Berlin blood

Croatia. Spring, 1944 Paul looks at the sea from the shore. It is beautiful and full of surprises, like his life, it attracts him with its grandeur and power. The sky is overcast, but this is normal for the north, where the sun is a real rarity, and if you see it, it means that the day will be successful, and you can do all the things you have in mind. The wind blows past Paul, he holds his cap so that it does not fly off his head. A little later, he takes it off altogether, letting the wind blow through his head to cheer him up a little. His green eyes squint, his short crew-cut hair is completely invisible. He thinks about a lot. Germany is losing the war, and it becomes clear to Paul that any resistance is useless: it will only aggravate the state of affairs of the country and bring huge losses. The mechanism of destruction and death has already begun to operate and will only gain momentum in the future. According to the man, it is necessary to admit defeat before opponents enter the country and begin to establish their own order. “Yes, history repeats itself,” Paul thought to himself: that in the First World War they were driven into inflation and poverty by the stupidity of the government, that now they are driven into the same inflation and poverty by yet another stupidity of the authorities, who live in their own world separate from the people and, apparently, has no idea at all about the current state of affairs. He was very young, but the depressing and black situation of the country was fixed in the boy’s memory, and politics was his favorite conversation in the house. Paul sighs. Today he must go on an urgent and important mission to destroy the enemy, but he knows that they will lose. There is no point in the task, and he wants to believe in the prudence of the generals and superiors, but the orders they give make him think that they are all on heroin. No, Paul didn’t blame them. All of them are under the control of the Fuhrer, who, in fact, gives orders, although it was they who allowed him to power. The circle is closed. The people choose power, and then are dissatisfied with something when the government puts them in the most severe conditions and leads to death. Yes, it is impossible to predict what the reign of the next Reich Chancellor will be like, it is simply impossible. — Commander! — A young boy runs up to Paul and, having caught his breath, reports: “The commodore is calling you.” “I’m already on my way,” he turns around and with a sad expression on his face goes into the building. He enters the headquarters, the situation becomes darker with every minute spent there. Everything is on tenterhooks, this is understandable: three defeats in a week — this has never happened before. Hitler demands results in a short time, but this is impossible. They are already suffering colossal losses, what could be worse? They barely have enough strength to repel attacks. Paul turns left and, knocking, enters the office. “Hello, Paul,” the commodore is blacker than a cloud today: he has just arrived from another meeting, the fifth this week. “Hello, you called me,” Paul sits down on the chair opposite the boss. The Commodore rummages through the desk drawers, pulls out a folder and hands it into hishands: — Look at your new task. Paul opens the folder and, after briefly reading it, exhales. The task is complex and secret. It is not a fact that he will get out alive, and it will be a miracle if he is not captured. “Commodore, I won’t do it,” the man honestly admits. — Sure? — The interlocutor glances sideways at him, arching an eyebrow. “I don’t want to ruin my team, but here the task has such an outcome.” It will be a miracle if the team and I survive at all, but in the worst case, everyone will be captured. “I’m afraid you will have to accept the order and complete the task.” You are the only one who can, if not destroy the enemy, then at least delay him. And no one will allow you to be captured. You know about the plans of the Greater German Reich, as well as about our weapons with which we are ready to attack the enemy, you also know about the weaknesses of the military industry, and, according to our data, many people are chasing you, so we will not allow this,” the Commodore leans back armchair. — Well, I’ll delay them, but what’s the point? The enemy is too close, a little more and his bombs will fly towards Germany. We are suffering colossal losses. Wouldn’t it be easier to retreat and accept defeat before everything goes down the drain? — Paul leans towards the boss, seeing in his eyes the agreement that he will never voice. “Paul Bernstein, you must carry out this order, and this is not discussed,” the man slammed his fist on the table, took out a cigar, lit a cigarette and, looking at Paul, continued: “I told you this as a commodore, but as a man I will say: not for you here.” decide — the Fuhrer knows what he is doing. Yes, I’m not happy with his plans either, but I’m sure everything will be fine,” the man turned away. From him comes uncertainty, doubt and fear that he himself will soon find himself, if not shot by his own people, then by the enemy. “Our allies are abandoning us, he is leading us all to a mass grave, and we believe him.” He is a man who, if not today, will die of old age tomorrow! In a month we will all have to put a bullet in our foreheads. “It’s only thanks to him that we have not yet been wiped off the face of the earth, we were crushed and humiliated,” the interlocutor insists on his own, not wanting to admit the truth, which is known to every single one. — History will repeat itself. Either the people themselves will overthrow him, or the enemy who is about to enter the country. — The conversation is over! I demand that you carry out this order! I demand from you that you stop and destroy the English enemy, even at the cost of your own life! You swore an oath to the Fuhrer — be so kind as not to betray him! Paul gets up and leaves with a task: it is useless to argue, and even worse, trying to convey the truth to a person who knows it, but hides it deep down in his subconscious. In his small office, he gets acquainted with the case in more detail and is once again convinced that they will lose. He remembers his father, mother and younger brother, looking at their faces in the last photograph they took in 1939 before he left. A lot of time passed, they had not communicated for a long time: he wrote to them, congratulated them, but there was no answer. He leans back in his chair and exhales, watching how the sun, invisible behind the clouds, nevertheless sets below the horizon and, breaking through the dense layers, leaves small rays on the water and on land. *** The hatch is closed and they descend under the water, their task is to destroy an English submarine carrying ammunition for the infantry. The chances that they will succeed without losses are reduced to almost zero. Paul knows this, he checks the rescue equipment several times, checks the map again and thinks about the operation plan. He keeps an eye on everyone on the ship. He doesn’t give unnecessary instructions, he only briefly and thoughtfully answers the crew’s questions. They sailed for about thirteen miles, pressed on them by the confined space and dimly lit passages and compartments of the submarine. Paul stood next to the observer, not leaving for a minute, and checked the calculations and maps. After half an hour they found her. — Commander, we noticed them! — The sailor tells him. — Then shoot, and let’s leave! — Paul gives the order and looks at the map. — Eat! — The shell is fired, and the submarine immediately bursts into flames. They turn around and leave as quickly as possible. Suddenly they hear a crash. The ship has been damaged in some way, and the alarm light immediately lights up. — Commander, there is water in one of the holds. — Crap! The man quickly realizes: the English submarine couldn’t hit them, and it couldn’t fire its shell at them either. Aviation and British bombers with depth charges come to mind. — Everyone evacuate quickly! “He gives the order, counting down the minutes until the submarine completely explodes and sinks, and watches as the crew evacuates, barely managing to escape himself. *** Having surfaced, he looks around, not finding anyone from the team nearby. Realizing that there is no danger, he rows until he loses strength, seeing the shore from afar. Having reached the cherished land, he throws off his life jacket with relief. He listens and, with as fast steps as possible, without giving himself a break, walks towards the city located by the sea. He knows that he needs to somehow connect with his people. Having reached the first walls, he listens to the conversation of the peasants, who, leaning against the walls of the old lighthouse, talking about fish, did not notice him, and sighs at his luck. He’s in Italy. Looking around, he notices the pebbles under his hands and the walls of the lighthouse, the noise of life nearby, and the first stalls with souvenirs. Paul gathers his strength and stands up. Walking a little deeper into the city, he passes brightly decorated houses. Dripping with water, he looks around and, noticing the local police, dives into an alley. Sitting down on the corner of a cafe — the first place he finds for a little respite — he loses consciousness and plunges into darkness. *** England. Intelligence service Jerry Hart sits in his office. In England there is fog covering it from all sides, and clouds. The man is about thirty-five to forty years old; a little gray hair does not spoil the chief of British intelligence, but, on the contrary, decorates him, as do light wrinkles around the mouth and eyes. — Hello, can I come to you? — A young man comes to see him. “It depends what you came with,” Jerry turns completely to the desktop. — I came to you with bad news. The submarine, which was sent with ammunition, sank. — Germans? — Jerry asks again, and the young man nods. — Yes, they attacked us first. — The guy hands over the protocol. — They blew it up — nothing could be saved. But they didn’t leave on their own: our planes quickly reacted, and their submarine also sank, although we have information that there are survivors. One of them, we suspect, is Commander Paul Bernstein. He is well informed, and if we took him prisoner, we would be able to advance much faster. — Are you pinning the search for him on me? — You understood correctly. It needs to be done as soon as possible. “Doesn’t the country have better things to do than go looking for a soldier who might have died?” — I will tell you that you are abandoning this matter! — It is not true! I don’t refuse, but I don’t see the point. — Come on. I remember when you first sat down in this place, you were much more enthusiastic. You’re getting old… Maybe you should retire? — Fine. I’ll do it,” Jerry picks up the file held out by the young man and looks: one sheet with a single, poorly taken photograph, there is practically no information, except for his age — Twenty-seven years. Yes, it will be difficult to find him, but if it is for the good of the country, he is ready. Jerry takes the phone and asks Moritz to come over.