fall from that height, but before America could land a final right hook, he was kneed in the stomach, too hard for such a puny body. Alfred yelled, hit his temple with the handle of Colt – not with full force: he really could blow his brains out, if they killed someone here, then the end, this would be the end of everything – and the agent froze, losing consciousness. Alfred jumped up, recoiled from the bullets of the second, a roar echoed in his ears, a wild creak of oak table legs on the tiles, a cry of pain, someone else's pain...

The agent at the wall was pressed against it by three tables in a row, the edge of the front one dug right into his stomach. Russia pressed on them from the other side, jumped – the wood creaked plaintively under his weight – and threw a plate: the agent took it down, but yelled again – the second plate hammered right in his wrist, almost knocking the weapon out of his hand. He wanted to straighten it out, but it was too late. Ivan got very close. As if in slow motion, America watched as Russia grabbed the agent by the hand, pinned him against the wall so that the muzzle went up to the ceiling, and slammed his forehead against agent’s – blond strands waved in the air.

The agent went limp, hanging his head and releasing the weapon – also a Colt – from his hands. Everything was quiet except for their heated breathing. Russia got down from the table, rushed to their place for a backpack.

“What the hell were you doing?” America rushed towards him, hopping over the overturned tables, managing not to accidentally pull the trigger in the process.

“I was waiting for him to be distracted by you so I could crawl under the tables” Ivan grabbed their backpacks from the chairs. Splashes of small broken glass jangled across the floor. Alfred pulled out his, threw it on his back, turned on his heel. “Considering my size, this was inconvenient!”

“Inconvenient – is to dodge bullets from both sides” the phrase came out much more mild than he wanted. An exit. In three jumps, reach the exit – and run into the forest while the going is good.

“Being armed, unlike someone!”

“Okay, I don't give a shit, they don't fire anymore, let's get the fuck out of he…”

In the deafening silence that fell upon them after the roar, the clinking of glass and the firing, a siren was wailing.

It wailed very close, getting closer and closer with every second, echoing like a refrain: there were several sources of it.

Alfred froze. Panic erupted like fireworks. A great picture would be presented to the cops when they break in: a ruined cafe, four unconscious bodies, and they are on their feet, with weapons...

He was tugged on the wrist.

“Through the window!”

Stomp, inside and outside. Ivan pulled him forward, they ran, overcoming the last meters to the opening with blue and white curtains.

Just open the frame, they should succeed – Russia grabbed the handles, when a rattle was already heard from behind – they are here, they did not have time – and thoughts rushed like a whirlwind...

Now everything would end. After they escaped from Vienna. After they drove half of Germany. After they dodged bullets. After they took out four agents to hell.

After they had been waiting for ten years.

Alfred cringed, growled in anger – and therefore did the first thing that came to mind: he pulled Ivan by his hand with all his might – he gasped, lost his balance – turned him around, turned around himself. He gripped him by his throat, put the muzzle of the Colt to his temple and yelled towards the police officers running in:

“Move, and I'll blow his brains out!”

Russia grabbed his hand around his neck, sharply, reflexively; but fell silent without uttering a word. America exhaled through clenched teeth, his eyes were flickering over the figures of policemen in dark blue uniforms blocking the exit: three, five, seven people. They slightly lowered the "Walters" aimed at his head, confusion blossomed on their faces (probably, no less confusion was now on Ivan's face). Some stirring among them –

“You freaks didn't understand the first time?!” Alfred barked; pressed the gun into the skull so that Ivan hissed in pain.

His T-shirt stuck to the body, the wet bangs fell into the eyes, pricked the forehead. America felt how everything in him sharpened, how his heart was pounding against Ivan's back in front of him. He probably looked wild – and the confusion and fear on the faces of the policemen only confirmed this when Alfred laughed high, like crazy: seemed like these guys in their godforsaken area didn’t put anyone in jail more dangerous than drunkards who got loaded too much!

The bodies of four armed agents, lying here and there, were only to their advantage. They would get out of here.

“Make way. Now”

Silence for a few moments – and then the policeman who was standing in front of everyone stirred his shoulder, and the group dispersed, divided in two, freeing the treasured exit to the outside, where the space were already swallowed by the darkness.

America grinned triumphantly. He walked, slowly shifting his legs, so that Braginsky, who was half a head taller, and therefore was bent double, had time to follow: they moved together, like an awkward four-legged beast.

“Thanks, dudes.” The gun was still poking at Russia's head as they passed between the lines of cops. They didn’t take their eyes off them, didn’t lower their weapons, but didn’t dare to shoot for fear of harming the “hostage”. “I'm glad you're so understanding. By the way, don't follow us, okay? Because then someone will die”

They went out into the street. The night wind ruffled America's hair, licked his back with cold. He turned around to face the cafe, backing away, avoiding the police cars, moving his head in all directions, looking for – yeah, there it was.

The side glass of a dark Opel – an agent in a green jacket had been riding it – shattered from the impact of the Colt's handle, fell on the passenger seat. Ivan would probably scratch his ass, but now there were no time for caring about Ivan's comfort. Alfred felt for the handle, pulled it, opened the door and, panting, seated Russia inside, walked around the car, not taking his gun off Ivan – although the police did not make a move, but if he let his guard down even for a second... He climbed behind the wheel, turned the left off – oh heavens, thank you – key in the ignition switch, and turned on the jets with force, taking the road.

The noise of asphalt under the wheels, the light of lanterns, the wind from the hole in the window, Ivan's breathing, his own, ragged, his blood, buzzing in the arteries. Russia turned, glanced back – no cops, no sirens.

No cars on the track.

A shiver went through Ivan's entire body. He exhaled with such force, as if he was never going to breathe again, threw his head back. Alfred shifted gears, spun the steering wheel as he turned.

“God, have you seen their faces?” laughter, sonorous and brittle, filled the salon. America wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand – the one that still held the Colt. He was shaken by small chuckles, jubilant and drunk. “It was... We’re just... We’re…”

“…WE’RE FUCKED!!”

The realization came to him belatedly. He drove         wherever the road took him, just to get away from that ill-fated eatery. The main road was left far behind, and they drove along the forests, not really understanding the direction. Villages and rivers rushed past them – at one of these rivers Alfred slammed on the brakes, convulsively swallowing air.

Awareness fell on him like a pile of fallen tables – and the river water, carefully splashed out by Ivan right in his face, did not save him at all.

“Here we fucking are!”

America was sitting on the shore, with his fingers in his hair, and his ass in the sand, trying to catch his breath. Pictures of the last couple of hours flashed before his eyes like a kaleidoscope – and without an adrenaline-filled mind, in a clear head, they were just...

“How did they even find us?!” America jumped to his feet, striding from side to side. Water splashed around his bare ankles. Russia silently watched him, leaning against the capote. “They figured us out already in Vienna?! And we were tailed all the way?!”

Ivan shrugged.

“Anything is possible. That talkative lady, with whom we were traveling, and who kept trying to persuade you to go to the hospital – she could also be in league with them”

Alfred laughed at the joke and immediately fell silent when he saw the same deadpan expression on Ivan's face.

Although... now he himself was ready to believe it.

He turned away. The moon cast a brilliant path on the surface of a murmuring stream. The truth, which he did not want to admit, without being convinced to the last, rang inside as an annoying midge.

“You were right”

“...Sorry, what?” If it weren’t for the sincere amazement in Ivan’s voice, Alfred would have thought that he was being mocked.

“You were right, that you suspected each and every one” America turned to him, but looked away with a sad laugh. "You're not paranoid if you're being followed, are you?"

Russia looked at him without blinking. Then he lowered his head, smiling sadly.

“I was mistaken that while we are in public, nothing would be done to us”

Alfred splashed to the shore, climbed onto the capote, perched next to Ivan. A little more, and he would have rested his shoulder on Ivan’s. The arm with the Colt hung from his knee. The panic subsided a little, and what he had missed before began to come to the surface – little things, very tiny, but too conspicuous.

If Russia was right, then their – his – people did not shy away from shooting in front of a dozen West Germans, since half of them turned out to be agents anyway. It wouldn't kill him, of course, but it was... so weird...

Too clumsy, too risky and too...

“The shots were too quiet. Have you noticed?”

America tossed his head. Braginsky's silhouette, with his arms folded across his chest, was bathed in silver in the moonlight, but his phrase leaked in, unleashed a stream of thoughts, and America rose to his feet, struck by a single assumption.

He took aim and fired – too sharply, Russia shuddered in surprise – the empty cartridge case fell into the sand, and the projectile, whatever it was, came out of the muzzle with a soft pop and hit the trunk of a birch growing on the shore.

A barely visible dart protruded from the white birch bark. Only the crackling of crickets was heard for a moment, until Russia broke the silence.

“Tranquilizer?” his voice was full of doubt.

“If not poison” America chuckled. He shook slightly from the confirmation of his own guess. “They wanted me to pass out right there?”

"It could be of delayed action" Russia said softly. “I hit that guy when you got distracted by the glasses. He could try to seize the moment so that later he could...”

“Nixon banned it”

Russia fell silent in bewilderment. Alfred's voice was too quiet. Too fragile.

"He banned chemical weapons" America continued. “It was one of the first decrees I worked on after I... returned. So why the hell does the CIA have access to them...”

He felt with his skin how Russia wanted to say something; he opened his mouth, but didn’t dare to utter a word.

“Perhaps mine were also planning to do something similar” he finally said.

“Do you think yours were there?”

“Why else would they act so out of sync?” Russia unfolded his arms. He ran his hand across his face and tucked it into his hair. “Probably, surveillance was carried out for us in parallel, but they did not come into contact with each other, but reached us at the same time. And they wanted everything to go quietly, but...”

“...but thanks to your gut feeling and blow of a chair their plan went to hell” America finished for him. He whistled. “Makes sense. Do you read these guys’ minds?”

I'm just guessing the most plausible scenario” simple words could not hide the fact that Ivan was flattered, and Alfred smirked smugly. The smile immediately faded when he remembered that he had to run away from the cafe, pretending to be mad in front of Ludwig's cops. And Ludwig...

"Lutz will be furious when he finds out" America said sourly. “Goddamn. We can't get to him now. They probably shadow us at his house”

“Even if they do not graze, one servant of the law on our way – and we will be spotted for the fact that you took me hostage and destroyed the café”

“And didn’t pay”

Ivan frowned in confusion.

“What?”

“I didn't pay for the scrambled eggs and sausages. Do you think the waitress will remember?”

“I think you did everything in your power to make her remember you, with or without a shootout” Russia explained, returning to his usual guise, which America called in his head nothing less than snide asshole. “And it’s not a squad of rookies from the middle of nowhere that will come at us, but the entire police of Bavaria” he sighed. “We have to cross the border somehow. Without Ludwig”

"You know, I thought our morning plan was crazy," Alfred bit his lip. Anxiety started to grow in him as soon as he imagined the deepness of shit they were in right now. “But with our mugs pasted in all the newspapers of Germany...”

“West Germany”

Ivan uttered this phrase in a strange way. America frowned, caught his eye in bewilderment: Ivan stared at Alfred, expecting something, as if he had to guess something, something so obvious that it was just...

Jones' eyes widened, and a shiver ran through all of his vertebrae.

“I don’t understand, did the chair hit the guy’s head or yours?!” America recoiled from Russia and jumped off the capote. If for the last half an hour thoughts about his sanity had visited him, now they were knocked out completely. “Are you really suggesting...”

He swung the Colt in the direction he thought east was located. Braginsky took a step closer to him, reducing the increased distance.

“And what do you want? We have no other choice. At all. Access to Ludwig is blocked for us. Until we get to any border except the eastern one – which is twenty kilometers from here – our composite pictures, or mugs, as you put it, will hang in all police stations of Germany” what he said made sense, and America hated himself for even admitting that. “Now we have broken away from the special services, we need to hide in a direction, where they wouldn’t find us, and wherever we are not expected to go...”

“And London?!” Alfred clung to their destination like to a flotation ring. “You were indignant about the North Sea, and now you want to cross three more borders and two straits?!”

“I ... I don't know, you can try to get to the Danish Islands, but at least by swimming, “Braginsky's eyes burned with some kind of vigorous fire, which so inopportunely broke through the mask of pretended – Alfred knew this, always knew this – reasonableness. “Then we’ll find bearings”

“And Beilschmidt?! Have you managed to make friends with him, that he won’t hand us over to his… to your chekists for violating his border?!”

Russia hesitated. He ran his hand over the back of his head.

“I... I wouldn’t call our relationship with him that” the fire subsided, but immediately ignited with renewed vigor. “Listen... I know it sounds a little crazy” America barely managed to keep from laughing out loud at this “a little”. “And we might indeed be captured by his men, but Alfred…”

“Covername!”

“They don't make sense anymore! If we stay even for a few hours, brainwashing is guaranteed to us!”

“Yes, but to go into the GDR – how can you even...” America fell silent when the Russia’s hand fell on his shoulder, and he met his gaze.

Pleading, tormented gaze – as if Ivan was in pain right now, as if needles were stabbed into his heart. There was such fear on his face, anxiety of such genuine power that Alfred had never seen before – and angry words stuck in his lungs.

“They'll catch up with us here. And only one thing awaits us... after everything that we have already gone through...” he closed his eyes, compressed his lips; opened his eyes again. The place where he touched his shoulder with his hand burned. “Alfred, please, understand... After all...”

America felt that he wanted to hammer Russia with something heavy.

America felt like he wanted to hammer himself with something heavy for the thought that Russia, damn him, was right.

Horror pierced him at the prospect of moving behind the curtain, but even greater horror fettered him at the thought that everything they had learned in ten years, what they managed to share, what they managed to do for this, would be swept away, crossed out, torn from memory, as if it never existed at all. As if he had never dodged bullets in a Bavarian eatery, as if he had not scoured the Viennese shops in search of jeans and T-shirts, had not waited for Braginsky for six months, had not hold yellowed, diagonally folded letters in his hands, shuddering, swallowing tears from every line...

Anything but that.

There was only one way out of this shithole – and it led to the goddamn East.

Alfred slowly sank down to the ground – his shoulder without Ivan's arm was engulfed with cold – and pulled off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. Everything in Ivan's reasoning sounded so coherent... Except for one tiny detail.

“And what about the border? It will not work to cross it as today anymore” There are not just border streams, damn it, there are people from the Stasi go round the crocodiles in the ditches behind the barbed wire. Although why am I telling you, you know it yourself... That border is impregnable”

Ivan nodded slowly, somehow too understandingly.

"Impregnable" he agreed. And then he spoke in a mysterious and enigmatic tone. “It was really created impregnable... regarding people”

Braginsky's idea was fragile, woven from variables that did not depend on them at all – go even one little thing wrong, and everything was gone: they would no longer see each other, and they could give up on memories.

But if everything went as planned...

As fragile as it was, the plan was insane - and therefore simply could not fail to work.

There will be no historical references here (OMG), but here is an interesting thing for you from the history of weapons during the Cold War:

• and the projectile, whatever it was, came out of the muzzle with a soft pop and hit the trunk of a birch growing on the shore. A barely visible dart protruded from the white birch bark – this weapon is a real-life thing that the CIA developed in the 60s (and even managed to use a little in Vietnam) to quietly eliminate enemy sentries or dogs: the so-called "heart attack gun". The dart could pierce clothing and was made from a special material that dissolved in the victim's body, and only a pathologist who knew where to look could determine what caused death. In 1969-70, US President Richard Nixon banned the use of chemical and bacteriological weapons by several decrees. However, in 1975, the US Congress held a hearing on the activities of the CIA, which included violating the privacy rights of Americans (there were cases of unpacking letters); in addition, a “heart attack gun” was also considered, several samples of which were brought to the hearing. You can find out more about this here:
  https://www.wearethemighty.com/mighty-tactical/cia-heart-attack-gun/
  
  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fomOeIhEWDg
  
  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c7jWBTiDI0o

• America glanced – the prone man was holding a pocket Colt with a gunsight – a gun that Alfred uses: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colt_Detective_Special

Chapter Text

GDR, Sühl district. August, 1970.

Lieutenant of the Volksarmee Erich Neumann had been serving in the border troops for several years. When he first began his service – in the southwest, in Sühl district – the border was not yet such a securely fortified strip. Low wooden poles with barbed wire stretched between them – it was easy to make holes with wire cutters – blocked the way for the fugitives to the enemy's territory. They were protected only by spirals of wire stretched between the rows, and the watchful eye of the border guards on the observation towers – located sometimes too far away to aim effectively.

A lot had changed since then.

Where a strip of bare earth ran between the inner and outer fences – it was mellowed to reveal areas where the border was easiest to cross illegally: the fugitives left footprints on brown soil – a minefield had been located for four years. The fence on the inside of the protective strip was equipped with sensors that sent an alarm signal to the nearest border guard detachment. The outer fence was strengthened in earnest as well. From the window of a tall cylindrical tower crowned with a huge searchlight, Erich watched as the engineers changed the barbed wire for a three-meter fence made of solid metal, the holes in which were too small and sharp even to hook on them with fingers – there was no question for foothold at all.

It was out of the question to even touch the grating without hitting the tripwire from the mine that was attached parallel to the steel mesh of the fence – without the risk of being riddled with shrapnel flying from the cone-shaped funnel.

And yet, despite such measures, there were those who dared to violate the state law. Erich went as part of a detachment to a fugitive five years ago, who by the time they arrived had already become a corpse with a hole in his head – only twenty meters separated him and the fence.

But today...

An alarm flashed red on the panel – Erich was about to rush to the window opening, peered into the meadows flooded with midnight darkness in the east – when he suddenly realized that the signal was coming from the other side.

The white light from the spotlight flooded the outer fence – it was shaking, but he couldn’t see it from such a distance, only a chain of some sharp, jerky movements behind the metal mesh – Erich grabbed the binoculars, pulled it up to his eyes – the guy grabbed a piece of fabric with his hand, jacket, it seemed to be a leather jacket, jumped over the mesh, as if three meters for him were no higher than some damn children's fence, hair sparkled gold in the eye-cutting light – flew down like a hawk –

Some of the comrades hammered on the communication device, yelling into the phone,

to call for reinforcements from the command post –

– until he lost his balance in flight, fell on his stomach on the wires stretched along the iron mesh, pulled them – and his skull was torn off by an explosive wave of shrapnel.

The voices of other soldiers behind him did not grow silent, the siren on the sensors flashed behind him – Erich barely had time to comprehend, to glance over what used to be a head, and now was scattered in bloody lumps on the bare ground – when suddenly he heard fragments of phrases, there he is, another one...

And now another intruder, fair-haired and hunky, grabbed the jacket left by the previous one, flew over the fence, landed further, without touching the wires, right at the bottom of the anti-vehicle ditch, got up, did not even look back at his dead comrade, and froze at the shout from the loudspeaker:

You violated the state border of the German Democratic Republic. We order you to surrender and immediately lie down on the ground with your hands behind your head!

The intruder took off, ran forward, across the brown ground – Erich bent down to the gun-slot – he aimed directly at the top of his head, pulled the trigger, the intruder raised his head, looked as if in the very sight – it felt like an electric discharge passed along the ridge from this wild, purple gaze, hitting into his very core – before the explosion rattled in the ears, even at this distance, and the tall figure disappeared behind the clods of earth that had shot up into the air.

When they settled and the dust from the explosion dissipated into the air, only the bloody remains of the body were scattered across the mined strip.

Whether Erich, or other border guards from his observation group, or the doctors and military who arrived at the site, entered into the protocol in detail everything that could be entered, carefully recording everything on film – every piece of clothing, every part of the body (not necessarily connected with the body itself), each scar on the relatively intact first intruder (their lips curled in displeasure when it turned out that the heads of both were disfigured by the explosions so much that only bloody meat mess remained instead of their faces; they had only a backpack with underwear and a strange scarf, they also did not have any documents) – were puzzled by the adventure that these two decided to: Western spies usually chose the more tortuous paths, through checkpoints, through gaps on the border with Berlin – long and dreary, but with the possibility to arrive to the East in a single piece. Was it really that bad with their training?

The bewilderment of all the arrivals was replaced by tension sliding along the ridge when they saw that the black-red-yellow border marker pole on the other side of the fence was uprooted from the ground and leaned angle-wise against the fence – just so it was possible to get on it with a running start and jump over the mesh.

As if it was not made of concrete and did not weigh more than one and a half hundred kilograms.

Erich felt an unpleasant flutter in the pit of his stomach, and something told him: if not for his three comrades – who saw all the action with their own eyes – interrogations could not be avoided.

“Otto, wake up, guests from the West have come to you!”

Otto Schulze, the pathologist on duty, grimaced and lifted his curly chestnut head from the body register in the mortuary's waiting room. The square, thick-lensed glasses were pressed into the bridge of his nose as he had been sleeping.

Röhmhild, a frontier town of 1,500 people, was not famous for its vibrant day life, let alone nightlife. Corpses at night were rare, and usually everything that was required of him was to enter the necessary data in the journal (which consisted in the fact that there were no external injuries on the body), quickly describe the clothes and other things found with the corpse, take everything necessary for analysis in the laboratory, bring the bodies into the "refrigerator", go to sleep in the office and in the morning, after waking up, do an autopsy.

The situation was more complicated with the bodies that were brought from the border: he couldn’t get off with a simple formal reply with a bullet wound or a mine-explosive injury, and the dismemberment required a description of each separate part.

Otto fiddled with the first body for a long time, documenting its head, crushed to the very jaw, and sighed with relief when it was done – and then almost howled when he saw what was waiting for him in the second bag.

And all this – for such a salary.

Finally, the deed was done, the bodies were described, the materials were awaiting analysis in the laboratory, the clothes – and what was left of them – were removed and placed in storage, and the bodies themselves were taken on gurneys to the "refrigerator". The autopsy and tests could wait until morning.

They wouldn't run away, really.

Otto Schulze had already closed the door, when on one of the gurneys with new bodies, where emptiness gaped in the place of the head, now it was gone – and blue eyes opened wide under the cover.

Darkness.

How many times in his life he plunged into it, how many times he emerged, unharmed, with echoes of pain in place where a mortal wound was inflicted, - he could not count.

There was a dull ache in his head. A dim light spilled behind some kind of white veil that rustled against his eyelashes...

America abruptly sat up on the gurney when he realized where he was.

He looked around – a spacious room, the walls were lined with gray tiles, from the window under the very ceiling one could see the predawn sky – he threw off the white coverlet – and immediately cringed and pulled it back when the cold from the air and metal licked his naked body.

Gurneys stood in orderly rows near him and against the opposite wall.

Adrenaline bubbled through the blood – they succeeded.

Alfred jumped off his gurney. Almost all of them were empty, but on some of them, even squinting, he could make out the bodies – somewhere among them should be Braginsky, if only everything worked out, if only ... – he rushed to the opposite wall, pulled the cover off from one of the bodies – it seemed to be him, who else could be so huge – hell, no, just a man – pulled from another, the number tag slapped against his ankle, from the second, from the third, finally –

“Holy shit”

America shuddered in surprise, seeing neatly folded, fit to each other, like a mosaic, bloody parts of the body under the last torn off coverlet. Any doubt that Russia was in front of him disappeared when he saw an old, broken and shiny scar tissue on the surviving parts of what used to be a neck.

His heart skipped a beat, hand twitched in an involuntary desire – I can touch it –

America shook off that thought. Something caustic, similar to shame, reddened under his cheeks.

While Braginsky collapsed on a gurney – in any sense of that word – he must hurry.

The door creaked slightly under his pressure – thank God, not locked – America carefully opened it, looked around the long, faded corridor. No sounds, no conversations, no working TV – it seemed that Braginsky was right in his predictions: it was easiest to get out of the morgue at night.

Alfred crept to the door opposite, sneaked inside: there was no one but a wall-sized metal cabinet with square drawers; he squinted as he flipped the switch. Even without glasses, it was not difficult to find in which of the cells they had put his clothes and backpack from the tag on his leg. They were relatively unharmed, if only covered in blood – America grabbed his sneakers, felt the tongues on them, and exhaled with incredible relief when he felt the letters folded in four and his photo from the thirties.

The situation was more complicated with the clothes of Ivan himself: only rags soaked through with scarlet remained of it.

America exhaled air through his teeth and rested his forehead against the iron doors. Even in such a hurry, they thought about everything, literally everything – Braginsky even cut open the tongue of his sneaker and sewed a photo inside – when they were planning to escape on the other side of the border – and then they pushed the stolen «Opel» into the river: close enough to the border to quickly run to it, but far enough that the car could not be found immediately. But not about where to get clothes when Russia was torn apart by a mine.

He couldn’t run around Germany in the coverlet, seriously.

If only... There were several more male bodies in the "refrigerator".

Alfred Jones opened the cells one by one and tried not to think that he was looking for an outfit for Braginsky for the second time in a day.

He found something more or less suitable – a dark shirt, trousers and boots – closed and turned off everything behind him and listened. It was still quiet. Finding the laboratory was also not difficult: their samples in test tubes were the very last, Alfred put them in a backpack and, holding his clothes under his arm, returned to the “refrigerator”, noticing the fire evacuation plan on the wall, remembering their location in the building, entrances and exits. While he was fiddling, at least half an hour passed – Braginsky should have come to life by that moment...

There was not a single person in the room, and Russia’s body on a gurney remained in its previous form.

Oh shit. It would take longer than they thought.

America lay down on his gurney, kicked off his shoes and covered himself with a blanket – in case anyone wanted to come in – and waited. Even in the West, he clutched at his head over how fragile their plan was, what luck should have to fall on their heads in order for everything to work out – and now panic was growing again in his chest. Time passed by. Even through the coverlet it was visible how the sky was slowly brightening, they had, at most, a couple of hours before the orderlies, pathologists, and the military along with them would appear, and if ... if Braginsky didn’t “wake up” before that, then...

I can run away now.

Fists clenched under the sheet, and Alfred groaned when he realized that nothing separated him from the desired freedom, even if “freedom” meant walking through the thickets of the Thuringian forests. No sound came from Ivan. They might get caught here, after all they've been through. What was the point of both dying at once, if at least one of them could be saved and save memories?

Exactly. He would get out alone, he would definitely find Ivan later – maybe he would forget about everything again, but he had both letters and a photo, he would tell him everything again, they cannot keep Russia locked up forever, they would definitely see each other, maybe it would be necessary to wait another ten years, but he... he himself would not be touched, and then...

America grimaced at some kind of dark feeling, rushing outward – images rose before his mind's eye: Ivan, who stares in amazement at the letters, as if he recognizes them. Ivan, who knocks him to the floor and covers him from bullets. Ivan, frantically tearing the border marker pole out of the ground, looking straight into his eyes before he, Alfred, accelerates himself, runs up, jumps over the fence, and...

America growled and banged the back of his head against the gurney in anger. No, it's... no.

He must save everyone.

He had to take the time to think. In extreme cases, he could run away from here with Ivan’s gurney, fighting off possible pursuit with something heavy – there was probably something like that in the morgue, but if it was also sharp, then it would be perfect. There must have been something combustible among the chemicals, and then...

The door of the "refrigerator" creaked, the light turned on – Alfred instantly calmed down, tried not to breathe.

He almost did not hear the pathologist's shuffling steps – it seemed to him that his heart was beating so loudly that it was audible throughout whole East Germany, and his hands were shaking so that the gurney vibrated. The light did not go out, the shuffling did not subside – what does he need, why the hell is he so meticulous...

“Oh ty zh ebanavrot…”***

Rustling to his left, Braginsky's hoarse voice – Alfred heard a thin scream, something in German, someone else’s – they got caught, got caught – pulled off the coverlet sharply, sat up –

The chestnut-haired pathologist turned his horrified gaze behind his thick glasses from Ivan, who was sitting on a gurney, safe and sound, to Alfred.

And, with a soft gasp, he collapsed to the floor.

Alfred jumped up as if he was stung, fell to his knees beside him, and lowered his ear to his chest.

“Fainting” he straightened up, cast a glance at Ivan. “Heck. And what should we do?”

“The same as planned” Ivan frowned and grinned, rubbing his face with his hands: it seemed that the pain from the wounds had not subsided yet. “Get out of here and head north”

“And this one...”

“Do you think they will believe him?”

America glanced at the pathologist. He stood with his bare feet on the floor – and because of the anxiety that rushed into his blood, he realized this only now.

“Let's at least drag him into the corridor – he will freeze here”

Russia shrugged.

“A hero is a hero even in the morgue” he jumped from the gurney to the floor, staggering a little. Looked at Alfred. “I see you already found your clothes. Is there anything left of mine?”

America grinned. He did not expect from himself that he had already missed this son of a bitch.

"Hey, you don't think the hero didn't take care of that, do you?"

The sky had changed from dark blue to pale pink, the air was filled with predawn scents, and the dew-covered grass bent under their steps.

They covered the distance from the mortuary on the outskirts of the town to the forest at a run – and the green branches closed behind them.

1. When he first began his service – in the southwest, in Sühl district – the border was not yet such a securely fortified strip – the German-German border was strengthened in several stages. At first, it was not such a well-protected fortress, known to us from books and films: in 1950, it was possible to go from one Germany to another by crossing a barrier or jumping over a fence with barbed wire (what people actively used). The second stage of fortification took place in the early 1950s, and the third in the late 1960s: it was then when solid metal fences, mined lanes, and fences with sensors that sent an alarm signal when this fence was touched appeared. You can read more about this here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fortifications_of_the_inner_German_border
2. From the window of a tall cylindrical tower crowned with a huge searchlight – it is referred to the tower BT-11 (Beobachtungsturm-11), which was first presented at the border in 1969. It looks like this: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fortifications_of_the_inner_German_border#/media/File:Ddr_beobachtungsturm_11.jpg. A small article about the tower: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B_Tower
3. It was out of the question to even touch the grating without hitting the tripwire from the mine that was attached parallel to the steel mesh of the fence – without the risk of being riddled with shrapnel flying from the cone-shaped funnel – it is referred to the SM-70 mine (sometimes referred to as a self-firing device), which was first introduced into service in 1970. They were tripwire-activated, aimed parallel to the line of the fence, and meant to kill or incapacitate anyone who tried to climb over or break through the fence from the east side. Illustration: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Sm-70_schlagsdorf.jpg How it works: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rX_IJ8xMKik 
4. And yet, despite such measures, there were those who dared to violate the state law. Erich went as part of a detachment to a fugitive five years ago, who by the time they arrived had already become a corpse with a hole in his head – According to § 213 of the Criminal Code of the GDR, crossing the border of the GDR without the permission of local authorities was punishable by up to 5 years in prison, but in fact the National Defense Council of the GDR gave the order to shoot defectors to kill.
5. The bewilderment of all the arrivals was replaced by tension sliding along the ridge when they saw that the black-red-yellow border marker pole on the other side of the fence was uprooted from the ground and leaned angle-wise against the fence – a few meters from the outer fence there were pillars (or concrete blocks), which just marked the border, the real border of the FRG and the GDR. The location of the outer fence at a distance of several meters from the border allowed the border guards to operate in space when the fugitive had already crossed the fence (that is, to shoot to kill). The pillar that Ivan  tore out of the ground: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fortifications_of_the_inner_German_border#/media/File:Inner_german_border_fence_and_pole.jpg

Chapter Text

GDR, district of Sühl. August, 1970.

Thanks to his profession as a pathologist, Otto Schulze was accustomed to dealing with corpses, in whatever form they arrived at the reception department.

Documents on the bodies were to be ready by the evening.

But there was nothing more to request: a page from the register of corpses and their own materials for analysis also disappeared along with the missing bodies.

He could write off everything to fatigue, to overwork – a fair-haired husky man with scars all over his body, who had risen from the dead, gathered together by some monstrous will, and a second corpse, suddenly found his head – all this could be a game of his inflamed mind, a bad dream that suddenly took on too real outlines (vacation, he urgently needed a vacation) – the lack of documents only complemented this picture. Yes, that's right. Nothing had happened. No bodies, no resurrections, nothing...

The officer on the other end of the line reminded him of the preparation of an autopsy report on the bodies that had been liquidated while crossing the border from the side of the Federal Republic of Germany.

The pathologists and orderlies looked at each other in bewilderment, seeing Otto so distant and distracted for the first time, barely paying attention to the chatter in the corridors. They shrugged in confusion as Schulze was coming to the one and only possible conclusion: if the intruders had managed to "die" and "resurrect" – then the technology of the West allowed spies to be equipped with a whole arsenal of new tricks.

Spies had made their way inside the GDR – and he, Otto Schulze, was their direct accomplice.

No one would believe that he had fainted. No one would believe that he had completed all the necessary procedures. He allowed two spies to get away unnoticed – and now it was impossible to catch them while the trail was still hot. Soon everything would be revealed – and they would come for him. And if they spare his life, he will have an indefinite vacation – somewhere in a labor camp.

The second call was not long in coming – now they demanded from him to indicate the state of the bodies that arrived at night in a raised voice and even a little hysterically. Otto said that the bodies had turned out to be alive and disappeared at dawn in an unknown direction.

There was no point in postponing the inevitable.

Staff members of the Ministry of State Security came to him in civilian clothes an hour later, when the sun had almost disappeared below the horizon. The entire testimony was carefully entered and recorded on an audio. He revealed everything from the approximate time of arrival to the appearance of the "revived". Already at this stage, Otto's expectations differed from reality: no one cast sidelong glances at him, did not twist a finger at his temple, did not accuse him of complicity with the West, did not throw phrases about undermining the integrity of the republic.

They thanked him. His fears about an expansion of the tools of ideological opponents were confirmed. He was assured that this news should be kept secret: if it became public, panic was inevitable – and the enemies in the West will successfully withdraw their spies, so that the long-term work of the ministry staff to expose the spies will be nullified.

He was given a non-disclosure agreement – Otto clung to it like a drowning man to a straw.

In the end, Otto shook hands – and was immediately assured that he, like other ordinary citizens of the GDR, had nothing to fear: the Ministry stood guard over the security of all the inhabitants of the republic.

And this meant that the spies who so boldly violated the border in defiance of all laws, encroached on peaceful life in a socialist state – these spies would be certainly caught.

And they would get what they deserve.

“Hey, listen, everything is fine with me, you should not sit around for me, I told you, everything is fine...”

“Jones, if you don't sit on this stump, I swear I'll tie you to a tree with a scarf”

Russia jerked him down on a stump, putting his hands on his shoulders, he himself leaned against the trunk opposite of him. He slid down and put his elbows on his spread knees.

“We need... we need to take a breath”

The Thuringian forest was left far behind – like Römhild, like many other cities; at first they fled, without taking a breath, through the forests, waded across the rivers – to cover the smells, to prevent possible chase, – then they walked, almost exhausted, all north and north. Alfred offered to use hitchhiking at some point – Ivan replied that the drivers would give them away as soon as they saw them.

“Come on, not every second person here is a Stasi agent”

He had to explain that it was not necessary to be a Stasi agent in order to tense up because of two shabby men with a three-day stubble who had come out of the forest, one of whom also wore a T-shirt covered in blood.

They continued to make their way through the forests, through the green mass that seemed endless, shying away as soon as there was a gap, and from there they heard the voices of people, real or imaginary, crossing the fields with a constant looking back. The sky eventually turned black, and the cold came with it, and only then he and Alfred realized that making up a fire meant immediately exposing themselves with light and smoke. While America slept, Russia stood on the lookout, then they changed places – and even though it was not the first time for both of them to spend the night on bare ground, they failed to gain strength: Ivan woke up every half an hour, tossing and turning from pain all over his body from invisible wounds.

One thing pleased him – away from prying eyes, he could put on his scarf again.

Jones also did not look well: Russia saw how he staggered from the incessant – except for a short and crumpled overnight stop somewhere under Nordhausen – walking for a day and a half, but Alfred rushed forward with ostentatious enthusiasm, until Ivan almost forcefully seated him on a stump.

Russia threw back his head. Cloudy – almost white – sky blinded his eyes, he half-closed them. He crossed his arms and squeezed his aching forearms. Pursed his lips.

“Hey, does it hurt? Still?”

Ivan turned his head sharply. Alfred looked at him, swaying slightly, expressing vivacity with all appearance, but his eyes gave away fatigue, and... something else: Ivan was too tired to give it a name. He remembered that America had asked him a question only seconds after he peered into that blue, not covered by glasses.

“...Yes. But it's nothing. It's been worse” He lowered his head, hiding the lower half of his face behind the scarf. He chuckled as he remembered something. “For example, from poisons”

“Wha... you’ve been poisoned?” Golden eyebrows shot up. America moved forward on a stump.

“Well... not I. About four hundred years ago, at a tsar’s feast, I took the wrong cup, and...” Russia bowed his head, examining America's left sneaker too carefully. “I lay delirious, then died. Then came to life and died again – and so several times. The dose, probably, was enough to kill a horse – to be completely sure. In the intervals I thought I would spit up the insides. They never found out who the poisoner was... Then the tsar ordered a dozen boyars' heads to fly off their shoulders – also to be completely sure” He allowed himself to raise his eyes and noticed that America was still listening to him, leaning forward. “This was it. Not my very first death, but I remembered it for a long time”

“Have they hanged you on the gallows?” Alfred blurted out with some strange enthusiasm.

“Uh...” Russia thought, sorting through the options in his memory. His head had been chopped, he’d been pierced with a sword, poisoned with arsenic, bayonets, bullets, buckshot, tank shells… But the gallows… “Haven’t had the luxury”

A sudden suspicion lit up his thoughts.

He slowly looked up at America, glared at him.

“And what, you...”

He bowed his head, raising his eyebrows and clicking his tongue. And, apparently, even blushed a little.

“Well... I was quite small then. Eight to ten years old in appearance – if you count in a human way. Do you know what happens when you live for a couple of years side by side with a people who are a little crazy about witch-hunting? Moreover, when do these people notice a child walking nearby who had not changed at all for ten years?” Alfred chuckled and paused, giving Ivan time to process the clue. “They tied me up, dragged to the scaffold, and, well…” Alfred imitated the tightening of the noose around his neck with his hands. “I was hanging there for three weeks – but I was lucky that Arthur just showed up... for the first time in fifteen years”

“And what did he do?” The words sounded as if they were not his own: an image of little America, hanging on the gallows, was still standing before Russia's eyes.

Alfred spluttered with laughter.

“He said that there was less religious lunacy in his country and took me down. Well at least they hung me in the summer – I’d freeze over in winter”

A gust of wind wiped the grin off his lips as America frowned as if suddenly remembering something. Russia himself realized what it was – a second before America asked him:

“Do you think that Ulbricht's inner circle already knows about us?”

Ivan again raised his eyes to the sky. It had already turned gray – and seemed to hang over them.

“There are Stasi agents among the border guards, so they must be. They won't put us on the wanted list, as in the West, but we can’t go to the big cities”

“And how long are we going to walk like this?”

“If I understand correctly where we are... Two more days. More like three. Otherwise, we will not make it to Denmark”

Russia knitted his brows together. A gloomy prospect was taking shape: even if the Stasi lost their track, nothing prevented them from strengthening measures at the borders, including on the sea, and the longer they go, the...

“If we don't hurry up, they'll catch us”

America seemed to read his thoughts, pulled out what was resounding inside with painful pricks. Only one step separated him from voicing –

“We need to pick up some kind of transport, otherwise...”

“Have you ever seen yourself?” A tired grunt escaped from Russia's lips. He rubbed his neck, spasms were spreading through the tense muscles. “We have already discussed this. If we leave the forest, anyone who sees us, will rush to the police, and then...”

“And then they will cop us on the seashore when we crawl there in six months!” Alfred jumped up, almost tripping over his feet, supported only by the power of pure anger. “Okay, let's get undressed and wash all this” he pointed his palms at the T-shirt tо drive the point home. “In any river. If my brains weren’t completely blown away by a mine, then somewhere nearby the whole Elbe flows here. Clothes will dry in half a day, you will pretend that you’re from a military base, I will keep my trap shut, as you like, in order not to give ourselves away...”

“With your jeans, yeah”

“If I exchange these jeans for a drive to the sea, a line of people will gather! We...”

His face suddenly stretched – Alfred fell silent before Ivan could make a comment about jeans. He froze, cringed with rage and annoyance...

“Holy fucking shit!”

...And only then Russia felt the raindrops landing on his hair and shoulders.

Clothes will dry, then. In a half a day.

“Wait a bit” Ivan watched Alfred rushing from side to side. “Maybe soon it’ll…”/

A fragment of his phrase was drowned in a roll of thunder.

America sank down onto a stump with a growl. He locked his fingers, tousled the hair at the back of his head. The rain intensified – and a thought came into Russia's head, wild and daring – he lost count of how many of them he had in the last 24 hours.

America was right. Even if they did not slow down, they would reach the seashore only after two days – exhausted, overworn, they would literally push themselves into the hands of the border guards. Or maybe his own chekists. They need to take a breath, they need to make themselves up, get to the sea – otherwise all their efforts could be nullified.

Russia thoughtlessly ran his hand from the neck along the cheek – the regrown stubble pricked his fingers – and peered at America.

“I know where we can rest. And wipe the blood off your clothes”

Alfred looked up at him with confused blue eyes.

“You're right, the Elbe is nearby... And Zerbst. And near them is Gilbert's dacha... It's a country house, a small one” He explained, when the confusion on Alfred's face didn't go away. “It was given to him recently. I have been there a couple of times. And I know how to get there. We'll have to change direction slightly to the northeast, but if we hurry...”

“And after that you will still tell stories that you and Beildschmidt are not homies”

“I will, because it's not like that” The tired tone brightened up with irritation, then softened. “Let’s go there, wash up, dry off. At least we will look like people again. And then we'll get out – right away”

America frowned, weighing the option. Russia was glad that, contrary to his expectations, the idea of breaking into the house of the GDR did not provoke active protests from him – and was a little afraid of his own same reaction.

"Won't Gilbert shove a border pole up your ass if he finds out we hung out there?"

Ivan shrugged nonchalantly.

“I doubt he will know. He is constantly in Berlin now – establishing contacts with Ludwig... on various issues”

“Are you talking about West Berlin and transit?”

“Yes. Exactly about that” Russia nodded.

“…I was afraid that you would be sent to these negotiations”

“What?” Ivan tossed his head. He chastised himself for such an open reaction, but America did not look at him at that moment: he lowered his head, staring at his sneakers.

“When about a year ago I had thoughts of finding you and... and talking... I thought: where can I meet you. In November they started discussing the nuclear program in Helsinki: I started to prepare... But then my people met in West Berlin, with yours, Francis’s, Arthur’s...” He bit his lip, still not raising his eyes. “I decided to go to Vienna. And I was afraid that you would be sent to West Berlin”

Russia was silent. He didn't know how to respond to this: the pain in his chest began to show itself too clearly against the background of exhaustion.

"Is there any way we can find out whether Gilbert is at home or not?" America suddenly changed the subject after not getting a response. Russia was glad – and something inside him tightened at the same time.

He pushed that feeling away.

He raised his eyes to the sky – the clouds thickened above them. Heavy drops fell on his shoulders, ran down his back, seeped into his shoulder blades. They turned Alfred's strands into scarlet gold.

“We can check it”

“He's not there”

“How do you know?”

“His "Trabi" is not here”

“What?..”

“No car, Jones. All is clear. Let’s go”

By the time they got to Zerbst, the sky had turned black. The rain did not stop, now weakening, then growing into a real downpour, and the peals of thunder were resounding behind their backs, chasing them hotfoot.

A two-story house in a village on the right bank of the Elbe – they got there, soaked to the bone, when it was past midnight, carefully looking around to see if the lights were lit inside the houses in the neighborhood: even if they were on, fortunately, seeing something in such darkness and under the downpour was not possible.

Only a few meters separated them from the sacred dryness, and a lattice fence: America climbed over first, then Russia – climbed on it, threw his leg over – how easy, no tension, no barbed wire – and almost flew down when his hands slid over the wet crossbar. America caught him: they staggered, clinging to each other, keeping their balance.

The warmth, forgotten after the hours of the August downpour – Ivan seemed to be struck by an electric shock: they stood like that for several seconds – Alfred's breath tickled his ear – and then he got out of his arms, without breaking his grip on his elbow, went towards the house.

“Hero is always ready?” He had to say something, even such a cliche, in order to interrupt... to interrupt something that had spilled inside his body.

“...Yeah. Something like that” America did not remove his hand. His voice was colorless from fatigue. “Last thing we need is your broken nose – then we’ll have to wash your clothes from the blood too... if we get inside the house at all”

They approached the porch, went under the canopy – the rain did not stop splattering, falling obliquely – Russia leaned his shoulder against the door, slowly slid down.

“Hey, why are you reclining right here, we need to get ...”

“Alfred, give me a sewing kit”

America blinked heavily, then took the sodden backpack off his shoulder. A set of stitching, pair of needles and pins lay at the bottom, which Ivan, back in Bavaria, managed to pull out of his wallet left on the other side of the border – Alfred then did not get tired of making jokes about what a skillful seamstress Ivan was, but was sincerely glad of Russia's ability to sew a photo and part of letters under the tongue of a sneaker, and the second part – under the lining of a backpack, wondering aloud if he wanted to take knitting needles as a gift at the next meeting.

Russia really wanted his knitting needles, left in Moscow, to be with him now, but the pins would also be okay.

“Braginsky, just don't say that...” Alfred sat down next to him, his mouth opened in amazement, watching Ivan picking with pins in the lock, breaking off a cap of one of them with numb fingers, and bending the other in a special way. “Seems like your talents are not limited to knitting scarves?”

“I’d like to see how they could be limited when fifteen people live in the house, and from time to time someone goes outside and accidentally locks everyone in” Russia carefully listened to every click after turning his wrist; if something went wrong, he wouldn't want to break down the door. This will give them away – and then frame Gilbert. America did not take his eyes off his hands. “Are you curious?”

“Are you kidding me? I have never seen anything like this! I thought you need special lockpicks...”

“It would be easier with them, yes”

“But with pins ... I mean” His tone faltered and subsided, but America was still unable to hide the translucent enthusiasm. “This is an assault on private property, and this is terrible, disgust–  Seriously, with a pin, but how do you even…”

“Am I a bad influence on you?” Before America could answer his grin, there was a soft but solid click – Russia turned the knob, slightly opening the door: it worked. “I’ll tell you later how it’s done, if you want. Let's go”

Ivan let Alfred go ahead, sneaking after him – and immediately shutting the door. The hallway was drowning in pitch darkness, forcing them to step on each other's feet, pushing each other with their elbows.

“Where is the switch...”

“It... stop” Russia caught America's hand in the dark. His face suddenly became too hot – in the corner of his consciousness he noted that he was glad that nothing was visible around him. “Don’t do it. There are windows here – neighbors can see”

“After midnight?”

“Yes, after midnight. Better go to the bathroom and turn on the light there. It’s down the corridor, straight ahead, the second door on the left is over there... See?”

“Not a fucking thing”

“Then move by touch. And take off your sneakers – you will stain everything. I'll wait for you in the room”

Alfred, without unnecessary altercation, pulled his hand, shifted – Ivan let go of him and listened to quiet steps: judging by the sounds and a neat click, America got to the right door.

Now he could relax. Russia leaned back against the door, threw back his head, peered up at the black ceiling. He exhaled deeply and convulsively – now he was warm, and the rain did not drum on the top of his head and shoulders.

Now he was separated from America by a couple of meters of distance.

He took off his shoes and groped his way into the living room on the first floor, the familiar shapes of the furniture were visible in the dim moonlight that fell from the windows, on which the raindrops tapped rhythmically. It would be possible to sleep for a couple of hours – it was so nice to fall asleep while the rain was falling – but not in Gilbert's room on the second floor: it was better here, on the sofa, to move the table with the lace tablecloth in the center of the room and turn the sofa into a bed, there would be enough space for both of them…

Warm hands on his sides.

Ivan snapped his eyes shut – there was almost no difference whether he kept his eyes open or closed them, ran his hands over his face and hair. Heaviness spread through the body, in every cell. Heaviness spreaded through the body, in every cell. He was so tired, from running around, from anxiety – he was ready to just collapse into a chair and at least close his eyes for a while, but no, he needed to wait for America and then wash his own clothes: no sounds of open water were heard – probably, America was still undressing. He was on his last legs – from uncertainty and from something, he couldn’t even give a name to. Feelings intoxicated him, brоke him to pieces, already exhausted, and if Russia had not drowned in them, he would have seen, if...

The light turned on.

He was blinded by a flash – Ivan stepped back, threw up his hands in panic, squinted, trying to see at least something – a figure in the doorway leading to the stairs to the second floor, an outstretched hand, a gun...

Gilbert Beildschmidt aimed a “PM” at him.

Only one arm was thrown up – the GDR was clutching a bottle of beer with the other, the neck of which rested on his mouth, he was touching the switch on the wall with a bent elbow; red eyes widened, gray eyebrows flew up to the same tousled gray bangs – Ivan did not understand what was stopping him from yelling.

And then he realized – Gilbert swallowed his beer.

He slowly set the bottle down on a nearby drawer chest. He lowered his left hand – and straightened his right hand, with a gun.

“And I was sitting, wondering – who lost so many of his fucking marbles that he decided to break into the house right up to me” The words flowed slowly, drawn out, as if Gilbert was still processing what was happening. “And knowing you, I shouldn’t be surprised… but you still managed to amaze me somehow”

His heart was pounding like crazy. Ivan raised his hands, opening his palms – he did not shoot yet, which meant that he could... he could still...

"Gil" He breathed. “Don’t be stupid”

“You are fucking telling me!”  The GDR waved its free hand, the gun twitched slightly, causing Russia to shudder all over. “You left Roderich, crossed the border for some goddamn reason and crashed into my place, and now you’re running your mouth about being stupid? Maybe you'll even ask me what I'm doing here?!” His mocking expression changed to furious one when he saw how Ivan first opened his mouth and immediately closed it, as if he wanted to say something, and then abruptly changed his mind. “Holy shit, seriously…”

“Gilbert” The voice was quiet, trembling, thoughts tangled, clung to each other under the frantic pulsation of nerves; he needed to do something, immediately... He got struck by the thought of America in the bathroom. He took a step forward – Gilbert stepped back, to the drawer chest against the wall, a white telephone lay on it. “I understand that you are angry that w... that I ended up here...”

“No shit Sherlock!”

"...But I can... I can explain. Or leave – as if we didn’t see each other, neither you nor I, this will remain between us...”

The hand holding the gun remained as firm as before, not moving an inch, but the crimson eyes narrowed: Gilbert stared at him, looking from head to toe, only half listening to his words, as if trying to catch something, as if…

“You ran away from yours”

They fell silent. A terrible, suffocating silence hung in the room – only the rain drummed on the windows. The world shrunk to the size of a muzzle that aimed straight at his chest. Gilbert did not take his tenacious, burning eyes off him.

“Because they’ve rummaged in your brain?”

His grip was still iron, the finger lay on the “PM” trigger – but his voice became quieter, softened, the steel seemed to have melted in it. A desperate, wild hope flashed through Ivan's chest: maybe he would succeed... He would be able to explain it to Gilbert – they had already talked about it – he would understand, and then...

Russia nodded slowly. Slightly lowered his hands. He shifted his gaze behind Gilbert's back, to the stairs to the second floor visible from the doorway, the exit to which was connected with the corridor – to calm down.

“Yes. At least... that seems to be the case”

Gilbert didn't move. Ivan exhaled slowly. His head was buzzing, his ribs ached with pain – but if he managed...

“I... I met with Jones, and... I realized that... what you told me in Prague then is true. Do you remember?” There was no answer – he continued, quietly, insinuatingly. “And w... I ran away. To find out. What is happening to me”

One more step forward – the GDR did not move. The palms were open – a wide, soothing gesture.

“I came here because... because otherwise your people would have grabbed me and handed me back – and I don't know what would have happened with me then. I don't even know how much I don't know... and why I don't know... All my meetings with Jones are just... Gilbert. Let me go. Your superiors... no one will ever know I was here. No one will ever know that I somehow crossed paths with you – there is no threat to you”

The hand slightly relaxed. Crimson eyes dropped down, roamed around the room, eyebrows knitted together – it seemed like Ivan was succeeding. Just a little more...

“No”

As if a biting whip hit on his nerves – Russia flinched, not believing his ears. Icy horror licked his ridge, drove the soul somewhere into the abyss.

“Gilbert…”

Ivan stepped forward, abruptly, hurriedly – Gilbert's arm straightened again, the muzzle flashed in the light of the lamp.

“Move, and I'll blow your fucking brains out”

Russia froze – he was sick with panic, angry, he hated, hated that he had to beg, but if... if...

“Please. I’ll just leave, and…”

The GDR approached the drawer chest, put his hand on the phone. Picked up the phone. Pressing one button separated him from communication with his superiors.

“You – hell knows why – you yourself do not understand where you got into. You will be captured – not now, then later. And I'm not going to get into even more shit because of you than the one I'm wallowing in right now”

He lowered his finger on the button, not taking his eyes off Ivan, who was ready to rush – to Gilbert, or away, but there was a meter of distance between them, he would not have time, something had to be done, beeps in the receiver, until they... until...

“Administration of the Minister of State Security, Secretary Weber is listening” a tired male voice was heard.

Gilbert opened his mouth.

And staggered back, losing his balance.

America showed up behind him, holding the wrist with “PM” with an iron grip, tossing it up. Gilbert dropped the receiver – it fell with a crash on the drawer chest, hanging on the wire – the shot thundered, went to the ceiling – Gilbert bent his elbow, pointing the muzzle at Alfred's face – Alfred put his arm round his throat, squeezed his wrist with the same hand, deflected the hit from himself; Gilbert hissed and grabbed America's arm with his free hand, trying to release the choke hold. He shifted his weight to his foot, stepped aside – they staggered to the door frame, Alfred slammed against it, screamed...

Ivan jumped to the phone, caught the receiver and threw it on the lever with a crash, interrupting the flow of bewildered "hello" at the other end of the wire – and turned around. Rumble, screams – Gilbert, disheveled, furious more than ever, tripped Alfred, knocking them both to the floor – America fell, cracked his head on the stairs in the corridor, yelled – but did not   unclench his throat.

“Tie him up!”

Ivan pulled off the scarf, wrapped it around Gilbert’s ankles, calves, up to the knees, hobbled him – almost getting a heel in the eye – twisted it around again, tightening the knot. Alfred, just in his pants, slumped over, burying Gilbert under him. Ivan jumped over them, pulled the Makarov out of Gilbert's grip, threw it aside – America rose, releasing Gilbert from the grip – he coughed, managed to kick before Alfred twisted his hands behind his back. He grunted, holding Gilbert, who kicked with all his might, hissed, trying to throw Alfred off – he almost succeeded, America almost flew off him...

”Come here!”

Ivan pulled the other end of the scarf, which was lying on the floor, began to tie the GDR around his wrists; out of the corner of his eye he saw the expression on the face turned sideways, which, along with rage, showed a shock of incredible strength...

“You dragged Jones here, you alcoholic degenerate?!”

The last knot – Ivan recoiled, shaking Alfred off, who was only glad to be shaken off; turned Gilbert on his back, lifted him up, put his back against the stairs – he leaned forward with his body, almost sank his teeth into Ivan's forearm – Russia pulled his hands back in time. The GDR stared at him with a ferocious, burning eyes.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?!”

America leaned against the wall with heavy, convulsive breathing. Ivan knelt down, dropping to the same height as Gilbert, peering into the face distorted by fury.

“I didn't want it to turn out like this. I will untie you. If you promise to let us go, we'll leave, right away. And then we’ll get out of the country”

“Maybe I should suck your dick too?! You – both of you! – crossed the border! You broke into my house with Alfred fucking Jones and think I’ll just kiss your ass and let you go?!

“Gilbert” Ivan tried to keep his tone even. Despite the fact that the GDR was tied, anxiety did not leave him. He decided to back off. “Excuse us… me – that was my idea. We wouldn't have gone for it if it wasn't so dangerous... I can somehow make amends to you when I get back, when I find out...”

“No fucking way you’ll make amends for interrogations in Hohenshönhausen to me. You, freaks, are not worth such shit” Gilbert spat out the words like tongue-burning poison.

“Gilbert, you have nothing to do with it, we won't tell...”

“So they’ll loosen your tongues in an instant!” The GDR barked with such force that Ivan flinched. “Do you think you can get out of here? Come on, go – across the sea, over the wall, through the air, I don't give a shit – they'll catch you like blind puppies, and you,    bastards, can't even fucking imagine what they will do to you – and to those who was brainless enough to cover you up! You...”

His words were drowned out by the ringing of the phone.

America rushed to the machine – but before it could unplug the cord, Gilbert snapped:

“If I do not answer in five minutes, a whole detachment of Stasi will come here”

Ivan seemed to be frozen to the floor. Gilbert's furious gaze left him no choice – he turned his head, rushed to the “PM”, aimed it directly in the forehead of the GDR.

“Tell them everything's all right and you won't have to scrape your own brains off the stairs”

Gilbert didn't react for a couple of moments.

And then ragged, barking laughter filled the room, mingling with the ringing telephone – Gilbert was guffawing at the top of his lungs, his head thrown back, flashing white teeth – and the laughter sent chills down their spines.

“Have you confused me with your Baltic sing-alongs, Braginsky? You speak softly, but hit in the face with your boot at the drop of a hat – it looks so much like you!” Gilbert swayed forward, resting his forehead against the muzzle of the gun. The grin did not leave his face when he, tied up, raised a frowning glance at Ivan, staring at him – and for some reason Russia wanted to shrink back. “I don’t give a shit. Shoot. You might as well pour the whole clip into me” He moved his eyebrows, poking his forehead against the barrel several times. The smirk of thin lips spread even wider. “Go on. I will laugh when you’ll explain yourself to the Chekists. Will you grovel at their feet? Or will you rush to give them head – out of an old habit?”

Red flash before his eyes – and pain; Russia felt fury surge in his chest, blazing through his veins. He pressed the “PM” in Gilbert's forehead, so hard that he slammed the top of his head into the stairs.

“I can shoot you in the leg” fury rumbled in his ears, drowning out even the ringing of the phone. “If you don’t like a quick blackout, I can do a slow one, and…”

“Hey, hey, wait a sec...”

Steps nearby – America came up to him from the other side; put his hand on his shoulder of the arm with the gun. Russia shuddered – and found that he had almost forgotten about his presence.

He moved the “PM” away from Gilbert's head. Stepped aside.

“We can... we can come to an agreement” Alfred seemed to be addressing not so much Gilbert as Ivan. “Maybe there is something we can do? Or what can I do” Alfred leaned over. He even managed to put on a smile on his face, albeit giving away a nervous tremor at the corners of his lips. “I mean… for you, personally. Maybe...”

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself, you star-striped douchebag?” Gilbert glared daggers at him with the same might as he looked at Ivan, if not stronger. America frowned – but did not swallow the bait.

“Listen, I know you’ve been getting a lot of crap about me in recent years, but I don’t wish you harm, and if there’s anything I can do to help, now is the time…”

A new burst of laughter, higher and crazier – Gilbert grinned, brazenly, knitted his eyebrows.

“I am sick to death of your help! You have already helped so much – helped Erzhebet, and Loizo with Gedvika! Can you even find them on the map, you damn lifeguard? All these menacing speeches at the UN – oow, how much righteous anger, but the only result is nothing more than lip-work. Did you forget about me seventeen years ago? Or have you, like Braginsky, been brainwashed so much that you only remember those moments when people jerk off to you?”

America recoiled as if from a lash, but his expression changed in an instant from bewildered to angry; he turned to Ivan.

“Did you tell him?”

Russia, out of surprise, did not even understand that he was addressing him.

"Alfred..." He didn't know what was higher: the still ringing bell or America's indignant voice.

“You made a scene when I offered to tell Arthur and Ludwig, and now it turns out that you’d run your mouth to the whole Warsaw Pact Organisation?!”

“If you want to know, he ran his mouth to me himself!” Russia barked, waving his gun. Blue eyes widened, golden brows shot up in surprise. “If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have known that we’re both up to our necks in this shit!” He looked away, clenching his jaw. If not for the bell, he would have seen a shadow pass over Gilbert's face. He thought, pondered, until it was too late, until... An idea dawned on him. “Alfred, there is something you can do to help him. Get out of West Berlin”

Even if America looked stunned before, now the shock has exceeded all conceivable limits. He took a step back.

“No”

“Alfred, if you don't do something for him right now...”

“If I don’t do? That’s so convenient of you!” The air rang with anger around him. “Drive me in here, and then blackmail me into giving up my positions – and those I chose to protect? And how long have you been thinking about this?!”

“Are you nuts?! I'm trying to find a way out!”

“From the shithole where you yourself brought us!” America whistled his palm in the air, shook his bangs. "Why don't you bow in front of him, huh? Promise to loosen the collar! Instead of strengthening at the expense of others?!”

Ivan clutched his head, tousled his wet hair – his heart was beating, the phone was ringing, tearing his ears...

“It's enough for me that Ludwig will leave West Berlin”

The ice of Gilbert's voice blocked the ringing. They turned around, in sync – Gilbert, absolutely calm, was sitting leaning against the stairs.

“What do you want in exchange?” He looked at America. “For it to look equal”

Alfred swallowed. Recollect himself quickly.

“Transit. From Germany to West Berlin. Free”

Gilbert was silent for a couple of seconds. He glanced at Russia – as if expecting something, as if asking: Ivan nodded.

“It'll do" he said dryly at last. “Well, would you let me answer the phone so I can save your pathetic asses?”

Alfred and Ivan froze in disbelief.

“And how will we understand that you will not pick up the phone and call the Stasi officers?”

Gilbert shrugged nonchalantly. A purple bruise was already spreading on one of his shoulders from hitting the door frame.

“In no way. But if I don't pick it up, they will come on their own accord”

Silence fell, broken only by the beating of their hearts and the ringing. And then Ivan and Alfred rushed at once to Gilbert – they took him by the legs and by the shoulders and dragged him into the room. Gilbert snorted.

“Seriously? Isn't it easier to untie me?”

“It’s faster this way”

If Ivan's nerves were not stretched like a string, he would advise him to appreciate the moments when the superpowers were carrying him in their arms. They leaned Gilbert against the wall near the dresser, then Ivan, praying to a long-forgotten god, picked up the receiver and put it to the GDR's ear. Almost stopped breathing.

“Yes, I'm listening” Gilbert made his voice sleepy.

“Comrade Beildschmidt, Secretary Weber is listening” Now the tired voice sounded somewhat alarming. “What happened? You didn't pick up the phone for three minutes”

“Ah, this..." Gilbert hesitated. Ivan almost jumped out of his skin because of that seconds-long hitch. ”Yes, I'm sorry I hanged it up, the bird escaped from the cage. I ran to catch her”

There was silence on the phone.

“Understood. So what's the call for?”

“Call... I would like to discuss this with Comrade Mielke personally”

“I'm afraid the minister is not available at this late hour. I will write down what you wanted to tell him” A short fuss in the receiver. “So that?”

“Mmm... I'm not sure I'm ready to discuss this. The information I wish to share is strictly confidential”

“I am authorized to receive and document all the information that comes from you to Comrade Mielke” Weber answered droopingly, but firmly. “I can assure you of that”

“Well... Okay. It's about Ivan Braginsky. Are you aware of the nature... of this person?”

Russia shuddered, wanted to pull the phone away – and only Gilbert's expressive look stopped him.

A pause.

“Certainly. What about him?”

“You see... how to explain it to you” Gilbert bit his lip, furrowed his brows. “Yesterday Comrade Mielke called me into his office and asked if I had noticed any oddities in his behavior lately”

“Yes”

“I answered that no, our last meeting was no different from all the others... but now... now I remember. Something... so unusual of him... I don't know why I missed it, but still...”

“I’m listening” The strain at the other end of the wire was felt almost physically. Russia could imagine Weber clutching a pen, leaning over the paper under a green lamp, catching every word.

“He told me he would quit drinking”

Silence again. Out of the corner of his eye, Ivan saw America biting his fist in an attempt not to laugh.

A tired sigh in the receiver.

“Comrade Beildschmidt...”

“I understand that it may sound stupid, but if we talk about oddities, then this intention is extremely uncharacteristic for Ivan Braginsky” The delegate at the CPSU congress could envy the seriousness with which Gilbert uttered these words. “I have known him for seven hundred years – literally – and this is the first time such an event has happened in all seven hundred years; I would venture to assume that this may indicate changes in his character, fundamental, for that matter – the consequences may turn out to be the most unpredictable...”

“I… trust your judgment, but…”

“I cannot help but notify Comrade Mielke about this, you understand”

“Understand. On behalf of Comrade Mielke and the entire Ministry of State Security, I express gratitude for your vigilance” If Weber's voice was imbued with something, it certainly was not gratitude.

“Thanks. Are you sure I shouldn't contact him after all? This information may be useful to him”

“I will pass on all your words to him as soon as he wakes up”

“It might be urgent. I do not want Comrade Mielke's work to be endangered by delay”

“Don't worry about that. Communication with the minister can wait until the morning”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely”

“Well, if so... Thank you for your service. Goodnight”

“Good night, Comrade Beildschmidt”

Dial tones resounded in the receiver. Ivan removed it from his ear and put it on the lever. He sank to the floor next to the tied up Gilbert, staring blankly into space in front of him. Somewhere next to them, Alfred Jones, wearing nothing but pants, slammed his forehead on the floor with his hands over his face, howling something relievingly-nervous.

Russia knew that if he ever quit drinking, then definitely not today.

“When I said that you should start talking to each other, I didn't mean that”

The first thing Gilbert did when Ivan pulled off his scarf was taking a big sip from a bottle of beer.

They sat on the couch: Russia leaned back, his eyes ranged over the Yugoslavian wall cabinet from an overdose of emotions, America sat next to him – cross-legged, hugging the pillow with his arms. Gilbert positioned himself opposite of them, pushing a table with a lace tablecloth and setting up an armchair in its place. All three were silent for a while. The light was extinguished, only a floor lamp was burning in the corner, and night air, saturated with post-storm freshness, spread through the open window – the rain stopped drumming on the glass, and now the silence – even without the phone ringing – seemed almost unreal.

America was the first to break it.

"Dude" He breathed happily, wildly. “You just… Thank you, that was…”

“Shut your yap, will ya” Gilbert wrinkled his face wearily and lowered his hand with a bottle between his legs apart. Alfred decided not to sound off and protest.

Several minutes passed. The GDR moved forward on an armchair and bowed his head.

“So” Gilbert slowly turned the neck of the bottle in his hands. “Both of you partly lost your memory”

“So it is” Ivan's voice was quiet.

“And you didn’t come up with anything better than escaping from the CIA and the KGB?” Gilbert scowled at their energetic, synchronized nods. “And there was no better place to hide and seek than my house in all of Europe?”

Russia and America looked at each other. America raised his eyebrows expressively in Gilbert's direction – Russia replied with a shrug and a wave of his hand – in agreement. And only then America turned to face him and with all seriousness – as far as his appearance allowed – said:

“We want to get to London, to Arthur. There is a chance he can help us”

“Looks like you even forgot the map of Europe if you decided to go to Kirkland through me”

"Ah, that" Alfred scratched the back of his head. “Initially we really moved through West Germany and went to Ludwig, but on the way... something happened, and we had to... urgently change the route”

“And what so terrible happened in the West that you rushed across the border right to me?” Gilbert finally threw up his head and fixed his scarlet gaze first at America, then at Russia. “By the way, how did you even manage to cross it?”

“We... can tell” Ivan rubbed his neck in embarrassment, averting his eyes. “But it's a long story”

“We're not in a hurry” Gilbert leaned back in his armchair. “I'm very interested to know how my border can be violated from the west. Moreover, recently Walter swelled a lot of money into the fortification”

“That's noticeable”

“All the more interesting” The GDR drank some more beer. “Since you’re here anyway, enlighten me”

If before that Gilbert thought that he had enough beer, now he wanted to bring a bottle of vodka from the kitchen – at least, so it seemed to Russia. Most of their adventures were described by Alfred – as the one who got out of the blackout faster and as the one whose story came out more graphic. Ivan only interrupted him sometimes and inserted important details.

“...And so I took off my jeans and T-shirt – and suddenly I heard someone's screams – it was definitely not Ivan, well, I went from the side of the corridor and jumped – and again, so that you understand, I... I am really sorry for that, but you already picked up the phone – and it was unlikely that if I had said hello to you then, you would have been like, «Hey, Alfred Jones himself, how unexpected! I’ll ask him what he is doing in my corridor in his pants – for sure, everything can be settled by dialogue!»”

“I'm just… astounded of you” These were the first sounds that Gilbert made in the last half hour,     apart from the groans from under his palms. “The fact that you decided to run away and cut across ten borders into Britain is one thing...”

“And what else could we do if Arthur does not come to us? Sit idly by, or what?” Gilbert's eye twitched in response to Alfred's remark, but he continued:

“...but let yourself be killed on purpose, and then escape through the morgue – only you two could think of that”

“To be honest” Ivan said. “It was my idea”

"Not that I'm surprised" Gilbert went back to hissing. “You know, in other circumstances, I would have told this story to the entire social bloc – and if they knew, the entire Warsaw Pact would have already prepared a will!”

“What has Warsaw Pact to do with it?” Irritation pricked Ivan from within.

“Because if such ventures appear in your head, who knows what…”

"Hey" America interrupted him indignantly. “Actually, it was a great plan!”

Gilbert paused, staring at Alfred in confusion, as did Ivan. A strange feeling welled up in his chest, unfamiliar, but pleasant: he could hardly restrain himself from blurting out "Really?"

America, meanwhile, turned a bewildered look from one interlocutor to another, not understanding such a reaction.

“What else can you call a plan that takes into account our main advantage over people – well, the fact that a mine, of course, can blow us up, but will not stop us – and puts it into practice, and even in such conditions when we were almost raked, and we urgently needed to come up with something, otherwise they would have raked us in a couple of hours? And figure out where to hide the photo so that it would not be taken away while we are in a blackout? And look” He spread his arms wide, circling the room. “We made it!”

“Thanks to dumb luck”

“But it worked! And I also liked that Ivan bought some time: those who caught us in the West would not even think that we had gone to the East, because escaping from West to East is something only batshit crazy person would come up with!” Alfred's pure laughter, coupled with the clapping of his palm on his own leg, spread into an icy silence, which he immediately noticed and fell quiet. “Ivan? Ivan, why are you looking at me like that, I'm defending you...”

“Oh, it’s, nothing” Russia crossed his arms over his chest and raised his eyebrows with mock gaiety. Anger boiled in his blood, but this anger was... playful. “I must say, I was also fascinated by your… resourcefulness. Pretending to be mad in front of Ludwig's cops is pretty smart. You settled into your role so finely, as if you didn’t even have to pretend”

“I knew that you would appreciate how good I am at this” Alfred supported his playfulness with the finest notes of steel in his voice – but they only set off his tone, sonorous and sparkling. “Who, if not you, understands this so well. Especially taking you as a "hostage" – if the push comes to shove, I'm ready to repeat”

“Yeah. Just don't rub a hole in my temple with a gun, like then”

“Oh, I'm sorry, next time I'll poke you with my barrel more gently...”

“Okay, I got it” Gilbert put his hands forward, attracting attention to himself: Russia and America turned their heads to him at the same time, startled in fright, as if they had already forgot about his presence – the GDR suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “You have set the bar of insanity so much that it flies somewhere in the area of the Moon, I can’t beat it anymore”

“Why is that? You helped us to hide from the Stasi” Alfred chopped in with a smile under Ivan's smirk. “Dude, you underestimate yourself”

Gilbert was silent for a moment.

But then he laughed – and took the last sip of beer from the bottle.

“Well, how are you going to get out of here? Climbing inside is tough, but you, like, need to go to London? How will you break the border this time?”

“We want to sail to the Danish Islands” Ivan began to explain. “Get to the coast, and then...”

"Bullshit idea" Gilbert clicked his tongue. “They will bust you like one o'clock – and you won’t even have time to shit on yourself”

“Hey, it’s only forty kilometers there, but we can get a boat, set sail at night, or if it doesn’t work out, we might swim on our own...”

“Forty kilometers – this is from Rostock, and they are guarded better than your nuclear installations, and if you swim from there, you will run into an observation tower with a searchlight, and then the border guards will come to you on a patrol boat. Would you be able to swim away from them?” Gilbert looked from Ivan to Alfred, who fell silent at once. “That's it”

“There must be some way out”

“There is a way out, but my advice to you is to spend a couple of days to think it over properly before pulling a new stunt” with these words, Gilbert began to rise from his armchair. “I am telling you this as a representative that depends on the forethought of your further actions”

“We would do that if we could hide somewhere. But I don’t think that at least... Wait” Ivan broke off, looking at Gilbert in disbelief.

His face was hidden in the orange twilight, but even so, Russia could not help but notice such a familiar crease that lay between gray eyebrows after the GDR glanced at the ceiling, and then turned away, pursing his lips – as if he was measuring something up, as if he weighed in the balance... He felt Alfred tense up next to him, as if he had also noticed this change – a crazy guess flashed through Ivan’s mind.

“Just don't say that you... You really...” America opened his mouth.

“…Am I really breaking the bar of insanity by deciding to hide you at my place?” Gilbert looked down at them. He scratched the back of his head. “How about looking from this angle: since I’ve got you off the hook, why don’t I take care of organizing how to get you out of my territory as quickly and reliably as possible so as not to get caught myself? And so that you have the opportunity to fulfill all those wonderful agreements that you promised me?”

Two pairs of eyes, blue and purple, stared at him in shock.

"Gilbert" Russia breathed at last. Never, never had he expressed his gratitude so sincerely. “Thank you”

“Yeah. Make a mess – and you’ll fly out of here in an instant”

“For sure!” America nodded, and Russia noted in his thoughts – to tell Alfred later that "mess" for Gilbert meant that the salt shaker in the kitchen was moved five centimeters out of place. “Yes, we will not touch anything! If you want, we will sleep on the rug, or in the bathroom...”

“There is only one bath for three of us, so take no longer than fifteen minutes there” the GDR enunciated, falling into his favorite mode of issuing orders. “I'll show you where to sleep now, follow me”

“Thank you” Ivan got up from the sofa, approached Gilbert, spreading his arms for a hug. “Seriously, thank you...” And was immediately stopped by him – not so much with an outstretched hand, but with a squeamish expression on his face.

“You know what” He looked over Russia from head to toe. “Go and wash yourself firstly – it won’t hurt either of you”

After the shower, Gilbert told him and Alfred that they would sleep in his room on the top floor.

They tried to protest that the sofa below was enough for them, but the GDR only reminded whose house it was and who was in charge here, leading them up the stairs. Neither Russia nor America dared to argue.

Ivan had never been in Gilbert's bedroom before, although he had visited him several times: the ceiling in the room was sloping, descending to a fairly wide made-up bed in the corner and a bedside table; there were a bookcase and a linen cabinet along the walls. The only unusual interior detail among these uncomplicated furnishings was a cage with a yellow canary – it squealed as soon as all three entered the room. Gilbert took one of the packages of food from the shelf, poured some grain into his palm, opened the door and put his hand inside – the canary immediately jumped from the perch to his hand, chirping happily.

“Feed the bird in the morning, one and a half teaspoons of the grain mixture” He said while the canary ate the grains from his palm. “You will be here all the time – except for morning hygiene procedures – in case my people suddenly show up. If this happens – the bird will chirp and flap its wings for no apparent reason – like today, when you showed up. You will sit quietly and not stick your head out”

“Okay, you’re the boss” Alfred broke away from the canary, which he looked at as a child stuck to the window looks at the explosion of firecrackers. “Is it necessary for us to sit in your bedroom? You're already making such sacrifices for us...”

“Yes, it’s necessary”

Gilbert took his hand out of the cage and leaned over to the empty strip of parquet under the window, between the closet and the bedside table. He reached under the bed, took out a thin plank, put it into the oversized slot between the parquet boards, pressed...

At first it seemed to Ivan that only a few boards had risen – Gilbert picked them up with his hand and lifted them up – but then a whole piece of parquet moved from its place, opening the entrance to a dim space between the floor of the second floor and the ceiling of the first, deep enough to put a not too high box in it if desired.

And wide enough for a whole person to fit inside.

“This gap is not indicated on the plan of the house. The bird will react – and you must immediately rush here, close the lid, lie down and don’t breathe” said the GDR, straightening up and brushing off his hands purely out of habit: the floor sparkled with perfect cleanliness. Even the surface underneath was just as polished.

“Thoughtfully” Russia commented, peering over his shoulder and looking into the underground. “I think we’ll be able to get in quickly and push the parquet... What?”

He couldn't help noticing that Gilbert was looking at them strangely.

“What do you mean, "think"? Maybe you also think that I'll just let you go to sleep without practicing?”

“It sucks. Go again!”

The parquet boards moved aside – the face of Russia appeared from the gap, who – now for sure – was ready to drop from exhaustion.

“Gilbert, this is the twentieth time we've got in here in a row, maybe it’s eno...”

“You trudge twelve and a half seconds and call it an acceptable result? You will drag your asses back and forth until you can hide properly!”

Russia took a deep, convulsive breath – at the same time feeling America groaning as his head hit the boards – and pushed the boards further, getting out of the alcove, pushing with his hand on the parquet – next to Gilbert's slipper, who towered over them with a stopwatch.

Raise the boards, move them, get inside and close: it sounded so easy. But in reality, everything was more complicated: at Gilbert's command – which sounded more like a bark – they jumped out of bed: while Ivan was fiddling with the plank, Alfred would make the bed. It was impossible to just leave it like that: anyone who had known Gilbert for more than a month knew that he always made the bed – and then America would have rolled down into the open rift. Russia would follow him, taking the plank with him. Finally, it was necessary to put the boards in place, remaining in total darkness, and lie quietly, with their noses and chests against the wooden parquet. No big deal. Everything should take about five seconds, no more.

When it came down to action...

The GDR raved and stormed, giving orders, pacing as if on a parade ground – slippers replaced boots for him – put him and Alfred back in their initial position with grumbling "it's sickening to look at your fluttering" after they stamped on each other’s feet in search of a plank-lever. Sometimes it seemed to Ivan, whose eyes were blurry from constant running, that Gilbert was wearing not a gray T-shirt at all, but a blue uniform, a black cocked hat flashed in his memory, a measured tread, a line formation...

Several times he and America managed to leave the plank on the surface, for which they received a reproach from Gilbert for having eyes on their asses. Finally, they did the whole sequence correctly - "too slow"; then they accelerated - "too carelessly", and now, on the twenty-first attempt...

“Three... two... go!”

Ivan rushed, caught the board, inserted it, pressed – the boards rose – a golden heap of Alfred's hair flashed before his eyes – he rolled into the gap swiftly, covering himself with bruises – Russia followed him, pressing the plank to his chest, slid down, moved the boards...

“Eight point four seconds. Still disgusting, but it'll do. Get out”

A few seconds passed before a piece of parquet shifted and America and Russia crawled out – downtrodden and disheveled, with eyes full of universal fatigue.

“You know, I'm ready to lie down right here...”

“Yeah, I don't care. There is only one bed in the room”

“What...” America – together with Russia – sharply tossed their heads.

To see how the door slammed shut with a cheerful "Goodnight!" and they were left alone.

Even the canary fell silent on the perch, without breaking the silence with a chirp. As he left, Gilbert turned off the light, and now the room was flooded with the soft light of a night lamp on the bedside table.

They were together again, for the first time in what seemed like long hours.

Ivan strained his last nerve and got out of the alcove. He held out his hand to Alfred. He was clearly in no hurry to move from his place, but nevertheless took hold of it and got up. They turned around, pushed the "lid" shut, hid the plank under the bed - and then America took off his T-shirt and collapsed on the bed, moving close to the wall and throwing the blanket over.

Russia switched off the nightlight and settled down beside him, too tired to notice how their shoulders brushed against each other.

He felt as if he wanted to say something, to somehow sum up their multi-day adventure. All that came to mind was obscene interjections, not fully expressing the range of feelings that passed through his insides in waves. Thoughts were confused, crumbling into a kaleidoscope of memories of the last day and a half: brown tree trunks in the Thuringian forests, the splashing of a river crossed at full speed, America, reeling from a long walk... Russia suddenly wanted to – wanted to ask how he was doing...

"Hey" a voice suddenly came from the side.

Russia shuddered in surprise, turned his head. America's face was a breath away from him – he stared at him with his blue eyes, yawned and squinted blindly in the darkness, but did not take his eyes off him.

Ivan pulled back a little – so that it was not so close.

“Just don't say that you're already rested and alive”

“What? Noo” Alfred chuckled, shook his head and yawned again. "I'm going to zone out to hell now. I just noticed” He exhaled and averted his eyes. That tight and warm lump inside Russia, which had managed to grow when looking at Alfred, finally unclenched. And then it tightened again when America caught his eye right back. “That we haven’t had a fight in the last two days”

“Yes, for this it was worth dying together once”

America fluttered his eyelids in surprise, letting the thought seep in.

And then he laughed, flashing his white teeth. Russia could not restrain himself – how could he resist, when looking at such America – and also smiled, with only the corners of his lips.

"Jesus" Alfred raised his hand, wiping tears from laughter in his eyes. He was shaking all over lightly. “If I had known that you would become so cute, I would have crossed the border with you twenty years ago!”

Ivan chuckled.

“Twenty years ago it was not so fortified. The effect would not be... the same”

"Hah..." He stopped laughing, but his smile didn't disappear. Ivan allowed himself to fix his eyes on it. “By the way, I'm glad to see that Gilbert has not lost his commanding ardor. I felt like I was set back for two hundred years while he was making run over us here”

“Wha... For two hundred years?” Russia frowned in confusion. “Did you already know him then?”

“Of course. He was...” America broke off.

And then he yawned so widely that he nearly dislocated his jaw.

He fell silent. He narrowed his eyes and stretched – he was about to continue his phrase...

And he yawned again, even wider than last time.

“He was... well, if you want” He pulled the blanket over his shoulder, turning on his side, facing the wall. "I'll tell you tomorrow, otherwise... I'll just... pass out right now. Goodnight”

“Good night” Russia answered him.

Barely a five minutes had passed before a quiet sniffing was heard from the side.

Ivan looked up at the sloping ceiling. Pictures of the recent past continued to float in front of him: the Elbe, almost black in the lashing rain, flowed into the wet fence, the muzzle of the “PM”, Gilbert's brows, furrowed in fury.

Gilbert.

The panic-clouded mind finally began to clear up, as if thunderclouds were breaking up in the sky, leaving behind only clarity and the smell of freshness. Something stood out of this well-formed flow, like a badly sewn patch lay on the canvas. Bared teeth, laughter in response to threats and scarlet eyes... It took a few minutes to realize.

No matter how much he wanted to close his eyes and finally fall asleep, Russia got up – carefully, trying not to wake America (although something told him that even if a herd of buffalo ran up the stairs, Alfred would hardly move). He left the room and closed the door with a soft click.

Opposite was another door, locked, with a narrow streak of light pouring out of a gap between it and the floor: just as I expected. Ivan knocked – the light went out, but Gilbert's voice did not follow. He took it as an invitation. Slightly opened the door.

“Am I intruding?”

There was a snort from the opposite side.

“A timely question, Braginsky. Come, if you’re here anyway”

Gilbert was sitting at a table in what Ivan would call a study – the GDR had equipped it with a wide table with a typewriter and a lamp, cabinets with folders just like in his apartment in Berlin, a radiogram with a record player in the corner. Gilbert fled for the weekends from Berlin, throwing on a backpack and throwing a cage with the bird into the back seat of the Trabi – but even here he could not sometimes step back from work, forced to take a pile of documents with him – and sit with them till late at night. That, however, did not prevent him from getting up early the next day – in order for Gilbert to stop maintaining his day regimen, there should have been at least an exchange of nuclear strikes.

Russia had always been envious of this ability.

The armchair at the other end of the room was already laid out, with a sheet and a pillow, but for some reason it was still not occupied. Gilbert hunched over the tabletop, a click and a flash – he lit a cigarette, took a drag, leaned back in his chair. The light that flickered as he inhaled was the only source of light in the room, throwing orange reflection across his face. Ivan pulled up a second chair and sat opposite of him. They were silent for a while.

He quickly got used to such a comfortable silence that began to appear between them only a few years ago.

Yellow patches of light flickered on the frame of the gun. Russia remembered something.

“You went to see us off with a gun and beer?”

“I didn't know it was you. I thought some idiot risked his health and decided to break into my house – not that it turned out not to be so – well, I decided to mix business with pleasure” Smoke swirled against pursed lips. “How do you know Kirkland will help you?”

The question took Ivan by surprise – he did not even realize it right away. Gilbert continued without waiting for an answer:

“So you're fleeing almost blindly”

“There is no confidence in Arthur's help” Russia quietly shook his head. His eyes had already adapted to the absence of light: he could see the GDR's piercing gaze directed at him even in the dark. “But Alfred…he promised that Arthur wouldn't betray us”

“This is unlike you – to believe the promises of Jones”

“Lately I have to do a lot of things that are unlike myself”

Gilbert just chuckled through his cigarette. He probably had his own opinion on this matter.

“Where do you get these thoughts from? You have memory lapses. You could say you just don't know yourself”

“Do you think I have already had to flee the country and then hide from my own people?”

“I think your history with Jones is much richer than you previously thought”

Somewhere above their heads a clock was ticking, counting down the seconds until dawn – the skyline in the window was beginning to turn blue. Russia smiled bitterly. This could not be much richer.

“I wrote letters to him during the war. He showed me them. He found them about ten years ago and then suspected that something was wrong with his memory. Several letters, for different years” for some reason he wanted to say this.

It was Gilbert's turn to zone out from what he had heard – he didn't bring the cigarette to his mouth.

“So, the matter was not limited to simple peepers at his photo” he said slowly. Ivan didn't answer. “Yes, that... explains why they moved out for you almost immediately... But still – you chose a shitty place to hide and seek. Any information will immediately pass from the Stasi to the KGB. And judging by today's inquiries of the minister, it has already reached them”

Russia tossed his head.

“I thought you lied to the secretary about Mielke”

“About the fact that yesterday he called me in to his place? No, it was real” Gilbert took the last puff, stuck his cigarette butt into the ashtray, filled with the small hill of ash. Black and orange flashes flickered in the darkness. “I had to go urgently, but answer questions about our…” He clicked his tongue. "…bonds of socialist brotherhood that have been strengthened in the last nine years – what we talked about at the last meeting, did you behave in any way weird... Then I immediately realized that you pulled off something serious, but I had nothing to confess – I answered so. I came home, and there the whole apartment was wiretapped. I couldn't even go to piss without the dearest officers enjoying this sound” He reached for a pack of cigarettes.  “It's good to know radio intelligence. You start noticing things like this. And then I took the bird and rushed here on the train – so that it would be faster. They haven't had time to bug everything here yet”

Awareness, sticky and cold, seeped under Ivan's skin.

“You want to say” he looked Gilbert straight in the eye. “That if you hadn’t arrived yesterday, we would have broken into a house that was bugged by the Stasi?”

“Looks like it” the GDR nodded in agreement.

Russia leaned back in his chair. He covered his face with his hands and tried very, very hard not to moan at the top of his voice.

They were so close to failure...

“They would have heard you, arrived in five minutes, and break in while you were washing your trousers” there was even some kind of gaiety in Gilbert’s voice – such gaiety, no matter whose, aroused only one desire in Ivan: to punch him in the mug.

"But why... why are you of all people under suspicion?" Russia removed his hands from his face. He lowered his elbows on the tabletop in a questioning gesture. “The chances that I… we would decide to visit your house are slim to none, and…”

"Maybe because you and I have been talking again... for some time now" Gilbert looked away. “From the outside, it can be assumed that your trick was planned, and therefore someone else could know about it... Hey” the GDR narrowed his eyes, as if remembering something. “Before going to Vienna, you were busy in Moscow with Ludwig, right?” Ivan nodded. “Well, imagine: you communicate with the West for half a year, having a lot of opportunities for a personal –confidential even – conversation, then you go to a meeting with Jones – a representative that has excellent personal relations with Ludwig” A flash of a lighter: was he imagining things, or Gilbert said it with a dram of annoyance? “And after that you immediately cut and run to Ludwig's territory. Too coherent, don't you think? In addition: now Ludwig regularly sees me, discusses... different things, we met not so long ago. At the same time, having decided that it is dangerous to stay in West Germany, you run away not just anywhere, but to my lands – well, here you are. Ready-made list of suspects”

Ivan just remained silent. The realization that all their success was based on a series of stupid accidents pressed with incredible force, and considering the way it looked from the outside – he seemed to physically feel how his brain swelled from the stress.

“Well, at least none of the neighbors noticed how we entered. We took care of that” he said palely, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, at least you did your best here” Gilbert chuckled. He lit the cigarette again – it had gone out before he spoke. “I don't think the neighbors would do any harm, though”

“If you're under supervision, they could inform”

“Ah” The GDR shook his head lightly, exhaling smoke. “If they were secret moles, I would know”

“From where...”

“From there, that they are unlikely to shove informants into every second house”

The GDR pursed his lips and looked away again, as if experiencing a similar feeling: as if he decided to say what he just said a moment ago.

Ivan did not immediately realize what Gilbert meant. And when he understood, he opened his eyes in shock.

“Since when...”

“A retaliation for the nineteen-fifty-third” the scarlet eyes of the GDR suddenly became empty. They gleamed dully in the dissipating darkness. “Since then. As long as we're so cozy... and sharing secrets. By the way” He arched an eyebrow. “You still won’t believe me that there was no intervention from Jones there?”

Ivan remembered the ninety-fifty-third very well.

The putsch, inspired by American and West German monopoly capital – crowds of people in the streets, roaring, jubilant, workers, employees, all of Berlin, men, women, everyone. The banned radio station – which was listened to by almost everyone in the East – called for strikes across the country. Heaven knows how it would have ended if his troops had not entered the German capital again.

His panzer division moved in just after Gilbert tore the red flag from the Brandenburg Gate.

“Jones didn’t even lift a finger to “ignite the fire of war” and announce the uprising on the radio” the GDR continued. “He was too afraid that then you would exchange nuclear strikes”

He personally caught Gilbert – on Leipziger Strasse, when he damaged radio antennas. He personally wrung his hands. He personally dragged him back under Ulbricht's supervision, barely restraining himself from crushing his skull against the wall in response to the streams of splashing curses – even restrained and tied up, he managed to fight back.

After that they did not see each other for almost a year.

“So, then... you became...”

“Well... not immediately” His voice suddenly became distant. “They kept me in Hohenshönhausen for a year – but then, yes, when everything calmed down – they let me out, but forced me to sign a piece of paper. As a guarantee of my loyalty to the party comrades”

“The government is not allowed to let us to intelligence service. They agreed on this... everyone”

“The government is not allowed to break the ribs, arms and legs of representatives as well, but they don’t give a damn about this shit, as it turned out” Gilbert growled.

Ivan was silent, lowering his face into his hands.

Fifteen years ago, the news that Gilbert had been tortured would have evoked nothing but grim triumph in him. He would have savored it well, relishing all the shades of gloating – gloating that took roots from the black wound inside him – the same wound that had not closed since the forties and bled clots of grief, pain and rage.

But now...

“They put another wiretapping in the apartment” The voice of the GDR continued to sound in his ears. “For about five years, if not more. Then they took it off – after all, I became such a disciplined boy: I was present at the congresses of the SED – and even managed not to fall asleep, I began to hobnob with you. They decided to encourage me with this mansion” Russia imagined rather than saw the sweep of the hand. “And now they are watching again. After everything I've done for them” His tone oozed with sarcasm. “After I supplied the most valuable information about all our fraternal republics from our gatherings: who will drink off more vodka – you or Łukasiewicz, who of the Baltics shits more bricks at the sight of you, how you, drunk, mouth off about how great it will be to live under communism – and it will come, Gilbert, you won’t blink an eye, Nikita Sergeyevich promised, after all!”

“…And how I lost the memory of Alfred Jones and how I walk around with his photograph”

“Pfft, no. I won't give them that joy”

Russia removed his hands from his face.

He came to Gilbert to ask him a question about something that had seemed strange to him before – but now he was completely confused: he was sickened from new information, was disoriented even more than before.

“When you found us” Russia spoke slowly. His gaze bored into the GDR, absorbing every detail, every line on his face, as if seeing him for the first time: that pale skin, slightly slanted eyes, thin lips. “Downstairs in the living room. You had the perfect chance for taking revenge. Whether on me for what happened seventeen years ago” He saw how something flashed at the bottom of his scarlet gaze. “Or on Jones for the same”

The smoke of a half-smoked cigarette fanned his gray hair. Blackness changed to blue – everything in the room was covered with it. Gilbert took a puff – he waited for Ivan to continue.

“But you didn't. You lied to the Stasi. You decided to hide us in your house. You showed us where and how to hide. Don't tell me it's all because of our conditions for Ludwig to leave West Berlin”

The GDR chuckled.

“I'm not even sure if you will be allowed to hint at some kind of conditions in front of your superiors after this stunt of yours”

“The more so. Then why?”

Gilbert was silent. Then he put out his cigarette on the ashtray, got up from the table and went to the window – Ivan realized that he was opening the window because of the creak. A gust of fresh wind slightly dispersed the cigarette smoke.

“This memory loss of you and Jones... It's interesting”

Ivan turned around in his chair. Gilbert stood sideways to him and looked into the distance.

“So all this risk – because of idle interest?”

“Partly yes, partly…” he trailed off. His gaze seemed to be directed inwards. “When I realized that something was wrong with you, I didn’t immediately connect it with something else. With something that I already noticed – about thirty or thirty-five years ago... With Ludwig”

“What do you mean?” Ivan himself barely heard his own voice.

“I did not immediately realize. The way that he... lit up with power in the thirties – it baffled me” Gilbert did not look at him. “But then, little by little... In conversations, I noticed that he seemed to... not remember something. Some events, some people. Or he remembers that he met them – but does not remember what they talked about. What was strange, because he’s not even a hundred years old yet. And then... when I suspected the same thing with you... it was already impossible to talk to Ludwig”

Dawn slowly flooded the room, along with the ticking of the clock.

“He is now rethinking a lot. And, by the way, he has changed. When I was not around him”

“Under the patronage of Jones – how not to...”

“No, no” The GDR interrupted Russia. “He started to less... hang upon authorities' words. He really needed it”

Russia did not answer him, locking his hands together and leaning on the back of a chair. There was a brief silence, which was broken when Gilbert spoke again.

“And then it turns out that you and Jones both caught it hot, and I thought – maybe you are not the only one who were so “lucky”... Maybe the same thing happened with Ludwig... Or it could even happen to any of us. And if somebody ever decide to brainwash me – or Ludwig – I’d better be prepared for this. So get to Kirkland” Gilbert turned his head. Scarlet eyes seemed to glow even brighter in the blue twilight. “And figure out what the hell is wrong with you”

Ivan returned to the bedroom when it was light enough for him to see the gold of Alfred's hair.

He was still lying with his face pressed against the wall, his bent arm tucked under the pillow, which didn't mean there was much room left on the bed. Ivan carefully sank down next to him, trying not to hurt him, not to creak too much with the springs under the mattress.

He lay on his back, his right shoulder was hanging in the air, but it didn't bother him. He felt that after a long day, after so many upheavals, he was finally falling into the desired sleep. Strange pictures surfaced before the mind's eye, merged with each other in a bizarre kaleidoscope: the explosion of a mine turned into a roar of cannons, an enraged Gilbert – into a brave commander in a cocked hat that led the soldiers entrusted to him. Before falling into oblivion, he saw America, fresh and young, his star-striped flag was fluttering against a gunpowdered sky.

Blue cloth, like the eyes opposite of him, had thirteen stars – instead of fifty.

1. There are Stasi agents among the border guards, so they must be – the border troops were part of the NNA of the GDR (German People's Army) and were controlled by the Ministry of Defense. Nevertheless, they were flooded with officers of the Ministry of State Security ("Stasi").
2. In November they started discussing the nuclear program in Helsinki: I started to prepare... But then my people met in West Berlin, with yours, Francis’s, Arthur’s... – Since March 1970, four-power negotiations (Britain, France, the USA and the USSR) have been held on the status of West Berlin, as a result of which the Quadripartite Agreement on Berlin was signed in September 1971. It provided for free transit between West Berlin and the FRG (a cession by the USSR) and established a special status for West Berlin, according to which it was not part of the FRG (a cession by the Western powers), but the FRG could represent it in international organizations. Further in the chapter, Ivan, Alfred and Gilbert pronounce the provisions of this particular agreement. The Quadripartite Agreement is one of the first treaties in the field of Willy Brandt's "New Ostpolitik", which led to the signing of the Founding Treaty between the GDR and the FRG in 1972 (where they de facto recognized each other).
   
   
3. Gilbert Beildschmidt aimed a “PM” at him – the license for the production of the Soviet Makarov gun was received by the GDR in 1956, after which it began to be produced there under the name “Pistole M”.
   
   
4. No fucking way you’ll make amends for interrogations in Hohenshönhausen to me + They kept me in Hohenshönhausen for a year – but then, yes, when everything calmed down – they let me out, but forced me to sign a piece of paper – the central pre-trial detention center under the jurisdiction of the Stasi (GDR Ministry of State Security): so secret that it was not even displayed on the maps of East Berlin. The central nature of the prison was already emphasized by the fact that it was under the direct personal responsibility of the Prosecutor General of the GDR. Being a former Soviet remand prison, Hohenshönhausen had the appropriate amenities: its cells either had no windows at all, or they were tightly closed with tin sheets, and inside there were only wooden bunks and a bucket :( (after a new prison building was built in 1961, the conditions were improved a bit). The prisoners were dominated by persons critical of the East German authorities, participants of the events of July 17, 1953, as well as citizens of the GDR who tried to escape across the state border to the West. The Hohenshönhausen prison complex can be seen in the wonderful film “The Lives of Others”.
   
   
5. I am sick to death of your help! You have already helped so much – helped Erzhebet, and Loizo with Gedvika! – here Gilbert refers to such a phenomenon as "Western betrayal", which consists in the fact that the Western powers verbally declare support for the countries of Eastern Europe against a big and terrible aggressor (at different times they were the Third Reich and the USSR), but when it comes down to actions, they limit themselves only to verbal condemnation, not daring (or not wanting) to go into confrontation with the very aggressor. "Western betrayal" can be called the behavior of Britain and France in relation to Czechoslovakia in 1938 and Poland in 1939, as well as the sluggish reaction of the United States to the events of 1956 in Hungary and 1968 in Czechoslovakia. The difference lies in the fact that fears about the prospect of a nuclear war with the USSR played a significant role in the last two examples.
   
   
6. Forty kilometers – this is from Rostock, and they are guarded better than your nuclear installations, and if you swim from there, you will run into an observation tower with a searchlight, and then the border guards will come to you on a patrol boat – a “protective strip” (access to which was limited) stretched from the Priwall peninsula (at the mouth of the Trave River), located on the territory of the GDR and bordering on the FRG, and further for 15 km. The rest of the Baltic coast to the Polish border was also carefully guarded by 27 watchtowers. Access to the boats was strictly limited; the border guards used high-speed boats to catch those who still dared to swim in the sea.
   
   
7. It's good to know radio intelligence. You start noticing things like this – does everyone remember what Gilbert was doing in Czechoslovakia in Chapter 5?
   
   
8. And then I took the bird and rushed here on the train – so that it would be faster – given that the maximum speed of the Trabant was ninety kilometers per hour – and even then if it moved downhill – it was really faster for Gilbert to get on the train.
   
   
9. In addition: now Ludwig regularly sees me, discusses... different things – the rapprochement of the GDR and the FRG against the backdrop of the “new Eastern policy” began with the Erfurt summit in March 1970. No concrete results were achieved, but it had great symbolic significance.
   
   
10. From there, that they are unlikely to shove informants into every second house – in addition to official agents, the Stasi also had a network of informers called "unofficial employees". In 1989, the number of employees and agents of the state security was estimated respectively at 91,015 employees on a full-time basis and about 200,000 informal employees. This means that approximately every fiftieth citizen of the GDR collaborated with the ministry, which is one of the highest levels of saturation of society with agents in world history.
    
    
11. Ivan remembered the ninety-fifty-third very well. The putsch, inspired by American and West German monopoly capital – crowds of people in the streets, roaring, jubilant, workers, employees, all of Berlin, men, women, everyone – what Ivan recalls is called in Russian historiography "the events of June 17, 1953", although in my opinion it would be more correct to call it "the popular uprising of 1953". The reasons for this uprising were the “planned construction of socialism” in the GDR announced in 1952, which consisted in copying the institutions of the Stalinist USSR, measures against small owners and private trade, mass nationalization of enterprises, repressions against political opponents of the SED, emphasis on the development of heavy industry to the detriment of goods consumption, which immediately affected the standard of living of the population, worsening it. Products were still rationed, the number of refugees to the West has increased. On May 14, 1953, the 13th Plenum of the Central Committee of the SED adopted a decision on a 10% increase in output rates in order to combat economic difficulties, that is, workers with the same salary had to work 10% more. This led many of the country's enterprises to go on strike in June, culminating on 17 June when 150,000 people protested in Berlin and a nationwide industrial strike unfolded. On the same day, at 11 am, some young people tore down the Soviet flag from the Brandenburg Gate. And around noon, Soviet tanks drove out against the protesters (the organization of the suppression of the uprising, of course, began earlier, but the timing is emblematic). The official (GDR and Soviet) versions speak of the uprising as a putsch organized by the “damned West”, but in reality the United States was in no hurry to intervene in events, fearing that a nuclear war with the USSR would begin. The American commissar from Bonn even called the RIAS radio station (a station in West Berlin that broadcast on the territory of the GDR - almost the entire population listened to it) and warned employees against supporting the rebels of the GDR. On June 16, the leaders of the workers' strike committee came there and demanded a call for an uprising be announced, which was not done. Therefore, the US reaction to the 1953 uprising is also referred to as "Western betrayal".
    
    
12. They decided to encourage me with this mansion – In 1976, the GDR passed a law allowing the use of state-owned land, from that moment on, dachas began to appear among the population. Gilbert could have been given a plot of land earlier as an incentive.
    
    
13. He is now rethinking a lot – if the fifties in West Germany are considered the “decade of silence”, when people retreated from the hardships of wartime and engaged in material consumption (and significant economic growth and the patronage of the United States greatly promoted this), then in the sixties society finally begins to speak openly about the crimes of the Nazi regime. The so-called process of "overcoming the past" is developing. The Frankfurt Trial of 1963-1965, when 22 employees of the Auschwitz concentration camp and extermination camp were accused of deliberately contributing to the extermination of Jews, was an event that contributed to the understanding of the criminal past of their country by the German society. The process became a milestone in the course of overcoming of their recent past for the Germans, the realization of the responsibility of German society for the crimes of National Socialism.
    
    
14. He started to less... hang upon authorities' words - according to my headcanon about Ludwig, from the very “childhood” such traits as obedience and submission to the authority of a superior (one of the typical German virtues) were manifested and cultivated in him. At first, Gilbert acted as an object of reverence for him, then - after the First World War and after some disappointment in his brother – a well-known mustachioed character, immediately after the war - Alfred (political and economic patronage), however, the 1960s and 1970s are becoming a time when the FRG behaves more independently both in its relations with European countries, with the countries of the socialist bloc (there were even fears in Washington that Brandt's Ostpolitik would lead to the FRG's separation from the NATO bloc, but they did not began to interfere with this rapprochement, since this would be contrary to the general course aimed at easing of international tension), and in relations with the United States (which was facilitated by the Vietnam War and outrage at its horrors in the media, and especially among young people).

Chapter Text

Moscow, Kremlin. August, 1970.

The General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party Brezhnev first noticed a young man named Ivan Braginsky in Khrushchev’s entourage back in the fifties. Broad-shouldered, tall, with a head of blond, slightly curly hair, with a piercing look of unusual purple eyes – he stood out sharply against the background of the members of the Central Committee secretariat by his youth and stature alone. He looked like he was in his late twenties, but he invariably accompanied Khrushchev on all important events and trips, was well received at any time of the day. He could be mistaken for an assistant: correct, diligent, always carefully choosing his words – he knew how to make a pleasant impression, but after a glance, after a conversation, in his very presence Brezhnev felt… uneasy, as if light from another world seeped through Braginsky’s very being.

As if he was more than human.

The first suspicions crept in when he was engaged in the construction of Baikonur space centre – and he was introduced to a man named Azim Nurgaliev, stocky and smiling, and was told of his essence. Brezhnev then remembered Braginsky – inscrutable, playing his cards close – and his suspicions were confirmed a few years later, when the place of first secretary became his own.

Ivan congratulated him on taking office the next day, shook hands with an even smile. Brezhnev responded in the same way, ardently expressing the hope of working together – but he could not get it out of his head that Braginsky shook hands with Khrushchev and Stalin in the same way, that he lived under the tsars for hundreds of years, and...

That same evening, the dossier on Braginsky – multi-page, heavy – lay on the table in his office. A dossier that was compiled for several decades, but was not limited to the time of the existence of Soviet regime: documents, old, even from pre-revolutionary times, were at his disposal. In many ways, his guesses were justified.

Unpredictability lay low behind the caution; secrecy hid behind sensitivity to changes in the atmosphere. And formal obedience after decades could turn into a noose girdling the neck.

Sometimes it was really hard to believe. His eyes glowed at the words about a bright socialist future – and with tripled energy he took on the tasks set before the people and personally before himself by the party. If in order to achieve the goal it was required to master a new specialty, he whacked it and did not let go, no matter how difficult it was. Simple joys were not alien to him either: he was fond of a dram, he loved to have fun, he loved the hustle and bustle of the holidays, when people twirled around him – young and ancient, they’d appeared in Braginsky's company before; Brezhnev was introduced to each of them. Hardworking and observant, convinced of the truth of the teachings of Marx and Lenin – it was impossible to imagine a more ideal subordinate; ready to carry this teaching as far as possible – and falling into a dull anger, one had only to mention the name of that arrogant but immensely powerful boy across the ocean who sought to reshape the world according to his patterns.

And in whose memories of that boy there was a gaping hole – since the era of Stalin.

Documents about both of them – and about the state of memory of Braginsky – possessed the highest level of secrecy. Only a few people had the right to access them. Therefore, Brezhnev and some other comrades immediately became wary when Grechko offered to send him to negotiate with the Americans. The idea seemed extremely promising to parts of the apparatus – the only embarrassing thing was that, according to the Minister of Defense, Braginsky remembered how he had already managed to put pressure on Jones in the distant past: that past, materials about which were extremely scarce.

He could not help but be interested in nuclear security – in something that threatened his very existence. For many years he behaved extremely loyally, moreover, he taught loyalty to others in his house; there was nothing to indicate his change in attitude towards Alfred Jones, they had crossed paths many times over the past twenty years, in every obvious – and implicit – way demonstrating mutual dislike. He was sent to Vienna, given a certain freedom of action, they didn’t expect any particular surprises...

At least not on the first day of meeting with Jones.

At least not like that.

“The second dossier Braginsky received nine years ago, by order of Khrushchev. I suspect he wanted to enlist his sincere support and thereby strengthen his position”

The rays of the setting sun reflected on the polished surface of the table, gilded the oak-panelled walls, refracted in a faceted glass of water, filling it with broken light. On the table in front of Brezhnev lay a folder, identical in appearance to those brought to him again – they lay on the edge of the table in a high pile – but there were much fewer sheets in it, and more than half of the lines were painted over with black stripes. They were impossible to see even through the lightning.

Brezhnev closed the folder. He slowly tapped his fingers on its yellow, rough surface.

“So, all the other information” the most important information “…was not revealed to him then”

His interlocutor nodded. A glare flickered at the edge of the glass, caught on a crimson beam, and faded again as the black-framed glasses disappeared into the shadows.

“Right. He received no more information than he was allowed to receive. The thought could have crept into his mind even then, but in general this...” A pause. “…stunt of his… doesn’t look like the result of years of planning”

“What about months of planning?” Brezhnev furrowed his eyebrows, peered at the figure opposite of him. “He rushed to the territory of West Germany too zealously. Could he make contact with…” He frowned as he remembered the name. “With Ludwig Beildschmidt, when he was in Moscow?”

His answer was an equally intent (and irritated; even the cold-blooded restraint of the chairman of the KGB barely managed to hide it) look; his eyes narrowed behind the glasses.

“It's out of the question. All conversations between Beildschmidt and Braginsky were conducted only on business matters, he did not deviate a single step from protecting our interests – the records were checked thoroughly”

Yuri Andropov – the initiator of those very negotiations with the West Germans – could not but feel insulted thanks to a hint in the words of the General Secretary.

A hot silence settled in the office. Only the distant noise of cars on the Kremlin embankment broke it.

“...But Leonid Ilyich, this is not just an escape to the West arm in arm with Jones” Andropov spoke again, slightly bending forward. His voice now became deeper and firmer. “If that were the case, nothing would have prevented them from hiding at the nearest American base after crossing the border with West Germany – but they didn’t do that. I figured out why the interception operation in Bavaria failed” He tapped another thin folder under his hands folded on the table: it contained a freshly prepared report. “And it's not just that organizing it in a few hours turned out to be extremely difficult”

Calling the whole process "extremely difficult", Yuri Vladimirovich clearly understated the case.

The absence of Braginsky was not immediately discovered, they became aware of it half an hour after his disappearance – his suit (together with the Jones’ suit) was found in one of the garbage cans on the western outskirts of Vienna with the help of dogs. It was assumed that they were heading for the West German border; this made it possible to use the most extensive residency of the East German comrades during the capture...

The decision to disclose information about the escape of Braginsky to the superiors of the GDR was rejected immediately – the reputational losses from understanding that the main republic had fled from the superiors of the Soviet Union to the West, and complications in relations with Ulbricht were seen as immeasurable.

If Russia was disloyal to the party, should the entire social bloc be loyal to it?.. Of course, there was no question of breaking ties with the brotherly regime, it was beyond reality – and it was not necessary at all; the only understanding was enough that there was room for maneuver, that the Soviet authorities did not control their mentee, which meant that they could pursue their agenda in key issues – Ulbricht had become too independent in recent years...

In the process of putting the operation into practice, Brezhnev was reported that a gun with a tranquilizer capable of knocking down a horse was urgently handed over to Soviet residents; that Braginsky and Jones were found not far from the gap in the border – and almost got into the right car, if only they had not managed to catch a ride earlier; that two agents set a chase after them, that they got off at a roadside cafe; everything was supposed to go quietly, but then...

“There were four agents arrested by the West German police after the shootout” Andropov bowed his head, looking at Brezhnev slightly from under his brows. “According to the first reports, the other two are Americans, who were spying simultaneously with us”

Silence settled between them. The hand of the clock moved from number to number with a tick.

“It turns out that Jones wants to escape from his superiors as well...”

“...And he teamed up with Braginsky, after which they jointly dealt with the "tail", and then disappeared again – and not just anywhere, but on the territory of the GDR” Andropov finished.

Brezhnev frowned. Andropov, seeing his confusion, finally opened the folder and handed him a stack of paper sheets bound together.

“Information came from the headquarters in Berlin an hour ago”

He skimmed through the sheets.

Then he took a sip from a glass of water – he’d rather have something stronger – and put his hand to his forehead. Exhaled heavily.

If the border was crossed through the morgue, then they clearly underestimated Braginsky's determination to take extreme measures.

“His goal is not to escape to the USA” Andropov got up from the table, slowly walked to the window.

"Then what the hell is he up to?" The general secretary slammed the sheets on the table with a loud sound. Now everything was even more confusing: to break into the territory of the GDR – and why at all... Now, whether they liked it or not, Ulbricht was aware of the whole story – his annoyance from this thought only became stronger – but it was nothing; if it didn’t work out with Ulbricht, they could always start doing business with someone else... But Braginsky... what the devil...

“Their ultimate goal is unclear. But the most likely thing is that they – at least Ivan – realized that there is something the matter with their memories of each other. They suspected that their governments were involved in this... and decided to run away” Andropov peered at Moscow, disappearing over the horizon.

“That’s right” That sounded like the most reasonable thing. “Isn’t it possible that he ran away because he already remembered?”

It was also confusing that they did not have any exact information in their hands: what was happening with Braginsky was happening for the first time, and documents from twenty years ago did not contain anything other than hypotheses and assumptions about how this... process would develop in the future... And whether could it be reversed...

“Judging by the conclusions made by Abakumov, memory recovery is not a fast and linear process” Andropov folded his hands behind his back; clenched one of them into a fist. “But being in close contact with Jones might help, and if he remembers... what happened to him in 1947 and earlier – what exactly was being kept from him...”

And who was Alfred Jones to him...

Brezhnev sighed heavily again. The perspective came out really bleak.

“He betrayed his... "bosses" many times almost from the very eighteenth century... And after this he risks becoming completely uncontrollable”

Not only was Braginsky immortal – he had rare patience; he could accumulate his anger for many years, even decades, but then...

“I think there is no need to look so far. We'll take them in East Germany – we'll check several addresses, it will take less than a day. If we don't find anything – the border is under increased surveillance by the GDR Ministry of State Security – and we will reach them, sooner or later. And even those loopholes in Berlin that the West so shamelessly exploits” Andropov turned around, leaned his back against the window. “Will be closed to them, because the Americans are just as interested in catching Jones as we are”

“Do you propose to use their help if Ivan and Jones risk moving to the West through Berlin again?”

“I offer” Andropov stepped towards him. “To do what they did. They were saved by cooperation in Bavaria, but the failure of the capture happened due to inconsistency in actions. And I believe that working with the CIA on this issue – joint operations, data sharing – will double our chances of success. And the ground will burn under the feet of Braginsky and Jones” The red sun shone in the glasses of the KGB chairman. “As in the East, so in the West. What do you say, Leonid Ilyich?”

1. The first suspicions crept in when he was engaged in the construction of Baikonur space centre – in the 50s Brezhnev was the 1st secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Kazakhstan, he participated in the preparations for the construction of the Baikonur cosmodrome. Azim Nurgaliev – OC, whose name has already been mentioned in the second chapter, is the personification of Kazakhstan.
2. Yuri Andropov – the initiator of those very negotiations with the West Germans – could not but feel insulted thanks to a hint in the words of the General Secretary – right before the Social Democrats, led by Willy Brandt, came to power in West Germany, opinions in the Politburo regarding cooperation with them were divided: some considered rapprochement with West Germany as an agreement with the “class enemy”, while others saw prospects for establishing a dialogue and achieve diplomatic success for the USSR and the countries of Eastern Europe. Andropov belonged to the last group. In the early spring of 1969, he declared that “it is necessary to quickly, let us say, within six months or a year, achieve the establishment of completely new relations with West Germany. These relations must be exceptionally honest, trusting and certainly dynamic. To do this, it’s necessary to find the shortest way to the ‘top’ policy makers. And, as is well known, the shortest way is a straight line. We need to establish a direct channel between our superiors and the superiors of the FRG, bypassing all foreign policy departments. In this situation, they will only slow things down”
3. Ulbricht had become too independent in recent years... – contemporaries testify to the hostile relations between Brezhnev and the leader of the GDR, Walter Ulbricht, one of the reasons for which was the inconsistency of actions in the foreign policy course. The leader of the GDR insisted that he had the pre-emptive right to determine the position of the "socialist camp" in relation to the FRG. Very untimely, on the eve of the Warsaw Treaty forces’ entry into Prague, Ulbricht took the initiative to normalize relations between the GDR and the FRG, which the West regarded as evidence of internal contradictions in the socialist camp. Theoretical innovations were also annoying: it was Ulbricht who first developed such a concept as “developed socialism” (which was then borrowed by the Soviet leadership) – in Moscow this was perceived as a claim to leadership in the field of social progress, an attempt to run ahead of the USSR.
4. but it was nothing; if it didn’t work out with Ulbricht, they could always start doing business with someone else... – at the end of his reign, Ulbricht was surrounded by internal intrigues, the main opponent of which was the functionary Erich Honecker. He hastened to take advantage of the conflict between Ulbricht and the Soviet leadership, wrote a letter in January 1971 to the Central Committee of the CPSU, where he accused Ulbricht of "attempts to orient the party towards unrealistic goals", "rudeness and touchiness", etc. The letter noted the prospect of losing the GDR like they’d almost lost Czechoslovakia, which was a decisive argument for the Soviet leadership. A few months later, not without the direct intervention of Brezhnev, Ulbricht was removed from the post of first secretary of the SED "for health reasons", and Erich Honecker took his place.

Chapter Text

So, when you start reading this chapter, you will probably wonder where such a timeskip came from, to which I will answer you – EVERYTHING WILL BECOME CLEAR AT THE END OF THE NEXT PART. I hope you enjoy it ♥

Oranienbaum. August 1748.

The last half century splashed in memories like a violent, flowering kaleidoscope.

Under the thunder of cannons and the clang of axes, under the piercing whistle of the wind at the shipyards, he broke into their common European home – not completely abandoned by him several centuries ago, but keeping him as if always on the sidelines, on the border of the grassy steppes stretching into the distance that led to the east. For more than a century he followed their trail – once threatening with death, now they took him to the ocean, towards the sunrise – and returned back, stretching his lands, wide as never before – immeasurable, boundless – to the very horizon that closed in on the water surface in the distance.

Time unwinded like a ball of yarn, the threads clung to his body, taking him into the whirlpool of events, inexorably – he coulndn’t stop, he couldn’t rest.

A boy, a young man, a tsar, an emperor who split his life into "before" and "after" – his violent temper was to match the stormy century that gave birth to him. And now he was already spilling out in the other direction: to the West, to the chasm of epochs, everything inside broke, creaked, cracked, everything that had been adjusted for centuries – and was being built anew, rising up like a stately Baltic wave. Too briskly to come to his senses, too briskly to let his head whirling in the sky cool down: he burst into Europe, broke in long-awaited doors, burst into a string of faces that whirled incessantly, without stopping for a moment. In one turn, a friend became an enemy, and the enemy turned into a faithful ally with a smile on his lips and a dagger in his sleeve; he whirled among them, thrown into a rampage of this dance, the blood boiled, seethed – like waves in a storm on the Neva that flew over the granite pavements. He kept up with them, spinned in a dance, moved to the rhythm, not immediately, but he adapted, grasped in a single flash – just as a speeding frigate cut through the water surface, so the many-faced continent absorbed him, wrapped him in a wave, immersed him in itself...

He would have drowned before, but not now. Too easy for him, too free – as if he was waiting for this carnival, as if he himself turned into one of a myriad of faces, became indistinguishable from them, by spirit, by blood.

Maybe that's why the arrogant "savage" thrown by the grandson of the tsar who plunged him into the Baltic whirlpool was slashing the heart and itching in the soul so tangibly.

The tsarevich himself shunned him, looking askew at him from under the cocked hat, glaring daggers. He talked with an coterie Holsteiner in the courtyard of Oranienbaum in the intervals between the exercises of a detachment of soldiers assigned to him for fun – he thought he would not be heard. Russia passed by, grasped the complaints voiced in German that had been spoken aloud for so many years: “so now the very embodiment of Asian barbarism walks around me, as if this damned land was not enough”, as if it was he, Ivan, who, of the two of them, was only capable of expressing himself in his native language; his jaw tightened – and he turned on his heels, appeared before the heir to the throne.

“Did you want something from me, your Grace?”

He straightened his back, raised his chin, looked down at him – stood up to his full, huge height.

Peter threw back his head, opened his eyes, desperately tried to put on a brave face – so desperately, that the trembling from his palms had already passed to the field scope. He did not move from his place, which could not be said about the Holsteiner – he shudderred, retreated a couple of steps.

“You seem to have called me. Or did I mishear?”

The pockmarked face, which was trying to squeeze out arrogance, but was rushing between fear and humiliated anger, started to cover with red spots – Russia noted the trembling in brown eyes, not without gloomy joy, which blossomed into an even smile on his lips. He knew. He knew he had heard him.

“No” the crown prince turned at last, his narrow shoulders barely reached Ivan to the sternum. Ears red with impotent rage stuck out from behind a powdered wig. “Get out of my sight. I don’t need to have conversations with you”

Russia bowed – and went away, as he was ordered.

He would have been glad to pass Oranienbaum on his way to St. Petersburg from Riga, if not for the horses that galloped with their last ounce of strength. Not much time had passed since his last appearance here – when empress Elizabeth introduced him to the grand ducal couple, introduced him well and truly, revealed his true nature – but every minute here dragged on like viscous jelly. The grandson of Peter the Great, named in his honor, could not look at him with greater hostility, which at other times oozed from his speeches and gestures with dark contempt; "savage" and "barbarian" – the softest words he had heard, incessant comparisons with those whom he put on his knees half a century ago, having paid with his blood for the Baltic coast, had already managed to set his teeth on edge. The arrogance of the heir did not bypass his history and customs, completed with childish amusements. All the efforts of empress Elizabeth to save him from them went to waste: if the Lord had endowed Peter with any virtue, it was stubbornness – and to hell with them, with these games of soldiers and dolls, if not for the gloomy knowledge that the moment would come – and the chains of possession would close around him, tie in a tight knot, and the end of these chains would be in the hands of a man-child, who was now so briskly issuing commands to his toy detachment...

Russia managed to enter the palace, passed several galleries on the way to the guest quarters. He grimaced at the thoughts that now overwhelmed him more than before, not noticing the shadow that flickered beside him.

In the past he was ruled by tyrants, and impostors, and small children – but they never treated him with such contempt (and fear) – and he never answered anyone with such reciprocity. He pressed the doorknob.

One thing warmed the soul – Peter now was certainly drilling the Holsteiners around the yard without any pleasure.

“Ivan? And how long will you please our small court with your presence?”

Warm, accented voice – Russia turned to it.

The wife of the crown prince stood in front of him, her chestnut curls was shining in the light from the high window. He was so immersed in gloomy thoughts that he did not even notice her – an impermissible indelicacy. Russia was about to lower his body in a polite bow, but a gentle gesture of the hand stopped him. Just as soft was the smile on the lips.

“No more than for one night, your Highness” he abstractedly noted that for some reason, next to Catherine, the thought of a delay did not seem so painful. “I’m staying here until the horses rest. After that, I need to go to the capital”

“What a pity” said was not an ordinary courtesy; Catherine looked away, saddened. “I was glad to see you here. Your presence has always brightened my days”

Ivan froze for a moment: an unexpected confession unfolded like ribbons in his thoughts.

Sunset light fell from behind Catherine's chiseled features, shining through glimpses in flowing hair. Here was the person whose struggles were incomparable with his: he would soon leave Oranienbaum, and this girl – blooming, smart beyond her years, as he managed to notice in two years of meetings and conversations – was destined to remain in the company of a few ladies-in-waiting and a full court of soldiers, in complete loneliness, from which Peter did not save her, quite the opposite, it was no wonder that she was so sad...

“You must be tired from a long journey” a voice interrupted his thoughts (he was silent all this time?..). The motionless figure of Catherine finally moved. “I...”

“No-no!” Russia stepped forward. The door to the room was left behind, never opened. “What weariness are you talking about after such news, your Grace. I can brighten up your evening”

His chest warmed up from joy and surprise in clear blue eyes.

“Peter was unkind to you when you met” the said was not a question.

“Is it so conspicuous?”

The flecks of the setting sun reflected on the ripples of the pond. The wind gently ruffled the leaves on the trees.

Catherine answered him with a playful look, which said "I guessed"

“You are not a Holsteiner, and not Friedrich of Prussia. If so, how else can you expect the opposite?”

They walked slowly. The hem of her dress rustled on the well-groomed path. Russia chuckled.

“According to your reasoning, there’s no chance I’d ever earn the benevolence of the Grand Duke – no matter how zealous I would be”

A phrase thrown matter-of-factly – as if he himself did not know this. His gait was still as relaxed, but his gaze squinted: from the height of his stature it was convenient to observe others – and now he saw Catherine lower her head in silence.

A feeling arose, which had long since blossomed, as if he was not the only one who had no chance to earn the benevolence.

He thought about opening up. He could find a friend in the Grand Duchess – the thought did not seem so bold. The unloved wife of an unloved husband and the unloved country of the unloved heir to the throne: as if it was their destiny to forge friendship. Care must be taken, of course: the empress will not disregard their communication.

But perhaps... he will not be the first to open up.

“Were you zealous?”

Catherine's question once again took him by surprise. He collected himself. Made his voice relaxed.

“Of course. How not to be zealous if Peter is the future emperor, and…”

“And in my opinion, it is he who should be zealous for friendship with you”

Ivan froze, not taking the next step.

They stopped on a white bridge that was thrown from one bank to the other in a narrow part of the pond. Russia looked Catherine in the face – her gaze was firm and serious.

“Do you think so?” an even voice was urged to hide an astonishment.

“Of course. Russia is his new home and the power that he is destined to rule” Catherine went to the fence, put her hands on it. “Shouldn’t the sovereign use the whole wealth of his heart to find out the aspirations and hopes of that power? What does she live for, what does she strive for, and what does she dream about? But does Peter care about this?..” She looked at the water, turning pink in the sunset, but also as if inside herself. “Isn't... shouldn't he love that state with all his heart and take care of it, making it happy?”

Ivan looked at the girl – at her dark curls, at the proud turn of her head – and it felt like he saw her for the first time.

At a girl who arrived from foreign lands, but whose heart was already full of love for her new homeland.

He took a step closer without realizing it. Took hold of the wooden fence – very close to her hands. Managed to say:

“Sounds like you would do it in his place”

Catherine turned to him.

Her palm, gentle and neat, covered his, large and callused, stroking his knuckles. The look of blue eyes was open, clear.

“This is true. I…” she stammered a little; her cheekbones flushed red. “I really want to know about you… a lot. Whatever you want to share. Will you open up to me?”

How could he refuse?

Catherine loved him.

Her love shone in every gesture and action when she spoke to the servants in Russian – in broken, still accented Russian, but her diligence filled his soul with warmth.

During horseback rides, he told her stories from the distant past – his past – questions rained down one after another, the story flowed like water, and they talked, talked, without ceasing, from topic to topic – Catherine caught his every word, her eyes shone, and he shared, shared...

She loved him. She loved his nature, this inhospitable northern land, comprehended his faith. In less than every week Russia broke into Oranienbaum, stayed up late in her chambers – she read to him the French, Voltaire and Montesquieu, and he absorbed – not so much their ideas as her, her intelligence, her beauty, her attention...

Once he allowed himself to get too close to the Grand Duchess. She didn't push back.

That night, he shared himself entirely.

1748-1761

Russia did not understand later at what point his absences to Oranienbaum became too noticeable.

Nothing gave away the changes in the mood of the empress: he kept an eye on it carefully, at each of their meetings. Easy-going, attentive more to outfits than to state affairs, Elizabeth gave him a tenacious, piercing look in response to a casually thrown phrase about a small court every now and again: he interrupted his absences for a month after the first such look. No changes followed, and everything went on as usual again. He must have forgotten himself, forgot his inherent caution, because suddenly – even for him, accustomed to the willfulness of his monarchs – he was sent from St. Petersburg to Moscow, under the command of the governor-general, so that he would “occupy him with all sorts of affairs for the benefit of the state”.

Ivan was endowed with patience in abundance: the meetings continued, although they became less frequent. The matter was not limited to Moscow. Without any respite, they sent him on assignments to the provinces, stretching from the Dnieper rapids to the Ural mountains. He and Catherine saw each other, furtively, in Petersburg, although constantly in public – however, the company of Peter, even more irritated towards him, could now be endured with gloomy triumph in his thoughts. The empress and dignitaries hurried to immediately put Russia in charge of something, sending him on missions to Warsaw or Vienna: their common European house was seething as always, threatening to break out into a new war.

On the way to Roderich – nervous, seething with anger against his northern neighbor, longing for the territories cut off from him – Ivan overtook the news of the birth of the heir, prince Pavel.

The war was not long in coming, beginning with a barely audible roar of cannons: a distant battle between the French and Indians with the American colonists spread in circles across the ocean, reaching the whole world – and Europe was just waiting for that. The German principalities gurgled, the Prussian king, so revered by his dearest tsarevich, ascended to the pinnacle of glory, which allowed his old friend Gilbert to spread his eagle wings in full breadth. Arrogant and proud, to match his sovereign: in both irrepressible impudence intertwined with military talents – but even Gilbert did not think that he would have to fight against all of Europe.

And yet he took the fight.

And Russia did not expect anything less from him.

His fears were nevertheless confirmed: the military campaign against Prussia was anything but a cakewalk, even with the forces of Francis and Roderich. Gilbert and his faithful king (although who was more faithful to whom...) compensated numerousness with maneuvers, not sparing the feet of their soldiers, covering themselves with military glory forever; Russia knew that this would happen, knew from the first glance at Gilbert – already on their meeting under Peter the Great. But even he could not reverse the natural course of things: defeat was overtaking Prussia, slowly but inexorably, every year, every month squeezing out more and more blood from the daring black eagle.

Russia personally knocked him down under Kunersdorf, piercing his chest with a bayonet on the fly, only slightly missing his heart.

Gilbert would not have risen (after a whole week), would not have lasted a few more months, if not for his strife with Roderich, but it did not save the war-exhausted, so desperately fighting kingdom. Sadness fettered Ivan's soul at the thought of his now inevitable death: in this dance of gunpowder and steel, Gilbert became dearer to him than the hypocritical allies, who stultified the sacrifices of his people with their slowness. The blood of Russian soldiers soaked the German fields, restoring the power of Austria, preserving the power of France on at least one continent, while it turned into ruins on all others. Feliks was already rubbing his hands impatiently, ready to exchange Courland for East Prussia, which had cost him, Ivan, so many lives. Much blood was shed, but not in vain. Gilbert continued his already hopeless attempts, bit by bit gathering men capable of holding a gun from the corners of his possessions, but nothing, nothing could pull him out of the arms of death, everything was already predetermined, everything was already...

One December morning, Russia woke up from a heart-eating emptiness.

Far from here, many, many miles away, empress Elizabeth died.

A week later he received an urgent message – to return to St. Petersburg.

He left the camp immediately, not understanding why a cold, sticky foreboding spread through his soul.

St. Petersburg. May 1762.

It was not enough for him to reclothe the Ortodox priests into Lutheran cassocks and remove all the icons from his churches.

It was not enough for him to dress up soldiers in the uniforms of Prussians – fallen from his, Russian bayonets and cannons.

The manifesto, which glorified Peter the Great for accustoming the state to the sciences, which showed the nobility “how great are the advantages of enlightened powers in the prosperity of the human race against countless peoples, immersed in the depths of ignorance” was torn apart in a rage, as soon as Ivan read deeper into it. The nobility was granted exemption from state service: half a century of studying European sciences “and many useful arts” led to innumerable benefits – skillful and brave generals multiplied in the Russian state, “rudeness was exterminated in those who were negligent about the common good, ignorance was changed into common sense”. He crumpled the paper, threw it into the fire in fury – the yellowish sheets writhed in the flames and burned, but the lines about his “ignorance” stuck into his memory, as if drawn in the very mind with a quill.

Ivan gnashed his teeth when Peter – already named the Third – broke off his long-standing alliance with Henrik, deciding to return Schleswig, which only the duke of Holstein needed, but all this – soldier's uniforms, insults to the church, mockery of his, Ivan’s, very essence – faded in comparison with what his own emperor intended to turn him into.

With one stroke of the quill, he turned from a triumphant into a puppet of the King of Prussia.

Under the firing of cannons, under the clink of glasses, under the endless toasts of Peter to the health of Frederick, all the lands, stained with blood, costing so many losses and lives, were given away, just like that, for nothing, only because of the irrepressible delight that the king of Prussia caused in his emperor. With the words “at least you will serve something worthwhile for the first time in your life” Peter was ready to throw him at the feet of Frederick, to go to war with Denmark, ready to break out for the interests of Prussia – and he beamed, rejoiced, like a child, at a great victory, at friendship – as he imagined in his fantasies – with Frederick, not seeing how the Prussian ambassadors began to run things as if at home, how anger swirled around: among the guard, at the court, in the souls of the people in the capital.

After that, not even an evening passed in the palace, so that the emperor would not empty the bottles, having fun from the mere premonition of an imminent meeting with Frederick. On the tenth day of May, the celebration was scheduled, with a great gathering of people, with bright and beautiful fireworks, in front of the whole court, with all the nobles and foreign ambassadors. The emperor ordered him to sit at the table next to Gilbert, who had arrived in Russia in honor of such a significant event: emaciated, with a bandaged hand, with sunken cheeks and circles under his eyes, only barely hidden by powder. The arrogant smirk natural for him in the past now hung on his face, like an oversized uniform: he exuded confusion, disbelief that everything that was happening was really not a dream (that such a twist of fate had given him life), that the Russian emperor welcomed him as a beloved brother, looked at him with the subservience of a vassal, ordered Russia "to please the dear guest in everything" which is why Gilbert's embarrassment could not be hidden with feigned arrogance in any way. It was all the easier to endure his presence next to him because, contrary to expectations, he did not even think of being impudent and mocking, he only exchanged a couple of restrained phrases with Ivan, and carefully, as if he did not have enough strength, raised his glass in response to the toasts “for eternal friendship” that resounded every two minutes from all corners of the richly decorated hall crowded with people. The music played, the wine flowed like water, and a drop of relief flowed into a sea of stale anger: if this continues, the evening might pass without incident, and he might be able to leave when the emperor would be drunk enough, and...

The hand of Peter pulled Russia out of his place – he did not even have time to understand what was happening. The glass that he was holding in his hands fell, shattered with a clang – Russia no longer saw the red wine spreading on the floor somewhere behind him. His emperor, swaying from side to side, dragged him to the portrait of King Frederick hanging on the wall, roughly grabbing him by the cuff. The dull hum of voices subsided a little, Russia felt how all the eyes of the crowded hall were riveted to them, and – icy horror pierced him when he realized what was about to happen...

“Bow down!”

Peter jerked him by the palm, grabbed his shoulder with the other hand, pulling him down with all his might. Ivan staggered, bent his legs, but his knee did not touch the ground; tried to straighten up under the pressure of those thin, suddenly so strong hands. Other man's will seemed to fetter his movements, entwined him with chains, bent him to the ground, inch by inch... The palm lay no longer on his shoulder, but on the top of his head, pressed painfully, tilting him down – he no longer saw the wall, only the parquet...

"No way" a strained whisper through clenched teeth.

“Bow before your and our sovereign, the great Friedrich!” The emperor's winey pant spread over his ear, it stung his eyes – or maybe it was from the tears that had come out so treacherously while the color flooded his neck, cheeks and forehead. Glances drilled into his back, he shuddered all over when the thought flashed – in front of everyone, everyone... “Move! If there can be any sense in your worthless existence, then only in the service of this monarch, who he will use your barbaric nature for glorious deeds, otherwise you will rot...”

Ivan held on with all his might, clenching his fists, writhing from the tension of his muscles; from the thought of shaking off this small, worthless (“your worthless existence, your worthless existence” – beat inside his skull) man convulsions passed along his ridge as if from an electric shock. He was already groaning, from pain, from the efforts that writhed his muscles in a fever, not to let himself be lowered to the floor, he’d rather collapse in unconsciousness, he was bent down, down, inexorably...

He was suddenly released, roughly shoved aside – he recoiled, almost tangled in his legs, tossed his head. Peter looked at him, drunkenly and in disgust. His wig fell off from the effort, sweat broke out on his red, pockmarked face. He laughed, high and contemptuously:

“Like I really need you, you barbaric lout” and turned to the portrait.

Russia no longer looked at how his emperor sang praises in front of the portrait, how he flopped on both knees in front of it, how he exclaimed that he was immensely happy to serve him. Ivan backed away, turned around, and hurried away from the hall with long steps – his eyes were clouded with red, his ears were ringing, his whole body was shaking from the cold, from convulsions, from humiliation; his chest heaved in noisy exhalations, in front of everyone, merciful God – whispers entangled him like a cocoon, clung to his hands, he tossed up his head...

...met Gilbert's eyes.

His face did not express absolutely anything, any emotions were hidden behind a mask of stone detachment.

He averted his scarlet eyes even before Ivan himself broke this contact.

The heavy doors slammed shut behind him. Ivan drowned in the darkness of the corridor.

Gilbert would not say a word about that evening, never again, not a single word, no matter how much opportunity he had.

Much, much later – in another place, at another time – Russia would understand that he was grateful to him for this.

St. Petersburg. June 1762.

The string of revels, balls and festive dinners did not end in the palace, the light did not go out there day or night, the music did not subside, the wine did not stop flowing, just as the emperor's joy from the peace treaty, so ingloriously concluded by him, did not dry up. But the discontent of the people, who had previously rambled in whispers around the capital, was already audible loud and proud, there was nothing that could drown it out – neither dances, nor lights, nor sparkling fireworks. It seeped from the streets, from the barracks of the guards through the walls of the palace, swirled in high halls, oozed from the words of the courtiers. Each celebration was covered with poorly concealed lamentation, which only grew day by day, throbbing in Russia's veins. The emperor himself not only did not want to hear about that, he brushed aside all the exhortations of his few well-wishers, but as if on purpose he multiplied his enemies, made them all around him, from the last servant of the court to...

“Folle!”

The word, offensive and vile, swept through the hall, hit Catherine like a slap in the face. In front of all the guests, diplomats and foreign princes, Peter threw it to his wife, who now remained his wife only by law. To threaten with a monastery, to remove from the court, to walk openly around the yard with his favorite Lizaveta Vorontsova – all this was not new, but such publicity...

And she was guilty only of the unwillingness to drink standing up for the toast proclaimed by the monarch.

She managed not to burst into tears in front of everyone.

When Ivan came to her chambers that evening and locked Catherine in his arms, her tears had already dried up.

“Can I entrust you my fears and... my intentions?”

Ivan drew back a little. She looked at him with serious blue eyes. Carefully put her hand on his face; Russia exhaled, with trembling eyelashes, clung to the touch of his empress. He was silent.

“Why should both of us die so worthlessly, both me and you” Catherine continued to speak, without blinking. "Wouldn't it be better to use our strength now to...”

“I can not raise my hand to the royal person”

He interrupted, barely tightening his grip on her waist. Until she spoke out loud the words he already knew.

“No matter how much I wished it in my soul, no matter how I dreamed about it” he raised his hand, gently wiped the already invisible paths of tears from Catherine’s cheekbones. “As if I am bound up with chains. And if they order me to tell about someone's intentions, I won't be able to resist”

Catherine averted her eyes and lowered her head. The reflections of the fire in the fireplace shone on her hair, smeared with orange light on her face.

“However…” he bent down and brought his face closer. He gently lifted Catherine's chin with bent fingers, caught that deep blue look again. “Only the Lord God knows how a person's life might turn, and how long he is destined to remain a monarch”

She looked at him fascinated, catching every word.

“And if some power has set out to bring the beginning of a new reign closer... and save both me and you” his quiet speech touched the skin of the empress. “I don’t have neither the will to hinder the flow of fate... nor the desire”

His last words settled in a whisper at Catherine's very lips.

Rumors spread throughout the palace and the capital, flowing like a water-rich river. When you scoop up, you snatch out the news and a fragment of a conversation, colored with violent feelings: about the vehemence of the guard, about the indignation in the army, about the confusion in the Senate and the Synod.

Attentive to whisperings, Ivan listened, threw a cursory glance over the nobles, snatched out of the mass of the hushfully indignant those who shook the throne under Peter more than anyone else. Orlov brothers raised the guards, Ekaterina Dashkova attracted society to her side, Pavel Petrovich's educator Nikita Panin dreamed of a limited monarchy, and many, many others – Ivan kept in his head a whole list of names, possible and imaginary. He could inform the emperor. He could warn about the sword hanging over the very top of his head, take him away, point to the threads leading to the tangle of conspiracy.

The emperor did not give him the order to do so.

And if they do not directly require him to confess... how could he be reproached for disobedience to his monarch?

St. Petersburg. June 28, 1762.

The chains fell from him, unfolding like paper ribbons.

Already weak, they flew off in an instant, at once, he had only to make the slightest effort for it. On an early June morning in Petersburg, Russia felt how the fetters fell from him one after another, how the hated grip around his throat disappeared.

How power over him passed to the monarch, worthy of that power.

At first, the guards bowed their knees to Catherine, then they declared her monarch in the church, the Senate and the Synod took the oath without any delay.

When a stream of people poured into the streets of the capital, jubilant to the sound of bells from the beginning of a new reign, then Russia burst into the halls of the Winter Palace, fell to the hand of his empress, which she became by the obvious and unfeigned desire of all her subjects. As if a light was breaking through from within him when he looked into her clear eyes, when he whirled her around the hall, dissolving into a smile of immense happiness. Gloomy northern clouds parted that day, illuminating the shores with the rays of the sun, dispelling all anxieties, leaving all dishonor behind. Now there was no need to be afraid, no need to expect humiliation and slapping in his very face from each new day, everything was over, everything, everything...

There was only one thing left to take care of now.

Ropsha. July 6, 1762.

The lights on the upper floors of the palace burned in the darkness of the night, the rumble of tipsy guardsmen was heard from the courtyard.

The wind blew over his face, gently moving his hair, while Ivan, getting off his horse, was heading towards the side entrance to the palace.

Peter, who boasted of his great power, gave it away without any resistance, like a meek child, from whom a lollipop was taken from his hands, he only cared about saving his life and trembled from head to toe, signing the abdication. Catherine did everything possible from her, working up her nerve to stage a coup, calling thousands of soldiers to Peterhof, freeing him from the power of this little man – now it was up to him.

The request, the fulfillment of which the empress wanted from him, remained unvoiced, only reflected in her eyes and in vague hints – but Russia could not help but understand it anyway.

Even the doctor for the deposed emperor was sent to Ropsha without any medicine, but on the contrary, with surgical instruments.

The flame of candles trembled from his firm footsteps, spreading in the twilight of the corridor. The voices became clearer and clearer, and Alexei Orlov stood out the most among them. Peter was with them; otherwise, who else could they make fun of like that.

The thought came that the emperor's heart, frail and weak, might not endure all the vicissitudes of the last days, saving them all from troubles and inevitable worries in the future.

Ivan squeezed the noose prepared in his pocket.

However, it was worth taking care of that in advance.

1762-1773

Great transformations awaited him.

Never before had Russia been so happy, never invested so many hopes in any monarch, never looked at anyone with such love and devotion. It felt like the throne was created for Catherine: she sat on it with pride, surrounding herself with a series of faithful associates, and contemplating reforms, already described by French thinkers: those reforms were meant to attach closed-minded societies, immersed in the darkness of centuries, to universal prosperity with the help of wise laws, to enlighten them: the aspirations of all the best rulers of Europe were aimed at it in that century.

In the gardens, in the halls, in her chambers under the cover of night, Catherine shared with him how his life could change if those ideas about the duty of the monarch, which they read together in books years ago, would come true, how happy all her subjects would be, and with them, he himself.

How she would heal those sorrows that disturbed him.

“Vanya, do you feel them? All our people?” the fire of the candle trembled in Catherine's eyes. Russia shifted on the wide bed closer to her. Dark clouds floated past the window, blocking the pale spot of the moon in the sky.

“I am the flesh and blood of the soil and the people, my Lady. I feel them – especially when yearning becomes unbearable. Then grief and anger overwhelm my head: and there is no way to get rid of them until they fade away by themselves”

“So one can easily go mad, if the unrest of many thousands scratches in the soul” Catherine said, propping her head with her palm. Her second hand rested on his chest – Ivan took it, pressed her fingers to his lips, noticing how a smile bloomed on the lips of the empress from his touch.

“You get used to everything in hundreds of years. There are rare years of prosperity, without hunger, without pestilence, and without wars” he shrugged his shoulders. Nuzzled her wrist, touched it with his lips. “You learn to live without noticing it”

“And now? Do you feel pain even now?”

Ivan froze, staring unblinkingly at Catherine.

He had already forgotten when any of his monarchs inquired about his well-being.

It was possible that no one did.

He parted his lips, very slowly. For a long time he didn't say anything.

“...Sometimes”

Her loose hair glistened on her shoulders as Catherine turned her head. There was concern in her eyes. She waited.

“When the unrest rises among the people” Russia lowered his gaze. He felt his cheeks flush with color: why he felt as if he was ashamed to admit it? “Among the villagers and artisans. Because... the hardships of their lives are unbearable at times. Hunger and chief rent, and also...” silence again. A gentle hand caressed his cheek, encouraging him to continue, but he remained silent. His gaze trembled, but Catherine understood what had crossed his mind.

Lady Saltykova, tormentor and murderer: society learned about her villainy only recently.

Catherine spread her arms – Ivan moved closer to her, pressing his head to her chest, hugging her waist with his arms. He exhaled convulsively as gentle fingers combed through his hair. Through the beating of her heart he heard her voice:

“I will do everything I can to ease your suffering”

Unbelievable warmth bloomed in his chest from these words.

Catherine remained true to her promises. From the very beginning of her reign, efforts were made to reduce the burden of the common people – after the unrest of the Ural workers, the unrighteous factory owners were called to account and the registration of peasants to the factories was stopped, bettering their lot. As the church was deprived of its land, a million peasants of the monasteries were transferred under the control of the government, bringing them closer to freedom, step by step. Ivan looked with joy in his heart as a whole staff of gifted dignitaries worked tirelessly, drafting reforms, changing all spheres of state for the common good, consolidating it, giving him strength.

The grants of villages with thousands of serfs to those dignitaries, however, were not stopped.

She could not yet go alone against the entire nobility – so Russia thought, so she told him. It took time to gain a foothold on the throne, because she sat on it only at the request of her subjects. If those subjects were provoked, angered, then no legal rights to the throne would save her from their wrath: it was clear to both of them, like to no one else. It was first necessary to assert herself, so that no one could doubt that all of Russia was standing firm for the empress: if it was possible to gather, as in olden time, with the whole land, and create a common cause, then...

She decided to give him laws that would regulate the judicial and administrative machinery. And to convene all estates for this, not depriving anyone of attention, listening to the requests of everyone – and preparing the minds for a more just order. Ivan pressed her hands to his lips, glowing with new hope.

It was done with great splendor. Deputies from all over the country gathered in the Faceted Chamber, listening to Catherine's "Instruction", where she spoke about equality before the law, the law, which was established for "the bliss of each and everyone". After that, the title of “Mother of the Country” was presented to the empress with tears in deputies’ eyes, and she accepted it with gratitude and modesty...

...As well as she put forth an edict, according to which a serf could be sent to hard labor for complaining to the empress about his landowner.

A debate on estate rights followed after the opening of the All-Russian Legislative Commission. Russia was removed from these debates, busy with other assignments, but he awaited the results of those discussions with unusual excitement. His future depended on them, future of all his people...

The result was the war with the Ottoman Empire – and the work of the Commission had to be interrupted.

Caused by the intrigues of Francis and Feliks, it could not hold back the onslaught of the Russian armies to the south, that were crushing the turkish troops, striving to fulfill his other age-old dream – to reach the Scythian Sea. Peace talks were interrupted at the sixth year of the war: Sadik's pride prevented the Crimean Khanate from recognizing itself as independent, and the war resumed with renewed vigor. However, there was not long to fight: Ivan swept away the discordant turkish ranks with one mighty effort.

Until one evening he collapsed to the ground right in front of Count Rumyantsev.

For a long time it seemed to him that they looked askance at him in the army: too much exasperation over the past few months had seized him. A common thing, caused by a long war – so Russia thought at first. Until the outbursts of unreasonable rage became too frequent, until he started coughing up blood from his lungs. And then he collapsed in delirium before general Rumyantsev's eyes...

...calling to Emperor Peter.

He was sent back to Petersburg – with a doctor and with an escort.

St. Petersburg. July 1774.

All those weeks, months, that he tossed and turned in his delirium, stuck together in his memory into one inextricable lump, colored with black fury.

The blood boiled in him, the fury tore from under the ribs. It rose, like waves, corroding his soul, blinding him – everything around him reddened in his eyes, like rivers of blood, now flowing hundreds of miles away. His left hand turned purple, the veins bulged on it, throbbing mercilessly. Russia tossed on the bed, half-awake, half asleep, the ringing in his ears drowned out the insane screams.

It took him a while to realize that the screams were his own.

Vengeance boiled up in him – for whipping, for countless requisitions, for endless violence, that they used against the people. For skin flayed alive, for separated families, for “unforeseen” deaths from hundreds of lashes, for land taken away for factories. The echoes of the crying he had felt vaguely for decades now resounded in full force inside his skull, unstoppable, irrepressible. And behind them – inescapable fear, the fear of thousands for their lives, which grew from the image of the enraged crowds.

The two faces of Peter merged before his eyes into one: frightened, pockmarked, and swarthy, covered with a beard – and he could no longer separate one from the other. It felt like he was saying something in delirium, whispering, seized with rage – he passionately desired death: for villainous nobles, for corrupt judges, and for the empress, who seized the throne unjustly, who cherished those nobles in her bosom, the ones that impoverished and tortured his people so much... He saw figures in front of him: it felt like someone wiped the sweat off his forehead, wiped the blood off his chest, but as soon as a new flush came, his memory was overshadowed.

When he found the strength to finally get on his feet, there was no one around.

Unfamiliar walls floated before his eyes as he walked towards the exit of his dwelling. The hard bed, the stool with the Holy Scriptures and the high window under the ceiling – that was all that surrounded him. He pulled the handle of the oak door – it did not open.

Ivan realized that it was locked from the outside. He heard footsteps from behind the door.

“Open the door”

Silence. He slammed his fist on the wood.

“Open…”

“It’s forbidden to open! You have to stay inside” the voice that was heard was thin, almost boyish.

Irritation prickled inside like needles.

“What do you mean "forbidden"? By whom?”

“By Prince Potemkin, he demanded of you...” another voice, older and rougher, drowned him out, hissed. "Be quiet, you fool, don’t wag your tongue with him"

Ivan froze against the door. Shut his eyes tight.

Anger, this time his own, grew like a monstrous wave in his chest. He must see her.

And so the door flew off its hinges when he, stepping back and running, fell on it with all his might.

Shots rumbled through the air, crashed into the wood – it seems that he crushed someone with the door, one or two guardsmen, he did not make out. In the smoke of gunpowder in a narrow corridor, he took out a couple more people, in those moments that the last of them needed to reload his gun, and he fired, only missing an inch – the bullet went over Russia's cheek before he disarmed that – young, talkative – guardsman with a blow to the jaw.

There was a stall with horses in the yard. He grabbed the reins of one of them, jumped on it, and started off.

Fortunately for him, he immediately recognized the area, even at dusk, as one of the suburbs of St. Petersburg. It was not long to ride from here to the palace, and then he had a little left to do. He would enter the palace from one of the secret passages, find Catherine, - the wind ruffled his hair, his head was spinning from weakness, his heart began to jump – he would tell her everything that was happening to him, she would do something, she...

She tossed her head, rose sharply from the table when Ivan burst into her chambers, bypassing the guards.

“Your Majesty…”

“Freeze and stay away from me!”

Russia stopped with his hands thrown up, as if rooted to the spot, against his will. He could not help but notice how the sickened horror splashed in the blue eyes of the Empress.

Horror before him.

He remembered how he looked – tousled, disheveled, with a cut on his cheek, pouring blood over his face, with a blackened hand. He took a step back, his posture softened.

“Your Majesty, the terrible massacre is happening along the Volga and in the Urals right now”

Catherine still stood tensely, not taking her eyes off him.

“I've known about this for a long time. The rebels and the impostor will be pacified soon. Lieutenant Colonel Mikhelson is pursuing him, not for a minute...”

“People followed him out of torment!” Ivan grimaced from a flash of pain, clenched his fists. They trembled on the sides of him. “If you kill them all, nothing will change, everything will only start again” and he again would tear his throat from pain. “They... they were driven beyond endurance, since they embarked on such bloodshed, they...”

“Do you think I don't know about it?!” Catherine slammed her hands on the table. Her gaze suddenly blazed with a kind of nervous anger. “«Nothing will change»... If this rebellion is not crushed in the bud, the whole empire will collapse, rivers of blood will flow – and they will begin to skin people alive in Moscow! – and the end will come for you, and...” she broke off suddenly. Her chest heaved heavily. She averted her eyes.

Russia felt the presence of someone behind him – probably guards, frozen in anticipation of the order from the empress. She didn't issue it. She only slowly moved from the table to the ornate chair in front of the window. Put her hand on its back. Ivan exhaled. Some strange feeling was blooming inside him, slick, cold – he suppressed it. Ran his hands over his face.

“I... I know you care about me, Your Majesty. You always want and act as best for the state... However, all the same, violence and atrocities occur without your knowledge – they locked me up like a prisoner at the behest of Prince Potemkin, and...”

“It was me who gave such an order to Potemkin”

Ivan stopped short. The air was knocked out of his lungs with those words.

Catherine sank into a chair. She covered her forehead with her palm – deep wrinkles lay on it.

The guards surrounded him on both sides – he already felt their grip on his hands, but they did not pull him from his place yet. Russia fixed his eyes on Catherine.

“Why..?”

She looked up.

"Because" she finally spoke. The shadow of some heavy, black torment fell on her face. “Only the Lord God knows how a person's life might turn, and how long he is destined to remain a monarch”

The words he had spoken to her sometime before Peter's death reverberated off the walls and echoed in his head.

Ivan did not resist as he was taken away from the Empress's chambers. He didn't take his eyes off her.

Everything around, except for her frame, which was moving away with every step, was shrouded in a muddy haze.

Peter was overtaken by death for the second time, now in the person of an impostor who was quartered on Bolotnaya Square. The rebellious lands were pacified, the scattered areas of resistance were suppressed by force, and the accomplices of the rebel were punished, some sentenced to death, some to penal servitude. The very memory of him was consigned to oblivion, the names of the seditionists were blacked out from those lands.

The village of Zimoveyskaya was christened as Potemkinskaya.

The streams of blood gushing from under Ivan's ribs stopped flowing, caked on his heart with a vague pain.

The promised reforms were granted to him, strengthening the power of the nobility in the provinces, so that such bloody rebellions would not even have the opportunity to break out. “You would have perished together with me, and with the state machine, which has been built for centuries” the empress said to him. Catherine no longer shunned away from him, involving him in dealing with state affairs, she was not afraid to be alone with him, divided by a table with documents.

Even in those rare meetings, the shadow of Prince Potemkin seemed to be sitting next to them at the table, and thoughts about a dozen guards outside the doors did not go out of his head.

Russia would be lying if he said that it hurt him just as much as before.

If he said that it didn’t hurt at all, he would also be lying.

St. Petersburg. 1776-1777.

“God is my witness, the colonies will be independent until the end of my reign”

The quiet voice of the empress whispered over an unfolded letter with a broken seal. Russia lifted his head bowed over the document and looked at her face opposite, orange in the candlelight.

“Did you say something?”

Now Catherine looked up, surprised that he heard her. She frowned as she put the letter aside.

“King George is asking for the second time to send troops to suppress the rebellion of the North American settlements. It would be a great confrontation” She shook her head. “If the troops of the two empires come together in battle with barely trained farmers. The glory of such a victory...” she raised her eyebrows. “…will not fade for centuries”

“Looks like these farmers are not so harmless, since England needs reinforcements”

“I’m sure he will always find help in the German principalities” said Catherine, spreading the stamped paper in front of her and picking up a quill. “Unless you suddenly find a desire to shed blood for the interests of England”

“Hardly. Too much of my blood has been shed in recent years”

Catherine froze, bringing the quill with ink over the paper. The drop fell down, spreading and soaking into the rough surface, but the empress did not move. She kept silent.

Then she nodded slowly, not looking up at him.

“And that's what I'm talking about. The war with the Turks is a ruinous business”

They understood each other without saying another word.

The heaviness between them did not dissipate that evening – as well as in dozens of following ones. Russia could exhale freely only outside her chambers.

However, the echo of that war continued to haunt him – now in the person of Arthur, who decided to find gratitude for help at all costs.

Busy with his internal strife and the completion of the campaign in the south, Russia did not immediately pay attention to overseas events, to which the eyes of the rest of Europe were already riveted: as the British Empire, which had only recently emerged victorious from the Seven Years' War, were trying to restore the impoverishment from that war at the expense of colonies, trying to suppress the unrest there: as with each new ban imposed on the colony, the discontent of the settlers only grew, boiling with anger. Their representatives gathered at the Congress, drew up a declaration to the king: promising to observe loyalty in exchange for respect for their lawful rights.

Russia, as if in reality, could see how Arthur was tearing up that declaration, calling those disobedient rebels.

The king's requests for Russian troops were rejected, but England would not have been himself if he had not tried to enlist Ivan's help in personal meetings, recalling his "fraternal" help during the war with the Turks: about joint raids in the Mediterranean Sea, about his, Russia’s, sailors, who were trained in London at the shipyards. About how he, England, sparing no effort, began to arm the squadron, as soon as the French set out to help the Turks against Russia – therefore they abandoned their plans, in fear before the English fleet. Ivan nodded in gratitude (sure enough, in so far as Francis was concerned, Arthur's zeal flared up in a completely special way), but invariably shrugged his hands, referring to the lack of strength after the war. England hid his disappointment behind the usual mask of arrogance, flaunting that the rioters would be pacified in a short while – and “Alfred Kirkland, this ungrateful brat who has forgotten who he owes his prosperity to” was not worthy even to honor him with his attention on the battlefield.

The next Declaration, which came from the "brat", declared independence – and drew Arthur into fury beyond words. It proclaimed hitherto unthinkable truths – that if the government makes the life of its people such, that their inalienable rights for life, freedom and the pursuit of happiness are constantly violated, then the people have the right to overthrow those tyrants.

These words seemed to be imprinted on the back of Ivan's eyelids – and they flickered before him in the dead of night.

All of Europe was openly gossiping about Alfred – and laughter flew at  the back of England, England, whose troops could not deal with the colonists for the third year. Alfred's envoys knocked against the thresholds of Arthur's enemies with might and main, but they, although wanting to shake the power of Britain, did not dare to openly oppose him, no matter how they burned with hostility towards British dominance on the seas: this dominance that Alfred dared to throw off himself was too great. Even before the war, the naval blockade had not pacified him: American ships continued to arrive at Russian ports, now only hidden by the flags of neutral powers, inciting irritation in Arthur even more than before, returned back, loaded with hemp, iron and sailcloth. Such direct trade could not but evoke thoughts about future opportunities, as well as doubts, skillfully sown by Arthur himself, and tangible anxiety grew in his trading society, generated by a vague future...

“I believe that my independent observations will help to correctly assess the situation on the seas and in the colonies”

The wind fluttered the curtains in the imperial chambers. Catherine looked at Russia, standing in front of her to his full height, seriously and for a long time. He continued without waiting for an answer:

“And either to calm down our merchants, or to prepare them for the inevitable – and take measures in advance. Otherwise, Arthur's promises that the independence of the colonies will destroy Russian trade with Britain will eventually have an impact – and how true those promises are is unknown. You can't call him impartial”

Catherine put down her quill. She laced her fingers together and rested her chin on them.

“This thought also crossed my mind” she paused, thinking. “But if the British catch you red-handed in direct contact with the colonists, it is possible that irreparable harm will be done to our relations with them”

“Only if they catch me, Your Majesty”

He moved slowly along the table, running his hand over it. Could not help but notice how Catherine's shoulders tensed – and how bitterness resounded somewhere inside, until it was driven back by an effort of will.

“I thought that the intelligence of the British would be the most effortful in the colonies themselves. It would be much easier to find me in Paris or Madrid if I start collecting information there. And it would not be superfluous to find out about their plans for the development of the American North, which adjoins Chukotka”

“And if you meet...” Catherine fell silent, remembering. “With Alfred Kirkland? What then?”

Russia shrugged.

“Even if I meet, we never saw each other. The European powers strive to make sure that their colonies in the New World do not catch strangers’ eyes. Sometimes the very existence of people like us is hidden”

The Empress looked away from him. She was thinking for a few more moments.

“I think the mission will indeed be useful”

Russia almost shivered. He did it.

“I'm glad you approved. Then I will begin preparations – and depart as soon as possible”

He turned around and walked back towards the door. Was about to open them...

“Vanya”

This time, he could not hide his trembling, which swept along his ridge. He turned the upper part of his torso, firmly squeezing the door handle so that it almost crackled – the blue eyes of the empress looked straight into his.

She hasn't called him like that since...

“I thought to send you to the Novorossiya Governorate, for business connected with the Crimean Khanate. I'm sure you could do a lot of good there”

Ivan froze. Exhaled slowly.

The affairs of the Crimean Khanate were indeed important – it was certainly worth going there. The only thing that stopped him was a meeting with a person, working for the benefit of his power and glory, but still...

“Thank you, Your Majesty” his smile was even. “I will definitely go there as soon as I return from America. And I will help Prince Potemkin in all his efforts. Now – it's hard not to notice this – only his decisive leadership is enough to drive all undertakings in that region to success”

Russia turned around, went out, and closed the door behind him. Walked down the corridor.

He didn't look back.

It took a couple of weeks to sort things out – and now he was already boarding a ship loaded with his Russian iron, which should have gone to Philadelphia under the Dutch flag.

As soon as they set sail from the Russian shores, the Dutch flag was replaced by the American one.

Where’s the footnotes, you may ask? Well, I decided not to write them at all after this chapter, because I was too tired then. On top of that, historical events, tackled in a chapter, are very well-known among Russian audience, so they didn’t require special explanation. I suppose the story about the youth of Catherine the Great, her rise for power, her palace coup and her reign are well-known among foreigners as well, at least in broad terms. I recommend you to watch these videos to fully grasp the historical context:

General information about Catherine the Great: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uAPs264cTAE&list=FLvHSgtv7DwHzPHj9XvqDiig&index=5

Less well-known (for a foreign public) event, Pugachev’s Rebellion, that nevertheless held great importance in Russian history (some historians even claim it as a first Russian civil war): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-4tJC-txreI&list=FLvHSgtv7DwHzPHj9XvqDiig&index=4

The chronology of Seven Years’ War: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x3byEIg6WN0&list=FLvHSgtv7DwHzPHj9XvqDiig&index=3

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YCIu3fFrSw&list=FLvHSgtv7DwHzPHj9XvqDiig&index=2&t=755s

Lady Saltykova from Ivan’s thoughts: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darya_Nikolayevna_Saltykova#Imprisonment_and_death

But I believe something could still be seen as unclear, because I added a lot of details, which might not be understood without an explanation. So just let me know in the comments, and I’ll try to tell you. Hope you’ve enjoyed this chapter :)

Chapter Text

1777-1778

The ocean stretched before Russia as a boundless expanse shining with the flecks of the sun. This element was not sweet to him: born in the forests, he lived for too long far from the ocean shores, cut off from them by stronger neighbors. The boundless steppe and the forest carpet of Siberia stretching into the distance were the sea for him, the bowels of the earth took place of the bottomless depths for him. If you stood firmly on the ground with your feet, then the soil itself fed you, gave you its flesh (like iron that was stowed in the hold), nourished you with strength, filled your body with life. But here was nothing for thousands and thousands of miles around, no cry of a bird, no shadow of an animal, nothing but water and sky, which was shrouded with white clouds, and only the voices of the sailors remained from the sounds of the living. The sun blinded his eyes, and his face was weathered after two months of sailing, which now seemed endless in its monotony: ancient legends about the edge of the earth came to mind, from which ships fell, as soon as they approached it, and about sea monsters, ready to swallow too daring travelers in their maw.

Russia thought for a long time what attracted England and others like him to the sea. It felt like Arthur himself had turned into one of those sea serpents, again and again rushing to distant lands: that is why his hair became so stiff from salt, and his skin – coarsened. The New World beckoned with its obscurity, attracted with wealth, gold, silver and lands; many were ready to endure severe hardships for the mere opportunity to seize a ghostly fraction of that wealth, snatch a piece of fleeting glory.

The people of England, who set sail from their native shores a hundred and fifty years ago, were looking for a new home for confession of their faith – and they were not sure if they would survive, but they crossed the whole ocean just to live as they wanted.

People who soared so high in their convictions that they decided to declare themselves as City upon a Hill.

Ivan occupied himself with idle thoughts about what kind of people they were, whose voice sounded in the young republic, in all its manifestos, in all its beautiful-hearted and dreamy calls – until their ship was boarded and until he did not have to throw another privateer into the sea.

The Brits now flocked to his Russian iron as bees to honey.

Arthur did not disregard the willfulness of his ward – and pirate ships in the Atlantic suddenly acquired royal letters all at once, plowing the ocean and capturing ships that went to America. With every day that they approached the continent, there were more and more privateers: not a week passed without them attacking their frigate, trying to confiscate the cargo in the name of the king. They went to board with menacing screams – but with not such menacing screams they flew into the ocean, thrown overboard with Ivan's hand.

The sailors, who let him on the ship under the guise of a merchant, and feared for the safety of the cargo, could not get enough of it when it turned out that this “merchant” could take out six Englishmen at a time, despite the saber sticking out of his back. Attacks brightened up his everyday life, they introduced an element of surprise into a long voyage – after a while Ivan realized that he was even waiting for them – until the thought crept that there were too many pirate ships on the way to Philadelphia.

The worst fears – of him and the sailors – were confirmed when, approaching Delaware Bay, they saw British flags from afar.

The red crosses on the white and blue cloth did not end as they sailed along the coast to the north: Russia saw New York through a telescope, which had long been taken by the British. As they learned on the ship about the capture of Philadelphia, serious anxiety seized the sailors: for half a year they did not hear news from their homeland, for half a year they were cut off from knowledge of the successes and defeats of the army. Only upon arrival in Boston did their anxiety dissipate – the cause of the revolution was not buried: even in winter the city stayed lively, welcoming sailors with joy – and with no less joy accepting iron, which went towards guns and cannons.

And Russia would never have been able to find a better place to find out about the roots of the uprising.

Here lay the first crack between the colonies and England, when British soldiers and townspeople engaged in a fight that did not end without bloodshed, here English tea was thrown from ships into the sea three years later, the first shots of the war thundered in the vicinity of this city – and that crack widened from day to day, growing into the abyss. Direct control failed to return the power of Britain – general Washington forced the royal troops to leave a year after their arrival: even the anniversary of their departure was celebrated on a grand scale by the city folk, with salutes, songs and dances. But looking closely at the goods on the market (the expansion of direct trade of which was handy for the Russian Empire) and listening to the conversations, Ivan realized that the faith of the colonists in the righteousness of their struggle was overshadowed by their military routine: by taxes and blockade of the British, by constant new recruits of soldiers that gave rise to anxiety about desertion among the city folk. And the news of the capture of Philadelphia did not dilute that gloom at all, although another victory won at Saratoga gave new hope.

Could Alfred Kirkland be in that city, occupied by the British?..

He was not in Boston, contrary to Russia's thoughts – he noticed that he was looking around the streets in search of him from time to time: if he saw a creature like himself, he would immediately recognize him. Only two such creatures in the Americas became known to him when he and England tried to strengthen their “cordial friendship”, clenching their teeth, after the accession of his empress to the throne: about Alfred and Matthew. The latter – just a baby, was received by Arthur from Francis in the recent war. Alfred was under his wing from the beginning, but grew up very quickly, in his young age, but Arthur did not clarify at what age exactly, calling him nothing more than "a boy who forgot his place". It is unlikely that he was with Washington: he must have been thirteen or fourteen years old by human standards – too small to hold a weapon in his hands, but already intelligent enough to get enthusiastic over ideas.

The ideas, that he would present a new society, righteous in all respects – and the eyes of the whole mankind would be fixed on him.

He was not the first and not the last to proclaim his exceptionalism: young and hot mind and rapid growth were a great aid to this – Ivan himself remembered how in the days of his adolescence thoughts about the Third Rome turned his head, when he, besotted with liberation from the yoke and unification of his principalities, declared himself the center of the Christian world – and how he was ardently indignant when someone else dared to declare himself as such. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then, and Ivan had seen many such "exceptions" in his lifetime, which amused pride with varying degrees of sincerity. A proud child – that was who occupied himself with such thoughts, used words about his superiority lightly…

(Could a child dare to defend the principles on which he wanted to build life, with iron and blood?..)

Over and over again, this echoed in Ivan's head while he spent the rest of the winter in Boston, busy with his mission. He began the secret report, for the sake of which the whole journey had been undertaken, at the last moment, distracted by observations. So far, the future for direct trade shone in the most iridescent colors, the need of the northern states for his raw materials was huge, but now, when the snow had almost disappeared, it was necessary to inquire about flax and grain – about those goods that aroused the greatest fear among his merchants.

His path lay south – past the cities occupied by the British.

Pennsylvania. March 1778.

The closer to the coast he kept, the faster he would reach his intended goal.

Starting off from Boston, Russia decided to move as far as possible deep into the continent: this way he could certainly protect himself from the risk of colliding with British troops. New York was bypassed by him in a wide arc: but the farther he moved, the more he looked around, the more clearly he understood that even foraging in the vicinity of the city, crowded by local partisans, was carried out by the British with difficulty. Even having occupied Philadelphia, they could not count on freedom of action: Washington, instead of retreating deep into Pennsylvania, camped almost near the city itself, not moving from his place, but thereby fettering the British with his close presence. So, it was possible to speed up: to cut off not far from Philadelphia and get to Baltimore a week faster.

And how great was Ivan's annoyance when he, separated from Baltimore with just one day of a ride, got lost on the road.

In the afternoon, the river blocked his path – the map did not lie, except for the fact that there was no bridge in the place to which he was riding. The river flowed from east to west, lightened by cold March rays, and the nearest crossing from this place was marked ten miles closer to the coast – Ivan moved there, trying not to think that now he might arrive in Baltimore after dark.

The bridge really turned out to be where it had to – but only destroyed (it was plain to see it was destroyed with intent). Russia sighed in annoyance. Turning back would now take even longer, and the sun was already setting: it would be impossible to see anything soon. If he continued his journey further east, to Philadelphia, then the risk of falling into the hands of the British increased with every mile. Perhaps he would be able to ford the river: he walked a couple of hundred feet in the opposite direction, along the forest, looking for a shoal, but returned back without finding anything, only soaking his cloak. It was only possible to cross to the other side by swimming, risking ruining his notes in the water. The horse under him was already showing signs of fatigue, and if it went on like this, then...

“Hands up. Don’t move”

He stood still, as if freezing into a saddle.

A figure appeared at the periphery of his vision; it walked around him in an arc, becoming more and more defined with each step. The barrel of a musket appeared in the field of his view, then the hands holding it, then the whole person became visible: a soldier in a cocked hat and a shabby blue uniform, and next to him – a couple of similar soldiers, tense, with weapons at hand.

The muzzles of three muskets aimed directly at his head gleamed in the rays of the setting sun.

“Who are you and why are you hanging around here?” The first soldier raised his weapon. His young face was barely touched by stubble. Ivan raised his palms, demonstrating his unarmedness.

“Just a merchant from the Russian Empire – I'm on my way to Maryland” he looked around the guy with a deep purple gaze from head to toe and back: collected himself. “Am I disturbing you somehow?”

The soldier got confused, surprised by an unfamiliar accent, but then he controlled himself, throwing up his musket again:

“You are, because you roam around our camp in the dark, and...”

“Jake!” another soldier yelled at him.

Just a rookie.

“What?” Jake turned his head towards his comrade. “If this is not a spy of redcoats, then why was he looking for a wade? His pants are still wet!”

“You can't get to Baltimore unless you cross the river. This is how it usually works” Ivan tried to relieve the tension, but the soldiers, especially Jake, did not appreciate his humor: they just braced themselves up even more.

“There are a lot of other roads leading to Baltimore, but it was near Valley Forge that you decided to wander, and...”

“Wait a minute” the third comrade lightly touched him on the shoulder. “If he is a merchant, then we can check it” and then he reached for Ivan's bag, not taking the musket off him.

And then the belated realization overtook Russia.

Roam around the camp?..

Meanwhile, the soldier opened his bag, put his hand inside, took out a heavy notebook in which Ivan made notes as he traveled. He opened it and peered at the pages together with his comrades.

Pages, written in ciphered symbols, incomprehensible to anyone but Ivan himself.

It was then that Ivan realized that he would not be able to get to Baltimore in the next day.

It was difficult to explain to them that those ciphers were related to the trade of the Boston harbor – and did not contain information about the disposition of their camp.

Not more than half an hour later, Russia was already sitting in one of the houses, allotted for the officer's headquarters.

The soldiers, under whose gunpoint he reached the house, were busy foraging – and noticed him when he drove back and forth along the river. Convinced that he was an English spy, Jake decided to shoot him on the spot (“waking up” on the cold, still covered with snowy March grass in a few hours was a poor prospect, but at least he’d be able to continue his path), but his more reasonable comrades offered to deliver him to the officers in order to loosen his tongue.

The bridge, interestingly, really turned out to be nearby – right in front of that very military camp. Two sides of it were surrounded by rivers, long lines of redoubts stretched along the third. Ivan looked around the camp area as he wondered what he should do now. If they did not believe that he was a subject of the Russian Empire, what then? If they intend to extradite him to the British, he would have to reveal his essence – and whether General Washington had an idea about people like him, was completely unclear, but otherwise...

While he was thinking, sitting at the table at the headquarters, - the muffled voices of officers and soldiers were heard from the next room – suddenly a ringing chirping sounded: he felt the flapping of wings, and then a yellow canary sank down and jumped on the table, nearby his folded hands, chirping and twirling her graceful head.

Russia did not even have time to experience a proper shock when the words “Seems like you end up really far away, Ivan” from Gilbert standing in the doorway reached his ears.

“If not for you, perhaps I would have had to flee from several thousand soldiers”

“With these masters, you had considerable chances of success”

Russia knew that the world was small, but not so small that the paths of two neutral powers came together on a distant continent. While he stood, stunned by the presence of Prussia at the door, the thought flashed somewhere on the edge of his consciousness that Gilbert was also taken under guard: until he approached the officers and soldiers, uttered a few phrases to them, and they, exchanging surprised looks, released Ivan – and even returned the notebook to him.

“Thank you, but why did you suddenly rush to rescue me?”

“You know, I've been looking for your friendship for a long time” Prussia smiled at him, toothy and triumphant. He continued when he did not wait for Russia's response. “So why not rescue you? I said that we met in St. Petersburg, when the baron was taken prisoner by the Russians in the recent war. If you wanted to have a personal conversation with Washington, you would not have been seized by foragers so ridiculously. Or am I wrong?”

Ivan's tacit consent was his answer: they moved through the camp, drowning in the twilight.

Now Ivan could see it on a full scale. Valley Forge, so they called it; huge, set for thousands of people, it was filled with uneven rows of hastily built wooden huts, in front of which here and there, people gathered around fires: and only a tenacious glance could recognize soldiers in those people – their uniforms were so worn out, not everyone even wore blue. Every third person's shoes fell apart on the move, and their faces were eaten away by smallpox. Prussia looked even more brilliant against their background, with spit-polished boots, in a uniform without a single wrinkle, as if just sewn, with ironed cuffs, with an order, sparkling in the light of fires. He was in his element, walking around the camp with his hands behind his back, and even the yellow canary sitting on his shoulder (sometimes jumping on the top of his cocked hat) did not detract from this dazzling effect. Everyone who met them on the way, whether soldiers, or rare women who repaired the uniforms of those soldiers and helped them, as if made way for Gilbert, retreated to a respectful distance, supposedly safe for them. The bulk of the soldiers that stayed outside the huts huddled up to the fire, mixing in pots a brew of flour, vegetables and rice, grimy and unshaven – and now they least of all resembled the proud rebels who decided to throw off the overseas yoke. Probably, in Boston they did not know about the situation in the army: otherwise the decadent mood would have seized the minds of all the city folks.

And Gilbert and his volunteer, baron von Steuben, wanted this army to be brought into a state suitable for fighting the Brits.

“When the baron and I arrived here, these ragamuffins spread such dirt that their number halved” he walked a little ahead of Ivan; nodded in the direction of the crowd of soldiers on logs around the fire, past which they were advancing. “Do you see this?” He waved his hand at a patch of grass near one of the huts, powdered with snow, on which Ivan did not see anything else. “There was something like a dump or a cesspool, the corpses of birds lay half-cut, shit – human’s and not only theirs, from here to the barracks of the next unit! They cleared it and arranged a latrine at the other end of the camp within a week – all I had to do was to yell properly”

“Knowing you, you make great sacrifices in order to annoy Arthur”

Prussia laughed, loud and cocky – the canary fluttered and flew back onto his shoulder.

“Half of Europe would gladly do it now. If I thought about someone significant, whom the Master of the seas have not managed to set against himself and who could help to pacify the colonies with troops, then only you came to mind”

“I need my troops near the Black Sea” Ivan caught up with Gilbert. For some reason he felt a desire to fold his arms over his chest: he did not follow it, suppressing it. “And also Empress and I were not enthused over the prospect of securing the sea power of Britain with my blood. Let everything remain between me and Arthur, as it is”

“And now you are here – next to me, before Francis himself set foot on the continent” Gilbert glanced at him fleetingly, only for a moment. “Or is the intelligence of your trading interests a reason enough to risk getting caught by Arthur and becoming one of his enemies?”

Russia narrowed his eyes.

It was no secret to him that the words of Prussia about friendship did not come from scratch: even on the eve of the recent war, Gilbert and king Frederick tried to mend fences with the help of Arthur, only fate decreed otherwise: and they met each other on different sides of the battlefield. In the depths of his soul, Ivan was even glad that Gilbert had survived (with the exception of the circumstances that led to his survival) – and at the thought of the possibility of that friendship, something warm tingled through his soul: something deep, growing from childhood, when he knew Gilbert as a pugnacious boy, brandishing his sword at his western borders.

Since then, the boy has not become less pugnacious, but his insight has increased – and Ivan did not like that Prussia expressed his conclusions so naturally. He did not like that it felt, as if they were taking out the realization that was hidden in the depths of his soul: that he was now ready to go to the edge of the world, if only to be as far away from a certain person as possible.

His irritation, strangled inside, was hidden behind half-closed eyelids.

“Studying the prospects for expanding one's trade is always a useful occupation. Especially if it comes to the fact that soon I will have to trade with an independent power”

Gilbert just clicked his tongue.

“With their level of training independence is as far from them as Indian shores” now he frowned, as if not looking ahead of himself, but looking inside.

A turn behind the row of huts – and they came out to a large parade ground, on which, a few tens of foot away, stood, lined up, about a hundred soldiers. Behind their heads, furious commands in German were heard – distinct curses could not be made out at such a distance – and the fact that these were curses, Russia understood from the ardor of the shouts.

They went around the lines. In front of the variegated formation, which was already barely on its feet from training until sunset, sacks stuffed with straw were placed on poles behind von Steuben; the baron was explaining something loudly, the officers nearby were translating his words.

Ivan thought about it. Gilbert was not at all accustomed to dealing with such soldiers.

“And what keeps you here if you think that a crowd of English teenagers can beat this army?”

Gilbert snorted. He shook his head, looking at those detachments.

“Frankly, at first we wanted to turn around and swim back – such an ugly mess was going on here. But... they are not hopeless. They even began to make successes”

“Successes?”

“Yeah” Prussia pointed his chin towards the soldiers. “Look...”

His next words sank in command of von Steuben.

And then the ears filled with a roar, when the soldiers, putting forward their bayonets, rushed to the attack with shouts.

In full battle-order, without breaking the ranks, they attacked the stuffed straw – they plunged their bayonets into them, knocking them to the ground. They continued to prick stuffed sacks on frozen soil, fiercely and passionately, with some kind of vicious cheerfulness, as if they had never before...

“No matter how I found them before at the fire, all the time either meat was strung on bayonets, or it served them as a carving knife, and nothing more” Prussia grinned, turning back to Russia. “So for these boys to go into battle with them is already an achievement”

Ivan blinked. A burning desire to put his hand to his forehead seized him.

An image of Arthur arose in his head, how he was threatening an early victory over the colonists – and still the war with them was dragging on for the third year.

Russia thought that if he was captured by the British, he might use his silence as a price for ransom – silence about the state of the army, which the formidable British Empire considered its opponent – because if someone like Francis found out about that, everything that was left for Arthur is to choke in shame.

So, meat was strung on bayonets, then…

New ranks replaced the old ones as they looked at them, repeating these actions with stuffed straw – and then they were lined up in front of von Steuben and the officers. He said something to them again – now, probably, for the last: the twilight had already been almost replaced by the blackness of the night.

“That's why I decided to stay” Prussia peered at the soldiers, too focused to just glance at them, as if looking for someone. “Everyone is able to train my people, but only I can certainly make fighters from this crowd. And the boy himself... turned out to be entertaining”

Ivan rolled his eyes when he heard his words (Gilbert would not have been Gilbert if he had said them without boasting), when suddenly the last phrase finally leaked into his consciousness.

“A boy?..”

“Yes, Alfred” a short nod. “Which is…one of us. He's here with Washington”

Russia froze. His breath hitched in his lungs.

But wasn't it…

In the meantime, the baron gave the last command – and the detachment, putting muskets on their shoulders, began to disperse to the huts.

“About a week ago they started to put this hellhole in order, so I gave him a shovel and told him to dig the ground” Gilbert continued to speak, peering all over. “And he gaped at me, fluttered his eyelashes and asked «why»” a grin. “Words escaped my mind – I didn’t know whether to kick the brat’s ass or to burst out laughing”

In some far corner of his mind, Russia thought that Prussia had chosen the former. He said something, more and more – that Ivan did not hear already.

He devoured the soldiers with his eyes.

The fighters passed at a short distance from them, barely dragging their feet from fatigue, exhausted and worn-out – some in blue uniforms, some in brown or gray, shouldering their weapons. They breathed heavily and exchanged words among themselves – some with irritation, from the hardships of drill training, some with relief that that training was over for today and they could fall on the wooden decks in the huts, some with mischievous gaiety from the joke of their comrade...

His heart skipped a beat.

A soldier walked past him, at the side of a trio of his colleagues: lanky, with disheveled golden hair under a cocked hat. The features of his tanned face blurred in a quick movement: Ivan only managed to catch a smile that flashed like a ray of light when his sonorous laughter bloomed the air around – and then he began to move away, turning his back to him and Gilbert, with each step his speech poured on quieter, he went further and further...

“Hey” Russia felt an elbow poked in the ribs. “Why are you so open-mouthed?”

He returned from his stupor to solid ground: Prussia looked at him in bewilderment, his gray eyebrows frowned – even the canary seemed to repeat his movements, tilting her head.

“I…” Ivan trailed off.

Alfred Kirkland continued to withdraw. A little more – and he would leave, dissapear in one of the hundreds of huts...

“Set me up with him” the words escaped faster than he himself could comprehend them.

A gray eyebrow arched, scarlet eyes looked down and up along his frame again.

“But you're kind of incognito here to inquire about the trade, and if...”

“I’ll inquire with him” Russia said hastily, raising his eyebrows in the direction of Alfred. “Tomorrow I will continue my journey, so that I won’t have such an opportunity again. So..?”

Gilbert did not take his suspicious gaze off Ivan, peering into his very soul for several seconds. Russia already wanted to spur him on, or to rush after Alfred himself – until Gilbert drawled:

“…Whatever you say” and quickened his step after Alfred.

Russia followed him. Noticing that Gilbert was resolutely aiming after a group of soldiers, the other fighters strove to retreat, as if afraid to get in his way – and there was almost no one next to them when Prussia, approaching his goal, barked loudly:

“Jones!”

The soldier stood up as if rooted to the spot – his shoulders flew up in tension. His comrades recoiled from him.

And then he turned around so abruptly that the flaps of his uniform flew up.

“I don't have any idea who eased himself on the fort this morning, sir!” His swarthy face became several shades whiter; he stood at rigid attention in front of Prussia, almost dropped the musket from his trembling hands, caught it near the ground, and jumped up again. His cheeks glowed scarlet. “If someone denounced me, let him first try to run from the huts to the end of the camp, and then...”

“Wha... so it was you?!” by Alfred's eyes wide open in panic and by the way he trembled with his whole body, Ivan could imagine the indignation that was reflected on Gilbert's face; the boy's fright gave him away. “So keeping a musket evenly is an impossible task for your slack ass, but turning the camp into a pig barn is not?!”

The other soldiers scattered in all directions, shrugging their heads into their shoulders, not even looking back – as Prussia, looming menacingly (Alfred did not reach his height only a couple of inches, but now it seemed as if he was towering over a boy), continued his thrashing just as menacingly, without yelling – but his stern voice, spreading in space, was enough for Alfred's musket to shake in his hands.

“The order is given to you not for fun, brat. Do you think filth will help you in battle? That the British, seeing your dirty faces, will howl in horror and scamper away, taking to their heels?”

“No way, sir!” the youngster shook his head so strongly that it seemed – a little more, and it would fly off his shoulders.

“That's right, they won't scamper away! Because your brother has exactly the same collapse with hygiene and management, if not worse! If you used at least half of your natural talents in exercises, which instead you spend on conducting a shithole, then the British would have jumped on their ships and sailed away long ago, having shitted their pants from fear!”

Jubilation suddenly erupted in Alfred's eyes – dashing, impudent:

“So, you admit that I have natural talents... I mean – th-this is reassuring, sir!” He nodded franticly as Gilbert leaned a little in his direction. However, he was not in the mood to prolong his scolding: Ivan saw from behind how his shoulders relaxed.

“I admit. And in order to bring them to perfection, tomorrow we will increase the norms especially for you” the joy in the eyes of the boy was immediately replaced by badly hidden horror. “I'll come up with the punishment for not running to the latrine for you later. As it is... Somebody wants to meet you”

And Prussia stepped aside, revealing Russia to his gaze.

The boy's eyes first fixed on his chest, then passed from bottom to top, over the black road cloak, and caught his own, lilac and intense, which had been directed at him all this time.

Eyes so blue and clear.

Something tingled in the soul of Russia, his heart thumped strongly: as if somebody had already looked at him like this, as if...

Suddenly he felt Gilbert's hand on his shoulder.

“Shall I introduce you, or will you bother yourself?”

Ivan thought for a moment. The question of Prussia was by no means idle: perhaps he would like his identity to be hidden, to remain a secret until the very end of his journey. Such an act, although it would fetter him with a lie, would be the most reasonable, protecting him from possible troubles.

He thought again, looking at the dumbfounded Alfred.

“There is no need. Thank you, Gilbert” He took a step forward. “To be honest, I ended up here by accident: it was not my intention to stop here, but since fate brought me... Some people know me as Ivan” he held out his hand. “Others... as Russian Empire”

Far, far away, high above them, the first stars shone in the dark sky above Valley Forge.

“Here, you want to take it? Not much here, but...”

“Thank you, but I think I'll make do. But you still need strength”

The fire sprinkled sparks into the cool evening air.

Alfred, fussing, led him to one of the huts, at a distance from which a cauldron hung on fixtures, the fire almost died out under it: everyone who could, had already gone to the huts. The boy started it again, boiling water and preparing a liquid stew from stocks of beans and flour, from which Ivan decided to abstain. It was told to him, while the youngster was throwing firewood, that Washington would have given him a much more cordial welcome: not in the air, barely warmed by the March sun, but on logs in front of the fire, and inside the headquarters, in warmth. However, for that he had to reveal his identity... and there was no reason for him to communicate with Washington.

“That's good that, you don't want to” Alfred, no matter how hard he tried to express hospitality, even with such meager means, still could not resist greedily devouring the stew – hunger and fatigue took their toll. “It’s, like, just water...”

Russia didn't mind. Now he could take a closer look at the youngster.

Contrary to expectations, he was fifteen or sixteen years old, judging by his manners and by his physique, a little awkward, but youthful features were already visible behind this awkwardness. If he resembled his brother, then in the shape of his face, and his nose, slightly longish. His eyebrows were golden (not even half as thick as Arthur's), the same color as his hair, they were slightly inclined to the bridge of his nose, giving his look a certain boldness (an eagle's eye came to his mind for some reason), and there was no need to say about a tan, that was clearly visible on the skin even in early spring, and it only stood out more distinctly in the light of the flame – Arthur would have sparkled against his background with porcelain whiteness. It is possible, Russia thought, that one could say the same about him now.

This appearance (very harmonious) was hidden behind with an overall dirtyness: his hair, tied with a ribbon at the back of his head, was disheveled so that several strands hung at his temples. The boy's blue uniform was pretty ragged, and the tops of his boots were tucked up, parted at the seams.

By God, the City, shining upon a Hill, appeared before him rather like a shabby shed.

Alfred put down his spoon, put the wooden bowl to his lips, and began to drink the rest of the stew directly from it – and darted a sidelong glance at Ivan.

Their eyes suddenly crossed – and he choked and coughed.

A couple of pats on the back – and the kid recovered again; shaking more from patting than from coughing.

"I..." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His cheekbones flushed. “I'm sorry, I...”

“Did you want to say something?”

“Yes, I… I mean, no” he still coughed a little. “I mean… I wanted to, but…” He waved his hand wide. “I’d rather not...”

Ivan arched his eyebrow.

“Why?”

Alfred looked at him, his eyebrows went up – and turned his head sharply, staring at the fire.

“This is tactless beyond measure, you can get angry...” he scratched the back of his head with his hand. “Although you might even enjoy it, I don’t…”

“Really?” Russia propped his chin on his fist, leaning a little closer. “Now I'm even more interested”

No one was shaking like this next to him for a very long time.

“I…” Alfred pursed his lips. His gaze slipped every now and then, wandering over the face of Russia - but he found the strength to direct his gaze into his eyes, although he clutched at the bowl from tension. “I saw you and thought that... You are not such a barbarian as England described you to me!”

Ivan blinked. A moment of silence passed between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

And then the rolling laughter of Russia resounded through the yard.

He continued to chuckle, putting his hand to his forehead. He removed it - but noticed that Alfred cheered up; sparks of gaiety already flashed in his eyes, and his shoulders relaxed.

“And how did you imagine me? Let me guess – with a beard to the waist, astride a bear?”

“Arthur told it in such a way that you also run a bear with a beard instead of the reins” the boy replied mischievously, and then added, a little more carefully. “You're not angry with me?”

“Angry?” Ivan snorted. “Do you think I’m the only one Arthur defames behind his back?” he measured Alfred with his expressive eye, and he understood him – and became even more cheerful than before. The corners of his lips lifted, his smile began to bloom wider: it felt like it happened without his knowledge.

“If Arthur does not defame anyone, then that power either disappeared for centuries, or jumps like a dog on its hind legs in front of him!” he got excited, and his voice colored with pride.

Russia could only smile, shaking his head, noting in his mind how easy it was to have a conversation with the boy – how it flowed at ease, requiring no effort from him. No measured looks, no measured words, which were commonplace in their European home and at court, and which he had already get used to, as to a second skin – and how much joy it turned out to shed that skin, at least for a while...

“You came to help me?”

Russia jerked up his head sharply.

Alfred looked at him, slightly fascinated, and his face shone with hope. At first, Ivan didn’t even know what to answer: he was so discouraged by the frank question, so bluntly asked to him.

“I thought...” the youngster, it seemed, interpreted his silence as a sign to continue his speech. “If such an important power as you is here, and they came to me, maybe... maybe you, like Mr. Beildschmidt, came with a task from Empress Catherine?”

Lord Almighty, the boy truly wore his heart on his sleeve.

In such cases, it was necessary to refuse, to put it vaguely and delicately, leaving the interlocutor with an ambiguous impression, which anyone who succeeded in secular conversation understood how to interpret it. After a brief moment of reflection, Ivan realized that he did not have enough strength to play games with the boy. He sighed, shaking his head.

“I'll answer you honestly. I have no other goal, besides the one already voiced: I am here only to inquire about trade and draw up a report for the empress. Neither to agree on a military alliance, nor on diplomatic relations – the empress did not instruct me to do that”

“And you have come all this way for the sake of one report?” Alfred drew his eyebrows together, fluttered his eyelashes, looking at him in disbelief.

If at first such openness led to confusion, now irritation blossomed like a needle-shaped clot inside: why did everyone strive to ask him this question?..

Perhaps something was reflected on his face – for Alfred immediately came to his senses.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to say at all that you were obliged to go out of your way to help me: I know that many in Europe, even if they have regard for me, they don’t want to spoil relations with Britain, and maybe... maybe they don’t see their benefits in helping me. I'm not a child. I understand how everything works” at these words, his young face suddenly hardened. He exhaled a little, noticing the softening on the face of Russia. “And already for the fact that you still continue to trade with me – thank you very much for that”

“I did not think that you consider me obligated, but I am glad to hear these words” Russia relaxed again, leaning a little closer to the fire.

Trade. He intended to talk about trade.

This thought wandered in the inner recesses of his soul.

Only the crackling of the fire broke the evening silence that reigned over Valley Forge at sunset; even the lights inside the nearby huts were not on – it seemed they were the only ones left in the whole camp.

“…As for help, you must help yourself first of all” flames danced in the air. Something deep, growing from time immemorial, rang in his soul. “You know why, say, Francis sends you weapons, and military specialists who pretend to be “volunteers”, speaks enthusiastically about your ideas – since they grow from his ideas” he raised his eyebrows. “But in no hurry to engage into an open military alliance?”

“I know!” The boy responded briskly. “Because Arthur is a hypocritical tyrant who only wags his tongue about honor, but as soon as someone tries to challenge his undivided power over anything, then the war...”

“Because Arthur is strong” Russia interrupted him, looking seriously into his eyes.

A moment of silence passed between them. Alfred peered at him for several moments – a breath of wind swayed the loose strand – and turned his gaze to the fire, thoughtful.

“I... know that in the Old World people only respect strength” he said slowly. “And that... no one takes action only for the sake of ideas”

“That's right” Ivan nodded. His gaze was again directed at the crackling firewood, but he did not seem to see it. “The fact that you could last three years of war against Britain is already an incredible achievement, which all of Europe is talking about. But if you show more persistence and win a few victories... Then allies and friends will instantly start to knock against your thresholds”

Ivan suddenly thought of Gilbert, so resolutely offering his friendship to him.

About how he called him (together with Roderich) a few years ago to solve their common difficulties – related to the Polish state, dilapidated, mired in internal strife.

How he himself made advances to Prussia, drawn into the war with the Turks – and the three of them got hold of part of the land that Feliks considered his own.

Why Poland was so amazed and indignant – after a century of internal squabbles and immeasurable indulgence to the nobility – Russia still could not understand.

“...If you dig yourself out of this hole, and win over Arthur's people, help will come more confidently” he repeated, already a little more lively. “Francis is just waiting for an opportunity to claw hold at his throat. Maybe even Empress Catherine will want to help in diplomatic matters. I must admit... I would have liked such an outcome”

“Really?” Alfred's eyes sparkled with glee. “So she will listen to you now?”

Ivan froze. It was his turn to peer into the boy's face in confusion.

“Listen?..”

“Of course!” he nodded, excitedly and joyfully. “If you want something, won't your sovereign take care of your desires and aspirations and put turn them into reality? I heard that in the Russian state, Empress Catherine is held in love and respect. So she appreciates you, right?”

Feeling sprouted inside, strange, unfathomable. As if he had already heard these words somewhere, from someone...

He remembered – and no longer irritation, but a gloomy heaviness spread in his soul.

“The Empress ... takes care of me, of course” he began slowly. A shadow fell over his face. “Right now she is exerting her strength in order to gain control over the lands near the Black Sea, and to secure my southern borders...”

His lips tightened. Something caustic, to which he could not give a name, grew more and more... Alfred's question remained unanswered (he again sat confused, in fear that he had       blurted out something offensive), but he did not care about it – he needed to change a topic, immediately.

Russia exhaled. Made an effort to relax his face.

“Tell me, if it's not a secret, why did you go to war?”

From bewildered Alfred's gaze became dumbfounded.

“But how not to go to war, if Arthur's soldiers simply sail without resistance, and...”

“No, no” Russia let out a chuckle; felt the tension around them subside. “I was asking about you. Why are you here?” he waved his hand around the area, pointing to the huts and the parade ground. “You are barely old enough to hold a weapon. You could go to Europe, look for help there – and at least to Francis. I'm sure a lot of people would love to get to know you personally, given the noise you've made”

The corners of Alfred's lips twitched at the last words – and they fell down, like a spark that flew up over a fire, but then died out in the air. He became almost motionless.

And then he spoke softly, but his sonorous voice resounded in the silence:

“I must be here”

Russia bowed his head, peering with interest, waiting for him to continue. Alfred turned to him – and as if light was seeping through his eyes from the inside.

“You know that feeling like... like you need to do something? And there is no other way, it's just... just right, just...” he ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, looked away, bit his lip, trying to find words. It was evident that inside him, as if the sea was beginning to rage. “And how can I not be with my people now? Not with Francis, not with Congress, but here. When they suffer hardships for me, when they die” he raised his hand, put it to his chest, squeezed it with violent force. “But I can't. Even if a cannonball blows my head off, I will still come to life, I will get up as if nothing had happened. How can I... how can I sit back, if I can bring victory over tyranny closer, if I save someone's life with my participation?..”

His other hand clenched on the hem of his uniform. His chest was heaving, and his gaze was directed nowhere, beyond the fire, the parade ground and the camp itself, far, far away, as if he was remembering something.

Suffering for their people, dying due to wars or disease and famine – creatures like them often faced this. However, as Russia thought, glancing over the boy, those sufferings were too acute and too deep; and not so much bodily ones (although not a single country can do without them during the war): as if the death of people inflicted a spiritual wound on him – or once inflicted, as if...

Ivan remembered his thoughts, which had been visiting him for a long time: those where some part of him secretly rejoiced that his connection with Catherine was cut off so irrevocably.

The day will come when she would pass away – and then Ivan’s soul would not be torn as much as it could be.

“I can see how you care for your people” he finally said quietly.

Alfred returned from thoughts to reality; looked up at him, but smiled widely and openly – Russia did not remember at least someone that smiled like that.

“They care for me too! So they are happy for me! They named a whole ship after me, can you imagine? The one on which my very first flag was raised. And in response, I took the name of the captain of that ship, Mr. Jones, in gratitude. And to blow Arthur out of the water” suddenly a caustic grin leaked out of his voice, bright and transparent.

Something moved in the soul of Russia at these words; something that looks like recognition. He narrowed his eyes, immersed in confusion, locked his fingers: it was not the first time that Arthur had come up in a conversation.

“Does he know that you abandon his last name?” He felt as if he was throwing a bait.

The boy snorted. His blue eyes suddenly glowed red: the flames of the fire were reflected in them.

“Even if he doesn’t know now, I can’t wait until I can throw it into his deceitful mug” he stretched his legs to the fire. His body was relaxed, but the same bitterness was read in his face.

“Deceitful” echoed Russia.

“Yeah. This hypocrite had it coming” Alfred threw back his head, peering up at the stars above. “He decided that he could dispose of me as if I were his property, as if I were a barge loaded with tea” for the first time Ivan had heard poison oozing from his words like that. “What can I do, decide where my people can settle, with whom to trade, what and how much – and squeeze out taxes to the treasury in London, but do my people agree to it – he doesn’t give a damn...”

“Is that so?” Russia thoughtfully ran his finger along his chin. “As Arthur shared with me, you didn’t care too much about the implementation of those rules: you arbitrarily seized the lands of the Indians, smuggled out goods... and any tax and law on your lands met such a discontent that they were canceled soon”

The boy's cheekbones reddened again – he was embarrassed, his whole body shuddered.

“Well... seized and smuggled, yes; about cancellation is also true. Except for one tax – on this damned tea! And he introduced a monopoly for the sale of it! Until I brewed it in the sea with the guys and Sam Adams...”

“Interesting” Russia said. “Was the tax so high?”

It wasn't... the price even receded” Alfred hesitated once again, but came to his senses at once, turning to Ivan; his eyes blazed with anger. “That is not the case! He wanted to make officials dependent on him through the tax, paying them salaries from the treasury, and not from the collections of my legislative assemblies, and what if the monopoly was transferred from tea to other goods? Nothing stopped him from doing that! - it seemed that he was already ready to jump up from the log, waving his arms. “He talks so much about the rights of subjects and the laws in his kingdom with an air of importance, but about me...”

“If I understand correctly” Russia thrust in a phrase. He pressed his palms together, looking at Alfred carefully. “Did Arthur's tea in Boston fly into the water, after which a war broke out between you, because of one low tax and a premonition?”

“Anyone in my place would raise a rebellion against such tyranny!” the boy cooled down a little and clapped his eyes in surprise, when Ivan met this saying with a stone expression on his face and deathly silence. Continued then. “But even when the king closed the Boston harbor, when he ordered my people to be taken overseas for trial, even then I wanted to come to an agreement” a moment – and he jumped to his feet, from irrepressible energy that anger ignited in his blood; the bowl fell to the ground – he did not notice it, he began to run round the fire, touched the cauldron with his foot, removed from the mount. "But he doesn't care! At first I don’t see him for decades, until I figure everything out on my own, without his help, how to plow the land, how to build ships, how to fight off the Redskins, and then he expects doglike devotion from me! And let him not stutter that I owe him everything because of his patronage – he gave with one hand, and took away with the other! And he... he... thinks he can do anything to me without my consent! A fat lot he cares about my consent!”

He cut the air with his palm, backhanded (how many times Ivan saw this gesture when Arthur was in anger, he couldn’t count), something painful, nervous erupted in his features, lit by fire, his lips twisted, his fists trembled in anger, he sucked in the air through clenched teeth – and suddenly a mosaic formed in Russia's head.

Quiet words fell into the air...

“So you love him”

...and Alfred's whole body twitched, turned pale and recoiled – as if he had been slapped in the face.

His eyes flew open, he opened and closed his mouth, then opened it again, like a fish thrown onto land.

"...No" he whispered palely.

Russia tilted his head in silence.

“No” he said louder, drawing himself together; the pallor never left his face. “I love him?! After all that damn...”

“He called you his brother, and then disappeared for decades across the seas. And now, demanding allegiance to the crown, he did not consider you equal to himself” purple, deep gaze of Russia seemed to pierce him through and through. “He broke his promise. Maybe unspoken, but... If you were indifferent to him, would your anger boil so violently in you?”

Alfred stood as if frozen into the ground, staring silently at Ivan.

Then he relaxed – and he collapsed on a log, in his former place, next to Ivan. He pulled his knees up to his chest, folded his hands on them – and buried his face in them, letting out a long, convulsive sigh from.

The firewood was nearly all burned out. The fire became quieter, echoing Alfred's ardor. Russia drawled, leaned back, raising his head, looking at the stars.

“Knowing Arthur and his childhood...” and everyone’s childhood who by this century has reached at least five hundred years of age. “You might think that he thought that the patronage only would be enough to make you forever inflamed with gratitude to him”

“He decreed for his people that nothing, not a single tax, could be collected without parliamentary representation” came a muffled voice from the hollow between the chest and knees. “And when it came to me – he didn’t give a damn about it. This is hypocrisy” the last word resounded like steel on his tongue.

“And is it hypocrisy that the desire to populate the land of the Indians west of the Appalachian mountains, which the crown prevents, is called the desire for freedom?” Russia tilted his head. “Or that only the rich and eminent have representation – parliamentary, or at your legislative assemblies?”

The boy tossed his head. Now his eyebrows were angrily drawn together – like a hawk's – and his cheeks reddened. He looked at Russia for several moments, letting the air out of his nose heavily, then lowered his head on his folded hands, staring into the fire.

“It is unlikely that you will understand me... And you... you are not obliged to understand” he finished muffledly.

Night fell on the camp. Alfred was tense and stiff, bristling beside Ivan; and now he, perhaps most of all, resembled a youngster. A belated realization came: for some reason the boy wanted Ivan to understand him – and he began to lament when that did not happen.

For some reason, this thought made Russia upset.

Ivan sighed. He did not want to leave them on a note like this.

“I can’t say that I sympathize so mush with the ideas that led to this war...” he spoke slowly. “However, I can understand the pangs of disappointment in the one we were not indifferent to”

There was something in his voice – sad and cracked – that made Alfred turn his head slightly in his direction, looking at Ivan for several long moments from under his brows.

Then he turned away again – and spoke in a tone tinted with steel:

“It doesn't matter now whether I'm indifferent to him or not. I will drive him across the ocean" These were not empty words; but a formidable decision, taken by his whole being. "And if he did not want to reckon with me – if he did not want to respect me – then now I myself will decide my fate”

Russia nodded.

“The path of resistance that you have chosen is really the shortest that leads to respect... If it is successfully passed. Otherwise...” he broke off; but even so it was clear what would follow.

Alfred mumbled something unintelligible in response.

Silence hung between them, broken by a faint breeze. Until Russia heard whisper:

“...Thanks”

Ivan turned to him, raising his eyebrows in sincere astonishment.

“For what?”

Alfred somehow completely relaxed; his shoulders and knees drooped, a faint smile played on his thin lips. There was a soft gleam in his eyes.

“I don't even know... for this conversation” he shrugged his shoulders. “Even if you don’t share my ideas, you still treat me as an equal” he stretched his lips wider, into that radiant smile that suited him so well. “If I met with any of the powers like you, then many of them, even helping me, rather accepted me as a curiosity, but you...”

Gratitude, so warm, flowed from his eyes that Russia felt his heart squeeze: it was so easy to win over the boy, only to show a drop of acknowledgment, only...

Dear God, and how easily he opened up.

It was something... something new: something he couldn't name, something...

“It is difficult to disrespect such a fierce desire – even if its roots are in something alien to me” the trembling of his heart was hidden behind an even smile.

It suddenly got darker and colder. Ivan realized that there was nothing left of the fire – the coals were already burning out. Alfred's face, which was even more colored with joy from the last words, stretched out in sudden realization, anxiety splashed into his eyes:

"Damn, it's already nighttime! You probably wanted to talk about business? About trade? Excuse me, I shouldn't have talk on Arthur, your time...”

Russia stopped the flow of words with the movement of his palm. The corners of his lips curled up. He then beckoned to Alfred with that palm, and they both rose to their feet.

“I still have a couple of months to deal with the trade. But not every day I get an opportunity to see you. So don't beat yourself up…” he put a hand on his shoulder; Alfred sharply turned his head to it – then again glanced at Russia. “…about time. But you're right that it's too late” Ivan raised his eyes to the sky. “It's time to sleep, both for me and for you; I have to move to Baltimore tomorrow, and you...” a smirk. “Do whatever Gilbert thinks up for you overnight”

Alfred shuddered at the thought of Gilbert, but his face immediately lightened. The idea was born in his mind.

“If it doesn’t bother you to get up a little before dawn, how about I lead you to the turnoff on the road to Baltimore? It's near Valley Forge. I will have time to say goodbye to you and return to the exercises in time. But if you have no desire to get up at such an early hour...”

Russia's hand clenched a little tighter on his shoulder.

“We can do that. I will only be happy about it”

Alfred's grin was his answer – dashing and joyful.

The night in the house where Gilbert and von Steuben were accommodated flashed by as if it had never happened – Ivan closed his eyes as soon as his head touched the pillow: fatigue from the road and stormy impressions took their toll. He slept heavily almost until dawn, then began to get ready, saying goodbye to Gilbert, already awake and dressed to the nines. Alfred was waiting for him at the stable, leaning on his horse and snoring, arms crossed over his chest, but he started up as soon as Russia approached.

They left the camp, went down the hill. The sky had already turned from sapphirine to pale blue, and the dawn was breaking in the east, casting a pink light into the corners of the eyes, that gilded the boy’s profile – like a halo glowed around his hair, while they rode along the forest in silence, only broken by the sounds of the horses’ tread.

“I thought” his voice suddenly rang out, quiet but resonant. “You said that Empress Catherine does not want to interrupt our trade and favors the end of Britain's maritime dominance, but...” he raised his head. He looked anxiously at Ivan. “Is it possible that everything will suddenly change? That we will become enemies?”

Russia answered him with an attentive, unreadable look. The decision was made (for the umpteenth time already) to answer the truth to the young man.

“It might happen. Now my empress and court are not in the mood to help Britain – not least because of your desperate resistance. In addition, our efforts are now aimed at something else: at the affairs of the Crimean Khanate and the Ottoman Empire” from which you so successfully divert the attention of the British and the French – he did not add that aloud. “But how the future turns…” he frowned. “None of our kind can vouch. Your fortitude is able to prevent this”

“That's it” Alfred exhaled, his head hanging slightly. The greenery of the trees framed the road on both sides, only shading his figure brighter. “I don't want to fight you. I already like you”

Russia raised the corners of his lips and shook his head, rolling his eyes. What a simple-hearted youngling.

“I can not deny that this conciliate is mutual”

"Does that mean 'I like you too'? And when I get closer to the Europeans, will I also begin to express myself so intricately?” Alfred suddenly laughed, threw a mischievous smile at Ivan – he answered with a small grin, but the squint of his eyes gave away the fun with which Alfred infected him – even without his knowledge.

They rode in silence for another minute, when in the distance, on a hillside, a bridge appeared, thrown over a stream, and behind that bridge there was a fork; apparently, that turn was mentioned last night. Russia's thoughts returned to what Alfred had said earlier: to heavy thoughts that overwhelmed him more than once. He involuntarily squeezed the reins.

“Fighting against those to whom we feel sympathy is not uncommon among our kind. Take at least me and Gilbert” Russia turned his head to the boy. “My participation in the recent war almost led to his death – and you think I hated him? Not at all”

“To death?” Alfred's eyebrows went up slowly.

“Until the Empress Elizabeth passed away, he weakened day by day, and he was ready to perish. Even earlier – when I pierced him with a bayonet under Kunersdorf”

Alfred slowly averted his eyes. Blinked several times.

The clatter of hooves was heard – they stepped onto the bridge.

“I... knew about it, but...” he breathed out, full of amazement. “It's so hard to believe!”

“Why?”

“Mr. Beildschmidt – he's like... like the god of war has appeared in our camp!” Alfred waved his hand. “I was sitting with the guys by the fire, shivering under the snowfall and sipping empty soup, and then he came – on horseback, with a front harness... In orders, straightened up in the saddle to his full height!” He opened his eyes in astonishment, running his fingers through his hair. “Like Mars in the flesh, like...”

Russia watched for a few moments, how the boy's face glowed with admiration – but the thought suddenly visited him, which kindled mischief in his blood.

It was impossible to deny Gilbert the ability to exert such a brilliant effect on people – however, Alfred, himself still small in age, could not boast of rich experience in communicating with great powers, while...

“If you are interested, then five hundred years ago, this Mars in the flesh rushed headlong towards me ahead of his entire army across thin ice, bellowing at the top of his throat” the bridge was overcome; Russia pulled the reins, stopping the horse. He grinned at Alfred. “And then he fell into the ice hole – only the top of his sword was seen”

Alfred stared at Ivan with all his eyes, barely realizing that he needed to lead the reins. The wind from the east blew the strands of his hair.

“And then I rushed into the hole after him – and pulled him out, poor fellow” and, as if the previous words were not enough, Russia winked at him.

The boy seemed as if he had been hit with something: he shuddered, fluttered his eyelashes. Something warm and sunny spread in Ivan's chest from this impact; Alfred, meanwhile, evened out his breathing, not without an effort, but managed to say:

“I-if you know each other for so long, so many different sides can open up...” he himself hardly heard his words, blushing for some reason.

“Exactly. Once upon a time, arrogance was his most inflated trait, and military training clearly did not keep up with it” then Russia added stricter. “Now everything has changed. Gilbert reached Kunersdorf only because he had an army capable of fighting against three powers – and there was no significant help from Arthur. Listen to him if you want to gain independence”

“Of course!” Alfred nodded his head vigorously. Eyebrows twitched - in the blink of an eye, embarrassment was replaced by determination. “Make no question of it”

“Excellent” Russia nodded shortly. He glanced at the road. “I'm afraid it's time for us to say goodbye”

His path further lay south, over hills and valleys, flooded with sun – to the very coast. He held out his hand to Alfred.

“Good luck. Hope to see you soon...”

“...When we exchange ambassadors as two independent powers” Alfred squeezed his hand with his, looking into his eyes with a smile and unshakable fervor.

Russia smiled back, wide and open. The river, the bridge, the grass creeping under the wind, Alfred himself – everything was flooded with the gold of the sunrise.

“So it's decided”

After these words they parted. Ivan moved down the road, while Alfred galloped back to the camp. Russia turned his head and watched him for a couple of moments, how he spurred his horse, how he galloped faster and faster, like a flying hawk, until his golden crown disappeared in the distance.

1778-1781.

His journey was drawing to its close.

The information collected in the northern, middle and southern ports of the colonists was drawn up in a report by Russia, provided to the empress, after he stayed in the American villages for another six months. For half a year, the balance in that protracted war, where neither side could achieve an advantage, tipped in favor of the colonists – the Americans – when the French king recognized them as a nation and sent military ships to their shores. Unprecedented jubilation seized all the states when, after an exhausting winter, the English were forced to retreat at the battle of Monmouth; and even greater joy overflowed when Philadelphia was cleared of enemy troops due to fear of the French fleet. In that joy, Ivan could not help remembering the grimy boy by the fire – how he was thrown between confusion and fanatical determination, and how his efforts now paid off, generated by the teachings of von Steuben.

Although at first the help of Francis did not bring a decisive turning point, no one on both sides of the Atlantic doubted that the independence of the American villages was a fait accompli, which Russia did not fail to tell the Empress about. With close attention, Catherine studied his report, in which the arguments that had already come to mind were finally confirmed – that Russian trade would gain incredible benefits from the independence of the States, communicating with them without the mediation of English, and would replace goods supplied from the colonies in English markets.

Privateering, however, flourished more than ever in the seas, exposing merchant ships with the most innocent cargoes. The belligerent power could even consider bread and timber to be worthy of confiscation, if it so pleased it – nothing served as an obstacle, which is why complaints about the arbitrariness that is happening with the Russian watercrafts only accumulated month after month in the Collegium of Foreign Affairs.

The war, like an ocean funnel, sucked in more and more new countries, which decided to put an end to the power of the British at sea, which after the recent war had risen to unprecedented heights; and now the Spanish Empire, side by side with the French, decided to throw back the British – and Netherlands did not try to hide their sympathy for the colonists. With Prussia and Denmark, strife multiplied; there was no trace of Arthur's former boasting: he fought off the armies and fleets of the enemies, taking his forces away from the American shores to the joy of the rebels; even more than before, his envoys           knocked against the thresholds of the Russian court, pinning hopes only on him – at least not to suppress the revolution (already irreversible), so to conclude an alliance with Russia against hostile powers that he could ease the burden of war...

Then the idea was born to him.

The idea, generated by incessant insults to the Russian flag (and memories of the meeting).

The idea, incessant insults to the Russian flag (and memories of the meeting) generated. He presented it to the Empress through Count Panin, then to the world for everyone to see – and he appeared in all his splendor on both sides of the ocean, for each power liked that idea; only one flared up with anger, only...

“I suspected for a long time that I would meet with deceit from your side. But such treachery is beyond me”

Exhausted by the war against many opponents, Arthur no longer tried to restrain his bile – he could not boast of such an ability at the best of times, and now even more so. The dark hollows under his eyes set off his emerald flame of indignation.

Indignation that instead of allied help, Russia repaid him with the blackest ingratitude; that the fraternal sympathy turned into armed neutrality; and into a declaration from the Empress of Russia that was accepted with enthusiasm in Europe and among the Americans, since it was meant to watch over their interests – and protect the trade of the neutral fleet by the military.

The victories at sea and on land, won against Britain, led to peace negotiations between the powers, in which Ivan and Roderich decided to act as mediators, contributing to “peace and tranquility” in Europe. England threw this caustic phrase, seeing Russia in the corridors of the Vienna Palace; Russia answered him with a calm and long look, from the top downward (his brother was taller, even though he was still a teenager), looking at Arthur, seething with anger.

“If by treachery you call the protection of my merchant ships from your privateers, then there is no insult to me in this word”

England held his gaze, his brows knitted and his lips pressed into a thin line – he had already seen these gestures, he had already looked at this ardent, barely contained anger.

“You suffered no less from the Spanish and American privateers; do not be hypocritical, as if only I did immeasurable damage to you”

Russia stepped a little closer. Straightened up higher.

“The more reason why the declaration came at the right time – the property of neutral ships is essentially inviolable”

"Inviolable...” Arthur snorted caustically, shook his head. A shadow, painful and tormenting, ran across his weather-beaten face.

He walked past Ivan, not even bothering to move to an acceptable distance, even almost touching him with his shoulder; marched to the stairs leading into the halls with the diplomats. He lowered his hand on the marble handrail – and he spoke without turning around.

“I know why you all flocked to that declaration like kites: to encourage the rebels against the crown and to conduct trade with the mutineers, bypassing me; you have no other goal” his palm clenched; nails creaked on marble. “Only you are naive if you think that by such measures it will be possible to persuade me to recognize the independence of what is mine by right”

Russia did not answer him. England's footsteps, heavy and lame, echoed from the walls.

England did not lie to him when he said that the recognition of the independence of the States would have to be gnawed out with his teeth – and therefore any hope of reaching a solution was not justified, and military operations resumed. Russia knew from the sources of his trustees that in Europe, neither at court, nor in Gibraltar, there was no more Arthur; most likely, he went to war, succumbing to the command of Lord Cornwallis.

So, now the boy was worthy of attention on the battlefield.

Life went on as usual, one event replaced another – after deeds, related to the declaration (to which almost all of Europe had already managed to join, increasing its glory), the Black Sea was waiting for Russia, and the Crimean question, ready to grow into a new war with the Turks. He plunged into everyday affairs, watching the intrigues of the palace, worries and troubles – until he woke up one October morning, with a mysterious feeling growing in his chest, as if something infinitely important was going on – not here, far, far away, as if...

It was as if somewhere, across the ocean, at the other end of the earth, near the village of Yorktown, the scales finally collapsed under the weight of blood, sweat, tears, and furious aspirations – and the star-striped banner fluttered over the last British fortress.

...As if the world turned upside down.

District of Magdeburg, GDR. August, 1970.

It felt as if he was rising from the sea bed.

The scattered light came from somewhere above, where he headed: Russia could see it under the eyelids. He swam, slowly and heavily – his movements were as if constrained by water, it was hard to even think about moving a limb. Images flickered – either around him, or in his mind – vague, barely familiar – half-erased rooms, strings of figures without names and faces, they moved, lazily and blurry, dissolved, as soon as he peered into them. Someone rushed past him, too fast for this sleepy kingdom: the eye caught only blond – golden – hair. The surface was getting closer - it was already possible to move a hand; he twitched, trying to throw up his palm, to reach the young man...

“Hey, baby bird. Good morning”

These were the first distinct sounds that Russia heard. He fidgeted, closed his eyes, and relaxed them. Slightly opened his eyelids.

Sunlight and a wooden ceiling – that was what he saw through shivering eyelashes. “Come here, like this” a soft creak followed. The voice that came from a couple of meters away was mischievous and affectionate, oddly familiar. The chirp reached his ears. “I missed you too – I haven't seen you for a long time...”

Alfred?

Ivan sharply sat up in bed.

His head was spinning from such an impulsive movement – he swayed, clutching his head, grimacing. The pain pounding in his temples subsided a little. He opened his eyes.

America stood near the cage with the bird, in shorts and a T-shirt. He stuck one hand into the cage, wrung it – the canary was sitting on it, lively pecking at something. He turned towards the sound, cast a glance – without his glasses – at Russia, smiled without malice with narrowed eyes.

“Hi” he turned back to the canary. “Did you get enough sleep?”

“It’ll do” Ivan rubbed his eyes with the base of his palms. His voice sounded rough and hoarse from sleep. “Are you talking to a bird?”

America glanced at him again (without lenses, his eyes shone brighter blue than usual; a strange sensation spread in his chest because of this) – already more familiar, cheeky.

“And you hoped that I’m talking with you?”

“For you to call me baby bird, you should have damaged your whole brain after the “black out”. It doesn't seem like it”

"Hah" Alfred smiled. He extended his finger, scratched the canary under its beak – it chirped contentedly. “It sounds like a compliment from you, you know”

Ivan did not reply to this. The pain he'd felt before didn't go away. He sat up in cross legged on the bed (how did Alfred manage to climb over him and not wake him up, he was sleeping against the wall?..), the blanket was stretched around his hips. He felt... unreality, like...

Pictures from his dream came to his mind: a dream too bizarre, too real and detailed. His emperors from the era of palaces and balls – palaces for the nobility, whips for the people – stood before his eyes, as if alive; like the person, just one thought about the connection with whom gave rise to burning shame and hatred. His... disappointment, unexplained then; trip to America, meeting and talk...

Meeting.

He suddenly felt the blanket pull tight – Alfred sat on the edge of the bed not far from him, bending one leg. His hair (like his own, Ivan suspected) was disheveled – he must have recently woke up himself.

“I've already gone downstairs. Gilbert is busy in the garden – I looked through the window, he saw me, went into the house and began to hiss at me so that I would not walk around the ground floor, especially near the windows” he snorted in embarrassment, ran his hand through his hair. “So many years have already passed, and I still get goosebumps from his commanding shouts...”

“What shouts are you talking about?” America's chatter in the morning with a sore head made the world around him even less tolerable, but it seemed to Russia that he had already heard something similar somewhere.

America froze; He threw up his hands as if he remembered something.

“I didn't tell you yesterday! You wondered how I knew Gilbert for two hundred years: when I fought for my independence against Arthur, he came to me to train me and the Continental Army – I almost died from his Prussian system then!” Alfred slapped his thigh with his palm for greater expressiveness: Ivan winced at the loud sound. “And the way he tormented us yesterday seemed to have an effect, because today I dreamed about these trainings. You were there too, by the way” he exhaled with a smirk on his lips. “In a dream, I mean – everything completely mixed up in my head, apparently...”

Breath caught in Ivan's lungs. He froze with an unreadable face.

“What did I do there?”

America did not look at Russia: he scratched his throat, peering at the ceiling.

“The soldiers caught you when you walked around the camp...” he frowned, remembering. “You kind of came to talk about trade, and we talked, but not about trade, but...”

“About Catherine. And about Arthur”

America turned his head towards him.

Confusion appeared on his face – at first mixed with disbelief, then...

Then with horror...

“What?...” he exhaled, weakly and threadily.

“I dreamed about it too. You said that Arthur is a hypocrite, that's why you rebelled against him. And I said that you love him. And you – that you will drive him across the sea” the breath came out in convulsive, impetuous jerks. “Right?”

For several long seconds he gazed at him, intently, with his wide blue eyes. Ivan felt sick; his heart was pounding in his chest, in his temples, everywhere; everything seemed to float, blurred in his vision – America remained the only thing that did not move, that did not spin; until he swayed and...

And didn't crash to the floor.

“Alfred!” Ivan threw up his hand, leaned forward with his whole body, hoping to catch him, but his palm closed in the air. America collapsed on the parquet, hitting his hip painfully, but he didn't seem to care; his chest heaved with feverish sighs, he looked Ivan straight in the eye.

“No” he was shaking. “Where are you... And how?! Why?!..”

“If I knew why, we would not be sitting here” the answer came out rude, hoarse. Russia clenched his fists, felt the sheets under his palms, something solid, material, it should calm him down – no, everything was still swaying, slipping out from under his feet...

America swallowed. Impulsively, he leaned against the side of the bed, rested his elbows on it, clutching his hair with his hands. He breathed for a few seconds, then tossed up his head. Their eyes met.

“This is... are we remembering?” his voice, look, body – everything trembled. “If… if we both had a dream, then… it can’t just be a dream, or… or can it? I…” he laughed, nervously, frantically. “Why...”

“If this is what really happened to us...” Ivan licked his lips with a parched tongue. It did not help. “So... it means that the same events also happened to others, so...”

“Gilbert!” America blurted out. “He was at Valley Forge too. We need to ask him, let's go, get up” he climbed to his feet, almost tripping over them, grabbed Russia by the elbow, pulled –

And froze, stopped by the noise from the cage.

The canary, which had sat quietly before, now tore around, chirping in alarm. She did not calm down, jumping from the bottom to the perch, flapping her wings. The cage staggered from her movements, trembled, but they became more and more feverish, more and more...

Gilbert's words last night about what that meant came to their minds as the sound of a car pulling up to the house drowned out the rustle of the trees outside the window.

Russia already knew who was inside.

America – his whole body twitched – too.

A minute ago, the heart was ready to break the ribs – but nothing compared to the panic that hit the veins, when the men from Stasi marched to the threshold of Gilbert's house.

Happy 4^th of July to my American readers!

Here’s no footnotes, as below the previous chapter, but I feel everything is pretty understandable.

I wholeheartedly recommend you to watch this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rYwND0CcID4

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:

1. 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
2. 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.
3. 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".
4. 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.