Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

“The best of our goods… sounds right up your alley,” Adrienne teased.

All except one doctor, Kiril thought. His mentor, Dr. Mikhail Yanin, wouldn’t dream of wasting valuable time extolling the Soviet Union’s inferior cardiac “achievements” when there was so much to learn from the eminent Dr. Brenner… and so little time in which to do it.

Dr. Yanin was on his feet. Kiril leaned forward as Yanin asked a highly technical question about artificial hearts—the agenda of the upcoming symposium in West Berlin sponsored by Medicine International.

Dr. Kurt Brenner spoke with eloquence for almost fifteen minutes.

The cardiologists from the People’s Democracies was a poor followup as they segued into their ritualistic bragging…

“The Soviet Union’s electronic monitoring system is a huge success!”

“A patient’s heartbeat speeds up. A second attack seems imminent but we are ready with a new drug.”

“A thousand-volt electrical charge to the chest was perfectly timed.”

“So our vascular stapling machine has made suturing obsolete.”

“It was a surgical breakthrough in congenital heart lesions.”

“Medical helicopters swiftly dispatched to remote areas.”

Kiril almost recoiled at this last outrageous claim. After his three years of forced internship in the remote areas beyond the Arctic Circle, even one medical rescue helicopter would have been a godsend.

A door behind Dr. Brenner opened and Aleksei Andreyev came in. Only two people noticed—Luka Rogov and Kiril Andreyev.

Rogov sat a little straighter in his chair.

Kiril’s hand automatically went to his chest—as if something was banging to get out.

The moment of truth! As soon as Dr. Brenner turns, Aleksei will see the likeness for the first time. Will he remember the so-called eye infection—my only excuse for wearing dark glasses?

Uneasiness turned to near panic as Kiril realized that, the breakfast event being so early, he had completely forgotten to apply the lemon juice!

Brenner’s back was to Aleksei as he finished responding to an ersatz claim by a cardiologist from Bulgaria. “Medicine is international,” he intoned. “Great contributions come from every corner of the globe. America has much to learn from your countries. It’s why I have always applauded medical exchanges”

“Colonel Andreyev!” cried the Direktor, spotting Aleksei. “We are pleased and honored that you could spare the time to join us.”

The semi-circle opened as doctors turned to look and reluctantly moved their chairs.

As Kurt Brenner turned to greet Aleksei Andreyev, he steeled himself for the shock of seeing him across the chasm of sixteen years. “Colonel Andreyev,” he said brightly, “Herr Doktor Direktor tells me it was your idea for this lovely breakfast and the opportunity to talk with colleagues from around the world.”

Aleksei’s voice stalled like the engine of a car left too long in the cold.

How is it possible?

After an awkward pause, his voice turned over. But even as he responded to the guest of honor, then to the director of the clinic, questions buzzed in his brain like annoying insects…

How could there be such an uncanny likeness to Kiril without my being aware of it? Why didn’t the Brenner file tip me off? What did I miss? Were there no file photographs?

He frowned, trying to remember, and then realized he had ordered a photograph from New York. Some bungler from the Soviet News Agency must have forgotten to wire it. He shook off his annoyance just as another door opened.

Chancellor Dmitri Malik entered the room and looked at Brenner with a benign smile.

Brenner paled.

The bastards have double-teamed me. Whatever game they’re playing, it looks like I’ll have the answers sooner than later.

Taking a conveniently empty seat next to Brenner, Malik said, “I understand you served in Germany during the Great Patriotic War.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Seventh Army. I was very low on the totem pole. A mere sergeant,” Brenner said with a self-deprecating smile.

How bored you sound, Dr. Brenner, Aleksei thought, pulling out his pipe. And Mrs. Brenner? Genuinely bored. Even if she has no interest in war stories, she should be very interested in this one.

“I’m curious,” Dr. Brenner,” Malik said. “Where were you when the war ended—and when?”

“Berlin, 1945.”

“I thought as much,” Malik responded, as if warmed by the pleasure of reminiscence. “Odd, the things one remembers and the things one forgets. For me, the battles are a complete blank. Yet I recall with fondness some of the weapons with which we won those battles.”

Aleksei got his pipe going and said cheerfully, “Come now, gentlemen, enough of this wartime reminiscing.”

The relief in Brenner’s eyes was so transparent Aleksei almost felt sorry for the poor bastard.

Do you believe, my big fish, that you have wriggled off the hook so easily?

“But I, too, spent time in Berlin after the hostilities, serving with Chancellor Malik years before our East German comrades implored him to accept the prestigious position he currently holds.”

The array of physicians, initially disinterested, were warming to the three-way conversation, intuitively sensing that there was more happening than met the eye.

“So many tragic stories,” Aleksei mused. “Some eighty thousand of my Soviet comrades died fighting to rid Berlin of the Nazi scum.”

Aleksei paused as Brenner reached into his pocket for a cigarette, his hand surprisingly steady.

I’m impressed, Brenner. Let’s see how long it lasts.

“I still have vivid memories of one story in particular. We ran up against a repatriation problem after millions of my fellow citizens had been kidnapped by the Nazis. But somehow a group of orphaned Ukrainian children—refugees from one of the Nazi death camps—became unwitting pawns in an exchange of favors between a Russian officer and an American GI. By the time the children were turned over to us to be repatriated to their homeland, they were in a frightful state, having been shunted from one place to another.”

Aleksei paused to shake his head regretfully. To more fully enjoy Brenner’s fixed stare at a vase of flowers on a coffee table.

“But those were chaotic times so no one thought to ease the transition for these innocents,” he said softly. “No one reassured them that a soldier in a Russian uniform was a far cry from a Nazi one. As they were being led away for repatriation by Red Cross volunteers, seven of the children committed suicide.”

Genuine gasps throughout the room.

“They leaped into the Havel River before anyone could stop them,” he continued. “Of course, you Americans could hardly criticize our well-intentioned repatriation policy,” Aleksei said, his eyes boring into Brenner’s. “Many of our people were able to return to their homeland with official American help.”

Adrienne had had enough. “You really are too modest about what America’s ‘official help’ consisted of, Colonel,” she said with acid contempt. “My country did indeed help your country repatriate over a million refugees. The program, if I’m not mistaken, was named Operation Keelhaul. I feel compelled to add that those unfortunates were so eager to be repatriated that many of them slashed their wrists, jumped off roofs, and dove out of windows rather than return to your Soviet paradise.”

Good girl, Aleksei thought, aware that he and Malik were the only ones in the room enjoying the heavy silence and averted eyes. He looked pointedly at Kurt Brenner as if willing the man to read his thoughts.

Now you know what to expect should your lovely wife discover your sordid past. Your options narrow, Dr. Brenner. Defect, and you keep your dark secret. Defy me, and that secret will be exposed—and not just to your wife. To people all over the world who admire and respect you.