James Frey - Project Berlin

They finish singing, and the man takes something from the pocket of his coat. It’s a present wrapped in newspaper and tied with plain white string. He hands it to the girl, who carefully opens it. A happy smile spreads across her face.

“Toffees!” she says. “Wherever did you get them?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer before taking one of the candies from the box and unwrapping it, the cellophane crackling in her fumbling fingers. She puts the toffee in her mouth and sucks on it, her eyes closed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone enjoy a piece of candy so much.

She opens her eyes and reaches into her own pocket. She takes out a package, this one wrapped in brown butcher paper. She gives it to the man. He opens it and holds up a red knitted scarf.

“I unraveled one of my sweaters for the yarn,” the girl says, sounding embarrassed. “Wool is still rationed.”

“It’s beautiful,” the man assures her as he wraps it around his neck. “Thank you.”

The girl turns back to the piano and begins to play again. This time the song is “O Tannenbaum.”

I’ve obviously interrupted their Christmas Eve celebration. And if I do what I’ve been instructed to do, I’m about to make it a whole lot worse. I still feel like something is off, but there’s no time to contact my council for further advice, so I have to make a choice based on the available information and what I’ve been told. That means completing the mission according to plan.

I accept the reality of my situation, even though I don’t like it, and prepare to act. Then the sound of a door being kicked open comes from the first floor. Wood splinters. Heavy footsteps pound up the stairs. The man and the young woman stop singing and look at each other. I have just enough time to dart back to the stairwell before three figures burst onto the landing. Two of them have guns drawn.

“Evrard Sauer,” one of them, a man, says. “You are under arrest for collaborating with the National Socialist German Workers’ Party.” He’s speaking in German, but with a heavy Russian accent. And although he’s used the more formal name for them, I know he’s just accused Sauer of working with the Nazis.

“Who are you?” the girl asks.

“Be still, Lottie,” says Sauer. “Do as you’re told.”

His voice is quiet, sad. As if he has feared this moment for a long time.

I huddle on the stairs, my pistol at the ready. Besides the two men, there is a woman in the room. She stands slightly behind the men, her hands in her pockets. As I lean forward for a better look, my foot presses against the floorboards, making a faint creaking sound. I see her tense. She turns her head toward the stairwell, and for a moment I think she’s seen me. But I can’t look away. She’s younger than I thought. My age. And beautiful. She has long dark hair and dark eyes, and for a second I’m sure that I’ve seen her before. Then it hits me—she looks like Wonder Woman from the comic books my sister Lily loves so much. I find myself frozen in place.

Then she turns away, and it’s as if a switch has been turned off and I can breathe again. I blend into the shadows, my finger on the trigger of my gun in case I need to use it. I know I will need to use it. I can’t let these people take Sauer. I think I know who they are. MGB. Russian intelligence. And apparently they want him because of his association with the Nazis. What he did for them, I don’t know. Just as I don’t know why he’s so important to my council. What I do know is that I can’t let them leave with him.

“If you come quietly, there will be no problems,” the first man says.

Sauer nods. He motions to Lottie, who stands up.

It’s time. I start to raise my pistol, aiming it at one of the Soviet agents.

Before I can fire, the woman draws her hand from her pocket. She’s holding a Tokarev TT-33. There are two shots, and her companions collapse to the floor. She lowers the gun.

“You have a choice,” she says to Sauer and Lottie. “Come with me and live, or join them.”

Sauer and the girl look from the bodies lying at their feet to the gun I still have trained on them. Their fear is obvious. They know who the dead men are, or at least who they work for, but they don’t know who I am or why I’m here. They’re trying to decide if I am a greater or lesser danger.

“I’m not going to ask again,” I say, giving them their answer.

I point my gun at the girl. It has the desired effect.

Sauer holds up his hands. “We’ll come.”

He’s made the right choice. Had they resisted, I would have shot them both. If I had, they would have been my third and fourth kills. The men on the floor are my first and second.

I’m surprised how little I feel about the killings. I’d expected something more, a sense of excitement perhaps, or pangs of remorse. Instead, there is simply an awareness of having done what was necessary. It probably helps that the two MGB agents were not good people. After six months of working undercover within their organization, I’d come to despise them. For one thing, they’d been dismissive of me because of my gender and my age. That was a mistake.

Three weeks ago, I turned 18. But I grew up long before that. I don’t actually remember a time when I didn’t feel the weight of responsibility. As a child, when I played, I played games of war. And always, I had to win. Even if it meant defeating someone close to me. When I was chosen as the current Minoan Player out of my group of trainees, it was simply the next logical step. This is a role I’ve been studying for my entire life.

I don’t have time to waste thinking about the dead men. I motion for Sauer and the girl to walk ahead of me. They start to leave the room, which is when a figure detaches itself from the shadows of the stairs and rushes at me. I have only a moment to curse myself for not heeding an earlier feeling and checking to make sure no one else was in the house before a man is tackling me. He hits me low and hard, and before I can get off a shot, I’m falling backward. I land on the floor, and my breath is knocked out of me. Also knocked away is my gun, which my attacker sweeps out of my reach.

He, however, is still holding a weapon. He straddles me and points it at my face. “Who are you?” he asks in German.

I take inventory, trying to figure out who he might be. He’s wearing the uniform of an American soldier. Then, as I look up at his face, an odd thought passes through my mind: his eyes are the same blue color as the cornflowers that grow in the fields around my grandparents’ house outside Kamilari. The same color as the Aegean Sea in summer. I feel a pang of homesickness, and I’m so shocked that this is what I’m thinking about in this situation that I don’t say anything for a moment. He mistakes my silence for not understanding and tries again in Russian.