The Berlin Paradox

by Alain Xalabarde

  I grab the man with the lab coat by the arm and pull him gently. I’ve made him uncomfortable with this sudden gesture. I slowly blink my eyelids, silently asking him to come closer. He leans in and offers his ear. I whisper that I need to leave the building as soon as possible. He backs off in surprise and suspicion. At first I don’t think he’s fallen for it, but he quickly gives me a reason to doubt my initial assumptions. He pulls me aside and asks the soldiers to step away. He cautiously asks me what the reason is. I tell him I cannot disclose that information. It’s not working. He shakes his head. I say it has to do with ‘The Bear’. That attracts his attention. I say that I’ve been sent put an end to the traitor, and that we will miss our only chance if they do not let me go immediately. He knows my father. I can see it in his eyes. And he does not think highly of him. He says he’s not authorized to let me leave the premises. I squeeze his arm in desperation and empathize that the Fuhrer’s life depends on it. Where the hell did I pull that one from? Controversially, my idiotic statement struck a chord in him. He quietly nods.

  He turns to the other personnel and tells them to watch the time booth while he takes me to the infirmary. I follow close behind him, covering myself with only a towel. The lab looks very different to the others. For starters, it is full of employees and all the lights are working, as well as a rudimentary ventilation system.

  We reach a turn in the corridor and he takes me inside the infirmary. I walk in, but he doesn’t. He asks me to wait. I do.

  Less than a minute later he returns with a set of clothes in his hand and a lab coat. He says it’s his own clothes and hopes they will fit me. It’s only after putting them all on that I realize I have no shoes. He takes off his own. I must have done a great acting job. He seems genuinely concerned. I throw the lab coat on top of my new, baggy clothes and the man orders me to hurry.

  I walk the confusing corridors as confidently as I can. Some turn their heads as I walk by, but not long enough to stop me. I begin to think they’re just being polite.

  As I reach what seems to be the exit to the underground facility, I find a German soldier standing guard. I nervously approach him. He holds up his hand and I halt. He frisks me. Finds nothing. He looks back up at me, curiously staring at my bald head. He says he didn’t see me enter the facility. I choke.

  Someone a few steps behind me explains that I have been doing the night shift. I turn. It’s the same scientist who gave me his shoes. He must have followed me to assure my escape. He’s still barefoot. The guard bows his head and lets me go. He does, however, point out that employees should always wear appropriate footwear. The scientist chuckles, slaps his forehead and then proceeds to complain about stress.

  I walk out of the dark environment and enter a grey forest. I suppose the trees are probably more green than they are grey, but the myst makes it hard to discern. I do recognize the building right behind me. It’s the Jagdschloss Grunewald. I remember because my mother brought me here back when I was seventeen. It was the first art museum open to the public in Berlin after the war. I remember my mother telling me about the scandals that took place here.

  So, good news is I know where I am, and it’s not too far from where I should be. Bad news is, I don’t know Grunewald that well and there’s only trees between me and my destination. I could turn towards the city, but that would be risky. It only takes one skeptical observer to blow my cover. I decide to take my chances through the thick trees.

  On the way I stumble upon something I didn’t expect: a race track. I had forgotten about it. My sister knew I was fond of cars and she brought me here a few days after arriving to Berlin. It was a good way to introduce me to the city and the world’s first freeway. It made me believe it had been a good idea to move here after all.

  A little further on I stumble upon another surprise. Teufelsberg, or Devil’s Mountain, as it would be later called. At the moment though, it is no mountain at all. Berlin hasn’t been destroyed, and a third of its rubble hasn’t been gathered here to build a hill that would eventually be used as a ski slope, as if it were some sort of macabre joke. In its place is the Wehrtechnische Fakultät, a half-built military academy of an olympic scale. It is intimidatingly grandiose, despite it not being finished. I look out for construction workers, but it seems to be too early for anyone to be working.

  I soon begin to orient myself. It reassures and soothes me to know that I haven’t been walking in the wrong direction. I finally exit the park and walk back into the city. It takes me only a few minutes to get to the Olympiastadion. Just a few years ago the olympics exposed the might of Germany to the whole world. It is here where I was told by my father to wait, but he never told me what for.

  I stand there, like an idiot, waiting for nothing. After a few hours of sitting on the cold floor like a beggar, I notice someone. He is a rough-looking man in his fifties. He smokes. He stares at me. He finally drops his cigarette butt and steps on it. With a determined step he paces towards me. My muscles tense up, ready to put up a fight. The man stops only a meter away from me. His eyes are glowing with a thin layer of tears. Although he is speaking in Polish, I know enough of the language to understand that my grandfather is overwhelmed to see me.

  II

  I had never met my grandfather. Never even saw a picture of him. But the way he curls up his lips after the end of every sentence reminds me of my father. I then realize I do the same exact thing when I end my own sentences. Never realized it until today.

  It’s been three weeks since I moved into his home. The war is in full motion and bombs have begun to drop on Berlin. I know the worst is yet to come though. In the meanwhile, I’ve had to stay in hiding. It’s very likely that a young man like myself would be immediately drafted.

  Some of my hair has grown back, and it feels good. I have met my grandfather’s comrades and I am now a full member of the Zagra-Lin, a Polish resistance organization. Some will call them freedom fighters, others may refer to them as terrorists. I’m not particularly proud of what I’ve had to do so far, but it’s the only chance I have to put an end to this.

  I’ve taken the time to learn about my past. My grandfather has told me an infinity of tales regarding my father. Apparently they did not end in good terms. My father turned on his family and joined the German cause. Although my grandfather is ready to forgive, he isn’t ready to trust. That’s why I am here. If one of my father’s instances were to show up at his doorstep, he wouldn’t be able to trust him. He would consider him the man who left his family to fight Hitler’s cause. I, on the other hand, am the only person he can somewhat be certain of. I am to be trusted. I don’t quite understand the logic behind my grandfather’s reasoning, but he has proven to be wiser than I am in every other regard. So I go along with it.

  Today may be the last time I see him. The last three weeks have been nothing but a long preparation for today. The plan is finally in place, the explosives have been finally acquired, and the team is ready to strike. All they were waiting for was for me to reveal the target. My orders are clear, but I am still hesitant. A lot of innocent people may be killed because of our actions, but there is no other way to access the vault unless we create a commotion at the street level.

  I am ready. My cold gun pressing against my chest. I walk to the service door and stand next to it. Any minute now. Friedrichstrasse station is busy today. I wish it weren’t. I lean against the wall, tug at my trenchcoat and wait impatiently. What’s taking so long?

  Then it happens.

  I feel the rumble beneath my feet and a deafening bang blasts my ears. It’s louder than I expected. A cloud of smoke expands in the distance and the crowd crouches in unison, as if it were a choreographed ballet. An instant of baffled silence and then the roars and moans of terrified civilians spreads like a virus into an overwhelming commotion.

  The service door opens soon after. A man walks out in a hurry. I stretch my foot to prevent it from closing and help myself inside. Although I stumble upon more than one pers
on, nobody seems to acknowledge my presence. The explosion has done its job, and I’ve become invisible.

  I make my way down a set of stairs, deeper underground into the belly of the station, until I find a large metal door. That must be it. A soldier is holding it open, guiding other soldiers, employees and scientists out of the vault. It’s going to be challenging to push through the on-coming avalanche of people in order to access the inside. I make an attempt, but I am pulled aside by the guarding soldier. He yells that I cannot enter the facility. I reach for my gun and am about to pull it out when a policeman steps in. He calls the soldier for help, and briefly points out the lack of officers keeping the crowd under control in the upper floors. I recognize the police officer’s voice. It’s my grandfather. The soldier hesitates for a brief moment but eventually leaves his post. I squeeze through the steady flow of people, as if swimming up a river, and finally make my way into the vault.

  A high-pitched alarm is blaring inside the confined corridors, strenuously echoing against the hard concrete. The facility has noticeably been constructed in the same manner as the other labs, but, as in all other labs, the layout is completely different. I explore every corner as fast as I can. My father explained that what I seek is unmistakable. When I find it, I will know it. And I do.

  A set of thick, metallic barn doors lead to an immense room. I feel goosebumps across my body as I find the gigantic bell-shaped structure in front of me, stoically glowing with a deep violet aura.

  This is it: Kronos. The mechanism that is powering all other time booths across the city. I pull out the explosives from within my coat and wrap them around the base of the bell. I hear a man shouting behind me, demanding I tell him what I am doing. I turn around and pull out my gun. The scientist immediately rises his hands and ends his bickering. I tell him to get out. He hesitates at first, but soon follows as I sprint by him and out the door. We run up the stairs as fast as we can. The explosion sends a ball of fire and smoke up the narrow passage. I think may have timed it wrong. It shouldn’t have gone off this fast. My eyes are covered in dust and I am temporarily deaf. I keep running forward. I need to get out as soon as possible.

  I reach the surface, bumping into various soldiers on the way. They seem disoriented. Not sure which explosion to follow: the one above or the recent one below. Once I reach the outside tunnel I remember the instructions my grandfather gave me. On the far end I discern the column he referred to in his descriptions. Beside it, on the ground, the manhole cover. I pull it open with ease. Someone else has already used it. I slide down and find myself in the sewers. It’s dark. My eyes have a hard time adjusting to the darkness. My ears are still blocked. But I do feel the hand that grabs me by the arm. I turn and find my grandfather. I try reading his lips, but can’t make out what he is saying. I follow him down the intricate passageways and finally reach the surface once more. Our comrades have clean clothes ready for us.

  It’s over. We’ve done it. History has been changed forever, and nobody will understand how it happened or who was behind it. Nobody will remember my name and, in part, I prefer it that way.

  That same night my grandfather and I drink a lot. More than I have ever drank in my life. He will be returning to Poland, and I… I don’t know yet. I have an idea, but I still need to muster the courage.

  III

  It’s been two years since I left Berlin.

  I had few choices left. I couldn’t stay in Germany. If I did, I would most likely be enlisted in the army. If I were to somehow avoid that, I’d still inevitably be forced to join the Volkssturm down the line. An army made of old men, injured soldiers and boys too young to fight, in Germany’s last desperate and futile attempt to win the war. I escaped the country and felt like I was playing with an unfair advantage. I knew how history would unfold and I knew exactly what to do in order to survive the next couple of years until the end of the war.

  My Polish comrades helped me cross the border towards the incoming Red Army. There I offered my services as a pilot. However, it wouldn’t be long until officials caught eye of my flawless German accent and decided that I was better suited to join URK SMERSH, the military’s field counterintelligence department. I was immediately transferred to the 3rd Ukrainian Front, under the command of Rodion Malinovsky. Having fought in World War I, the Spanish Civil War and liberating Stalingrad from the Germans, I was confident I had fallen in safe hands. He’d later be replaced by Fyodor Tolbukhin, who was no less qualified. I even had the honor of working beside notorious Soviet spy Nikolai Kuznetsov, just before his capture and execution in 1944. His death was a permanent reminder that, even though I was fighting on the winning team, I would never completely safe from death.

  The Red Army steadily pushed through Romania, Hungary, Czechoslovakia and finally, in April 1945, just as I had read in history books back in school, we arrived to Vienna. My destination.

  Hoping to accomplish a bloodless liberation of the city, we established close communication with the O5, the Austrian Resistance. Among their leaders, Carl Szokoll. A plan was carefully thought out for German troops to retreat as soon as they saw us, avoiding an unnecessary loss of human life and the consequent destruction of Vienna. We called it “Operation Radetzky”. Unfortunately, just a day before our offensive, SS officers intercepted our ploy and the major leaders of the resistance were publicly hanged. Fortunately, Carl made it alive. I never asked him how he made it all the way to our position, but he did, and with him he brought other members of the resistance. One of them was a woman. She was blond. I recognized her immediately. It was her.

  And here I am now. Staring at her beautiful face once more. Youthful. Radiant.My heart has stopped. She looks youthful. Radiant. And terrified by the remarks Bulgarian and Russian soldiers are exchanging among themselves, oblivious to the fact that this German girl is capable of understanding every disgusting word they're saying. I walk up to her and introduce myself in Russian. She is cold at first, wary, silent, waiting for my next move. I then speak in German, almost a whisper, so that others aren’t be able to hear. Seeing that I can speak both languages seems to soften her attitude towards me. I calmly explain that I am working for the counterintelligence department, and that I’d be very interested in her help. She’s about to ask me why when I interrupt and explain my reasoning. She speaks both languages fluently, and she knows the city better than any of us.

  She is still skeptical towards me. I don't blame her. But I need to let her know why I'm here. Maybe not right away. Maybe not today, but one day. I need to let her know that the war is over. That I never had anything to fight for. That I had no purpose. Not in this timeline nor ever. That there was only one reason for all this. Only one logical explanation. That I have travelled across space and time simply to be closer to her. I need to let her know that she is my purpose.

  So, although I already know the answer, I ask her where she's from. Maybe having something in common will break the ice.

  She lets my question linger in the vacuum of time. She ponders for a moment. Studies me from top to bottom. She stares back at me with her piercing eyes and takes a deep breath.

  “Berlin,” she replies.

  THE AUTHOR

  Alain Xalabarde is an award-winning filmmaker and game designer. He was born in the Basque Country, raised in South Africa, completed his film studies in New York, wrote his first screenplay in London, got his first job in the video game’s industry in Berlin, and is now happily married to his Russian wife.

  You can follow him at

  www.xalabarde.com

 

 

 
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