A Game of Chess

West Berlin, East Germany

October 3 1950

7:23 PM

The night was a beautiful blanket of a swirling violet-blue with small specks of white scattered across the sky. Clouds streaks flowed lazily through the night, allowing the moon's glistening light to peek at them. The two walked down the quiet road, passing street lights after street lights. The streets and roads were empty and quiet, all they could hear was the clack of their shoes and the crickets in the background. Alfred looked at the other, studying his facial expression.

"Man, I'm starving. Got any place in mind where we could grab something to eat?" Alfred whined, throwing his arms back around his neck. He peeked nervously at Ludwig, watching for his reaction.

He wasn't lying, he actually was really hungry. But things got a bit awkward back there when he was talking to the soviet boy. Ludwig had become a bit more tense and strangely much more quieter than he was before if that was possible. It's just that Ludwig didn't answer any of his remarks with a full sentence after the ordeal, which was different than this afternoon.

Alfred clenched his jaw tightly as they walked on, seemingly to wherever the road led them. Maybe he took it a bit far? He probably shouldn't have raised the gun at the kid again after he started crying. He didn't want to hurt the child, he wasn't going to! He's not that bad of a person!

Alfred gulped, trying to reason it with himself. The thing was, he felt kind of mad seeing the kid. He made such a big fuss over them, and now that they turned out to be some dumb, young, crying ball of tears, Ivan got to have his little laugh on the joke and he got embarrassed because of it!

"Ja, we're heading there right now." Ludwig said, not in any special way. What did Alfred expect?

He sighed, looking back up at the night sky again. And yet, even if he tried to let his mind wander, it would always end up in the same location he had been trying to escape. He gritted his teeth and finally acknowledged it. 'Ivan, that son of a bitch.'

To Ivan, this was all just a game to him. Toying with him, toying with his country, that sicko felt pleasure from doing that didn't he? And yet despite his resentment, there was nothing he could do about it. If he were to actually start to complain about it, he'd probably just look like some oversensitive brat. And Arthur always loves to remind him that he's now a global Superpower, someone that takes charge. 'Even more of a reason people can't know.' What would happen if they knew that someone out there had the ability to make his heart drop? That they hold a sense of power over him and there's nothing he can do about it. All he is allowed to do is shake it off, and continue to stride on.

'But for how long must you do this?' A voice whispered in his head. He has asked himself this question almost too frequently, too much for him to count. The icky feeling of despair started to drip into his mind. He has only been in this for five years. Five god damn years. Five years of torment, five years of pain, five years of this never-ending sinking depression, and he still hasn't reached the bottom of his tortures. There was still so much he has yet to go through, he knows this fact well. But exactly how much more? Even now, as he walked beside his friend, he could feel the burdens of paranoia dragging at his feet, choking him from saying anything. Ivan was always there, watching him, interfering with his life.

And even with that still happening, he's supposed to be strong. He has to fight back with a brave smile on his face. But the thing was, he couldn't. His endurance was weak. It was only five years, and he's already this tired? What a terrible excuse for a Global Superpower. If anyone else knew, they would laugh at him. How was he going to go into a full on fight against the Soviet Union if he can't even take the weaker punches? What a failure he had turned out to be.