The Call

The call came unexpectadly, like the very best things in life do. Alistair sat behind the desk, translating something that Hitler wanted no one to see. It had been a few days since his visit to Braunschweig, and although he thought about the 'plan' constantly, he did forget it at that moment. His phone rang, he picked it up, squeezing it between shoulder and cheek as so to be able to continue writing. "Hallo, hier spricht Alistair Bowmore." He said, introducing himself to whoever the caller might be. 

"Here is Bernd." 

"Ah! Amazing! Is coffee still on for later, I was almost afraid you'd forgotten about it!"

"No, I'll still be receiving you. I hope you don't mind that an old friend of mine might join us as well?"

"No problem whatsoever! It'll be a pleasure to meet him!"

"Very good."

"How is three o'clock?"

"Works well by me." 

"Until then!" Alistair hung up with a broad smile on his face. They were making progress! Perhaps he could even leave first thing tomorrow! He continued to translate. Und dann kam sehr plötzlich ein Gedanke...and then suddenly came a thought... he put the pen down. 

'Old friend'. Was that really an 'old friend' or had their plan been uncovered and was Braunschweig warning him about the Gestapo? It could be code for something like that, couldn't it? Alistair cracked his knuckles. 'Old friend'...

It was probably nothing. Maybe it was someone who was in on the plan and would help them? Maybe it was an unexpected visitor that Bernd hadn't been able to turn down...but maybe it was the Gestapo. 

"Fuck." Alistair swore. He lay his face on his palm. This could get ugly. If it was the Gestapo and he was caught doing 'anti-nazi' things he'd be a goner. Either shot and killed or sent to a KZ. So would Braunschweig. Should he call back, try to see if Bernd would leave more clues as to who it really was? Or should he simply not show up at all?

There was a knock at the door. "Herein!" Alistair called out. He quickly picked up the pen again and set his finger on the end of the sentence he'd been translating. The visitor entered, it was none other than Hitler himself. He smiled at Alistair and walked round the desk until he was standing behind him. "How is it going with the translating, Alistair?"

"Good. I'm almost done." The American answered. Ever since Dachau he'd been much more stiff in Hitler's presence, and their friendship had turned from cocaine and Berghof to papers and handshakes. 

"I'm glad to hear that."

"And by the way, Adolf," Alistair started, "my grandmother passed away, I will leave tomorrow for Italy, where she's being buried in a few days. I need to help my mother prepare for the funeral. I'll be gone about two weeks I think. That won't be a problem I hope?"

"It should be fine, Alistair. Family comes first anyhow. I'm sorry for your loss. Where in Italy will you be?"

"Florence. She loved the city; moved there a dozen years ago with my late grandfather."

"Ah. It is very beautiful there." Hitler agreed. "When you come back you'll be relieved of your duties as a translator, I might need you once in a while, but you're to start in your new field." The last field that Alistair ever wanted to work in. "I'll assign you as an assistant first, not that you have no idea what's going on." He said with a laugh. "But I'm sure you'll get the hang of it quickly, Alistair." 

"I hope I will." He replied. "And, Adolf. I have a question to the letter," he gestured at the paper he was translating, "..."

***

Once the German dictator had left the room Alistair finally felt like he could breathe again. He'd done it! He was officially free for two weeks! And it had been that easy to ask Hitler and get what he wanted...All he had to do was hope that Braunschweig had organized his leave for tomorrow, and not a few days later.

Old friend.

The thought resurfaced. Alistair felt spiders crawl under his skin and rattle his bones. He shuddered. If it was the Gestapo he'd be done for. But if it wasn't...if it wasn't then he'd be able to have a shot at something that might change so, so many things. 

Of course, there was still the matter of convincing Comrade Stalin to help, something that was surely no small feat. He'd need to prove it, prove that he could 'see' into the future. But there was time to think about that still, most importantly was getting into Russia...

At two-thirty he left his office, swung the coat over his shoulders and marched out onto the streets of Berlin. Let the old friend be anyone but the Gestapo, please. Alistair prayed.