Berlin blood

- Ilsa, could you help me here? Ilsa, folding bed linen, heard the voice of her colleague coming from the kitchen. Becker sighed sadly, almost throwing the neatly folded sheet off the psycho. She had been so tired over the past week that she felt irritated at every new request. She wanted to shout: “no, I won’t help,” but she understood that all her colleagues were on the same page with her. And if she doesn’t help, then next time no one will help her. But this evening completely unsettled her: the second event in a month, this time dedicated to the modest wedding of Hitler and Eva. There were few guests, but Ilsa ran from table to table all evening. She saw how many were not happy to be at this celebration of life, how they sat with strained smiles. Ilsa herself was not happy, but did she have a choice? “I’m coming,” Ilsa shouted and put the sheet with the rest of the folded laundry. She walked into the kitchen and a girl named Marlene gave her a full tray of food. — Take this to the meeting room. Ilsa took the tray in her hands and walked towards the meeting room. Along the way, Becker thought that during her stay in the bunker she began to live one day at a time. She made no more plans, and even her saved money did not inspire her to dream. Unlike her colleagues, who dreamed of wasting their money and looked far into the future, Ilse thought about how another day had passed and whether she would wake up in the morning, hear orders, put on her uniform, or see Gunther. She carried the tray of food into the meeting room and left as quickly as she had arrived. No one started conversations with her, she didn’t look at anyone. Returning back, she sorted out the laundry and decided to retire. Turning towards the staff room, she was displeased to see Emma walking towards her. Emma was one of the few who was not shot, although she, like her deceased family, expressed open hatred of the party. But Emma was cunning. She thought through the steps ahead, knew where to become a sycophant and where to put pressure. Perhaps this saved her. Unlike her family, who was handed over to the executioners by her own relatives who joined the party, Emma managed to escape and prove that she was not involved in these people in any way. “Ilsa,” she sang, “how do you like the situation?” — The question sounded mocking. Ilsa did not like Emma, ​​and she knew it. — I wish it were better. — Becker answered calmly, thinking about how best to avoid the conversation. “What do you think,” Emma seemed to have both the time and energy for dialogue, “how long do we have left to live?” “Emma knew where to strike, because this question depressed Ilsa the most. Involuntarily, Ilsa compared Emma to an energy vampire who took the last energy from her. — Don’t know. I don’t want to think about it. I live in the present and am glad that I am still breathing. “Ilsa still remained calm, and, of course, she kept silent about the fact that she had a one-way chance. Emma pretended to examine her short-cut nails and replied: “And I think we have less than a week left.” Everything will be decided at the end of April, and we will see the white light. “I would love to see him in the wrong world.” And, in general, Emma, ​​it seems to be your shift now. Why don’t you go? Emma looked at Becker and smiled sarcastically: “There are enough people there, and they are doing just fine without me, and besides, I came to tell you something very interesting.” — What? “Ilsa was sure that no news could surprise her. — They say that the Fuhrer decided to commit suicide. — Emma said this as casually as if she had read the weather forecast in the local newspaper. Ilsa froze, digesting the information. If the Fuhrer is gone, what will happen to them? Where should they go? Without waiting for an answer from her interlocutor, Emma continued: “Have you decided what you will do when you survive and get out of here?” Ilsa tried to remain indifferent. — No, probably just to live. Suddenly a man unfamiliar to Ilse entered the room, accompanied by Gunther Richter. Ilsa almost burst into a smile at the sight of the lieutenant colonel, but tried to keep a calm expression on her face. Gunther immediately beckoned her with his hand, and Ilsa, apologizing to Emma, ​​ended their dialogue, which she was incredibly happy about, and approached Gunther. The man standing next to him was a little drunk and smiled stupidly, asking for more champagne. Ilsa nodded and went into the kitchen to get from the huge reserves of alcohol, which included twelve-year-old cognac, wine, and even beer, expensive sparkling champagne with a pleasant sweet aftertaste. While Ilse was looking for champagne, Johan pestered Gunther with questions. “You have chosen a wonderful match for yourself, Gunther.” “The officer repeated once again and grinned drunkenly. — Johan, stop it. — Gunther answered a little embarrassed. — Why stop? You decided to run away, and that’s great. Now you have a sense, and you don’t throw yourself in front of bullets just like that. We don’t have long to obey this idiot. Gunther shushed him. — Firstly, don’t shout like that, and secondly, don’t forget that when we leave here, we will become living targets for everyone. If you want, Johan, choose: Russians, British or Americans. — The last two nations are one mess. — Johan hiccupped and leaned against the wall. Gunther sighed and shook his head. “This wedding,” the pilot suddenly said, “is a complete disrespect for us.” We are here like hostages, and he dares to go out and celebrate a wedding, although not on a large scale. “I’m telling you: idiot.” Gunther looked at Johan. The man standing in front of him was his teacher. Once upon a time, Johan taught Gunther how to fly, passed on all the knowledge about airplanes, about combat strategies, about sharp turns that force the enemy to open his mouth. Johan became practically a father to him. Despite the Nazism that roamed the ranks of the soldiers, Johan remained a good-natured man with a huge heart. He never laid a finger on civilians and treated the elderly, women and children with respect. He understood that it was not their fault that the leaders of their states started the war. He even sympathized with Soviet soldiers who were simply defending their homeland from the Nazi offensive. And he never supported Hitler. But, like many, he went to battle because that was his calling. “Johan, it’s time for you to stop drinking, otherwise you’ll find yourself in trouble.” Johan looked at Gunther with a misty gaze. “Perhaps you are right, my friend.” And maybe I should back off. “He muttered, and then abruptly changed the topic: “Have we buried all our people?” — Yes. Today we said goodbye to Wilhelm. — It’s a pity, he was a good guy. Pure, bright, like an angel. “Sometimes, Johan, it seems to me that he was an angel.” Young, naive. The country destroyed him. - Like many young people. Okay, you and I are already old, but what should very young guys do? “I don’t know whether to rely on myself or gather in groups.” Be together. Run somewhere. It’s easier without titles, but you and I have both titles and documents. —Have you ever thought about turning back time and not going to the service — No, what’s the point? The universe brought me here. Here I met her,” Gunther nodded towards the kitchen where Ilse was, “and that means this is my fate.” It couldn’t have been any other way. Johan nodded awkwardly and peeled himself away from the wall. “Okay, good luck,” he said and swayed a little, “I hope we’ll meet again in this world.” Gunther patted him on the shoulder and said goodbye. As soon as Johan disappeared around the corner, Ilse returned to the room with a full bottle of champagne. “Sorry for making me wait so long…” Becker interrupted herself mid-sentence and began to turn around in search of comrade Gunther. -Where is sir… Gunther laughed at her confusion and replied: — Retired. Ilse sighed, and Gunther suddenly thought about whether he could let go of the war and replace it with love? And he hoped that he could, that he would no longer be eager to fight, that he would want something other than shooting, flying and killing. Looking at Ilsa, he decided that he would try for her sake.