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Crossfires, a French AAR for HoI2 Doomsday

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4th Dimension said:
You better. Or you will be announced enemy of the people by a small anarchist community, and you're house will be torched.

And if you didn't know already, you know that you are author of a REALLY REALLY GOOD AND ADDICTIVE AAR, not when you start receiving awards, but when you start receiving threats to you and your possession, if you don't produce an update soon.
Click to expand...

So the more threats I receive, the better the AAR ? Gosh, they never told me that at AAR University ! :D

Now, thanks a lot to each and every reader, and most of all to those who did register and commented. Nothing is as challenging and as stimulating to any author than such direct contact with the readers, and however high you might rank this AAR, in ther end its excellency will owe you readers at least as much as it can owe its humble writer. Writing is par excellence a selfless activity inasmuch as you always write for someone to read, and without the readers the author is, at best, a voice in the desert.

And thank you, 4th Dimension, for your stubborn devotion to this storyline. I hope it'll keep grabbing your attention by its lapel.

Now if it can mollify the angry mob, I am currently working on the update. I rather like it the way it is, and I can only hope you'll like it too. It's a rather long one, and one I have trouble finding pictures for, hence part of the delay.
 
CHAPTER 51 : ANGUISH




Norway, an island of peace in that summer of 1938​

Oslo, July the 21st, 1938

Stepping out of the Danish ferry, the woman tightening the belt of her raincoat and walked to the customs officers, thanking her good fortune that the bumpy journey had finally ended. The ride in the antiquated passenger ferry had started under an ashen sky. After ten days of stifling heat that had gripped all of Northern Europe, the temperatures had sharply fallen, and the Baltic Sea had given life to a powerful storm that had rocked the old vessel all the way to Oslo. Like most of the passengers of the antiquated ferry, the woman had been sick and worried that the ship, built in a still infant 20th century, would eventually capsize, and had felt immensely grateful when finally, twenty minutes before they entered Oslo, the storm had subsided. Still, even when the ship had seemed about to break in two, it had never occurred to the woman to consider it as some form of ill omen. The woman did not believe in omens, neither good nor bad, nor did she believe in anything that wasn’t brought into existence by men’s will and men’s work.

“Good afternoon, Madam” said Niels Egeland, one of the Norwegian customs officers in charge of the inbound ferries. He flashed his friendliest smile at the elegant and seductive woman. “Can I see your passport, please ?”

“But of course, certainly, officer”, replied the woman with a curious smile of her own, which widened the lips but fell short of reaching her cold grey eyes. Opening her purse, and biting her lower lips as she burrowed into it, the woman proffered the document in a whiff of spicy perfume that distracted the Norwegian customs officer.

“Let me see” said the custom officer, who wished he could find something wrong with the woman’s passport so he could spend a few more minutes enjoying her elegant presence in this otherwise bleak day. Browsing through the pages, he saw she was Danish, and that she had never come to Norway before. There was also no mention of a married name, an information that attracted the attention of the Norwegian. The young man had joined the Norwegian customs under the misapprehension that there would be some form of excitement involved, but had soon had to admit the closest he’d ever come to adventure would be to catch someone smuggling Swiss watches or French perfume. A few months after this sobering discovery, though, the man had discovered that his position offered many opportunities with foreign ladies looking for a charming romance to spice up their Scandinavian holydays, provided one was handsome and educated enough. The custom officer was both, and hoped this young woman, with her disarming eyes and voluptuous silhouette, was one of such tourists.



A Danish ferry moors in Oslo​

“Welcome back to Norway, Miss. May I ask what the purpose of your visit is ?” he inquired, hoping there would be some form for her to fill, for it would mean she’d have to give the address where she’d be staying in Oslo. “I am getting engaged !” said the woman, taking off a glove and showing a ring at her finger.

“Oh, congratulations !” said the custom officer, blushing a little as his dreams of a holyday romance were mercilessly squashed. “Here’s your passport. Have a nice day, Miss. Next !”

As she stepped out of the customs office, the woman’s smile faded instantly. She stopped at the door to scan the rain-battered streets, not feeling the cold or the rain, as she had grown in much harsher latitudes whose springs could humble Norway’s winters any day. Glistening under the rain, cars and lorries passed her by, and a few people were being chased by the squall throughout the grey streets as they ran to take shelter inside a store or a nearby pub. Satisfied that no one seemed to take any interest in her, the woman stepped into the street and walked quickly towards the nearest phone booth, her shoes creating little geysers on the drenched pavement. She was considerably more knowledgeable in Oslo’s geography than the passport she had used indicated, and she had most of the information she needed to know about the man she had been sent to find. But first of all, she had to report as scheduled, and enlist some local help for the second part of her mission.

Putting her purse on the small shelf where the phone directory was, the elegant woman took from it a roll of telephone counters. Outside, the battering rain insulated the booth from the rest of the world, drowning her every word. She picked up the phone, asked for a local communication, and inserted two counters.

“Nyström guesthouse”

“Oleg ? This is Irina. I have just arrived. Gather everyone”

Half an hour and five phone calls later, the woman exited the cabin and hopped into a tramway heading towards the Nyström guesthouse. The first thing she needed was weapons, and she knew Oleg would have a selection. As the tramway rumbled forward, she thought of her target, who was out there, somewhere in the drenched city. She hoped the man wouldn’t get too suspicious, so that the whole operation could go smoothly.


********************​


What a bleak day, thought Bronstein, who had put his newspaper down to look by the window.

All in all, he felt he had only lived bleak days for the past nine years. Most of the man’s life had seen him washed ashore from one country to another, from detention to exile to clandestine activities, to the point he sometimes signed his personal letters “Your Professional Exile”. Years had passed, exile had followed exile, and now that he was approaching 60 the man felt the shadows of the outside world had never been longer nor darker. While he knew such gloomy ideas were common for people his age, particularly when forced into semi-retirement after a life of breathtaking tasks and challenges, the man knew in his case it was not only because of his getting older.

“Coffee ?” said the woman as she stepped into the man’s office, derailing her husband’s gloomy train of thought.

“Ah, yes, please, my dear Natalya” he replied, with a gentle smile.

As the rich, acrid smell of coffee filled the room, he looked at his wife, the companion of more than thirty-five years. A beautiful woman, a strong woman, a good mother, a true Marxist, a sincere revolutionary, She had been everything a man like him could have hoped for, everything he could have dreamed of. And she had paid the price of his love in full, in sleepless nights and in her own sons’ blood.

“Ah, Natalya, how I have failed you. All these years of happiness, you gave me, and your only reward was exile, fear, and sorrow”

“The exile and sorrow were not yours to give. And one day the fear will end, because you’ll show the People the right way” she said, sitting in an armchair near her husband.

Too many close friends had vanished into the Moscovite nights, victims of the Iejovchina, arrested in the wee hours of the morning and put to trial under a parody of justice. Too many new friends had disappeared in Spain’s broad daylight, shot in a ditch by Madrid’s goons without even a parody of trial. Too many others had been threatened, silenced, blackmailed or bought by the Oriental despot who now ruled Soviet Russia. The two sons he and Natalya had had been assassinated by the Despot’s goon, one in Russia, one in Paris only six months earlier. Even his own ex-wife, who had left him almost forty years ago had disappeared three years before. The man knew that was no coincidence – in the Despot’s eyes, she probably was guilty of not having divorced him earlier. Every thing he cherished, every hiuman being he loved, the Despot strived to debase and kill.

“You know”, said the man, “I remember when he told me that there was nothing sweeter in life than planning one’s revenge against one’s enemies, planning it thoroughly, exacting it mercilessly, and then go to bed.”

Even now, the man could still remember the faint glow of madness in the Despot’s eyes as he unknowingly echoed the words of Genghis Khan.

“Many sons have died, Lev.” said the woman, her eyes staring fixedly at the photographs of their assassinated sons, clearly summoning all her resolve. “Many sons have died, but if you ever falter they would all have died in vain. And then, you will fail me”

As strong as you are beautiful, my Russia she-bear, the man thought with mixed feelings of pride and humility.

“I won’t fail you”

Sighing, the man turned his attention back to his desk, which right now was barely visible under collapsed piles of newspaper his secretaries brought him every day. Though a fast reader, the man found it increasingly difficult to get across all the daily information, either from the bourgeois press, the Soviet despatches, or the articles of like-minded journalists. Soviet Russia, Germany, France, England, Japan, America, Italy, Austria, Czechoslovakia, a new crisis was popping up everyday, bringing the world closer to a general conflagration. Who knew how many others were in the making, invisible but already simmering ? He could feel the world was now moving much faster, like a train rushing at its maximum speed towards a long and dark tunnel. Whether there would be light on the other side of the tunnel, as Marx and Lenin had prophesized there would be once the Capitalists’ greed sparkled the war that would end their oppressive world, remained to be seen. These days the man doubted it, as everyday innocent men, women and children, whole nations even, were crushed by the immense forces that stood arrayed against them. Capitalism had found a new avatar in the Despot’s Nationalism, tilting the balance in favour of renewed oppression.

Those who live or come within reach of Moscow’s long arms die, and those lucky enough to be far enough fall over themselves to praise the Despot. My own, personal curse, I guess.



For this troubled man, will the pen be mightier than the sword ?​

Picking up the last issue of “The Militant”, the man fought back a chill that ran along his spine. Just like the hated Despot, he himself had blood on his hands. He had ordered men put on trial and shot. He had ordered villages and cities to be shelled and conquered. He had ordered opponents to be silenced and threatened. In the smalls hours of the night, when his cold conscience reminded him he had done the very things he now accused the Despot of, he ended up saying he had done them for a higher purpose, for a brave new world that would free mankind from oppression and tyranny. While his methods had sometimes been cruel, he hoped the goal he had pursued had been generous enough to justify the harsh measures he had ordered. On the contrary, in his eyes the Despot’s every action had only been aimed at ensuring the enslavement of the Masses, the enslavement of the People, and ultimately the enslavement of the Revolution itself.

I’m cold. Is it always this cold ? Maybe we should have stayed in France. Ha ! Some Ukrainian you have become, Lev Bronstein !

Trying to conjure away the images of Royan and summers in the French Atlantic coast, where he and Natalya had lived until 1935 in yet another exile, he forced himself to read the article that analyzed the British National Strike of 1937. After that, he would have to write an essay about the betrayal of Spanish Marxists by the Lister regime. He knew his best weapons was his mind, which he kept as sharp as his mind, and he also knew he had only so much time before the pen would fall from his hand, either through old age or assassination.


******************​

Oslo, July the 22nd, 1938


Hidden amongst the compact crowd of office clerks hurrying back to their desks, Iosif Grigulovitch stepped out of the tramway in one of Oslo’s business districts. All round him banks, trading companies, import-export firms had their regional offices or corporate headquarters, and with his stern-looking black suit and fedora hat, Grigulovitch looked just another mid-level manager being about his business. Hurrying to keep the rain from soaking him, Grigulovitch reached the vast and modern City Hall, that was still under construction, and turned left towards a series of bars and restaurants catering to the needs of the Royal Government’s many clerks, and entered “Romanov’s”, a relatively discreet Russian restaurant, that still flew the Imperial flag and offered traditional Russian food for the Oslo bourgeoisie. As he saw as soon as he stepped into the floodlit dining room, his team was already there. He took off his raincoat, using this small respite to rapidly go through the main details of the operation. Satisfied that every aspect seemed covered, he hung up his fedora and walked to the table while Andrei went to close the main door. At this hour, there would be neither customers nor staff members, and the men could talk freely.

“Good afternoon, comrades” he said, sitting down at the table where Pavel had piled up bread, sausage and cold beef, along with beer. Vodka was available, but he wanted his team to have a clear mind and had told Andrei everybody would better look and sound sober.

The four people at the table knew him as “Karl”, which suited Grigulovitch fine as he knew from bitter experience that only the most fanatical agent, if caught and interrogated, would not let slip enough information to bring down a whole network.

“So, have you found out where the little Jew is ?” he asked unceremoniously.

“Yes” said Andrei, the restaurant owner and cell leader. “Since he came three years ago, the government has changed his place of residence twice. Now he lives in the outskirts of the city, in a small house overlooking Maridalsvannet Lake.”

“Is that reliable information ? We have only three days to strike and vanish, remember, so we cannot screw up – I won’t allow it, and neither will Moscow centre”

“It is. One of the employees of the Ministry of Interior is a regular customer. He gambles and drinks heavily, and is now an official source of intelligence within the Ministry. He’s middle-management, but as such he actually sees a lot of documents that go from the various heads of departments.”

“How are the surroundings of the house ?”

“I have been there yesterday” said the young woman, who Grigulovitch thought would have been stunningly beautiful if it wasn’t for the almost total absence of smile either on the lips or in the eyes. “It’s a mostly forested area, with only a handful of houses, few and far between. The house has a garden that rolls down to the Maridalsvannet, which means we might approach by boat if you so choose”

“We’ll see. Now, the Jew’s protection. I gather he has some ?”

“My source says there is an unmarked police car with two inspectors at all times, and that they also have an arrangement with the local police so they send a patrol car at least twice per night.”

“Nothing we cannot deal with” said Grigulovitch, dismissively. He had received his instructions from General Proskurov himself, and it had been quite clear the Boss didn’t give a rat’s ass about collateral damage. “Quite the contrary”, had said Proskurov, “the bloodier the better , as it will put fear in the hearts of those stupid enough to think of harbouring enemies of the State”. Grigulovitch nevertheless wanted to avoid too many deaths amongst the Norwegian police, as it would make his team’s exfiltration much easier if it didn’t get personal with the Royal Government.

“Inside the house” proceeded Pavel, “he has four bodyguards, but only two actually live there, so if we strike at night only those two would be a problem”

“Very useful information, Pavel” said Grigulovitch, “You sure of that ?”

“I’m positive. We observed the house thoroughly, the other two only come at dawn, in a German car. The… Jew”, said Pavel, all the more uneasy with what had become official terminology for their target since he himself had been born in a Rabbi’s family, “does not go around much. He reads a lot, writes a lot, and in the evening he walks in the woods with the bodyguards”

“Interesting. When he goes into the woods, how many bodyguards are with him ?”

“The two who live with him”

“Perfect. Andrei, I think you can bring the vodka bottle now ! We are going to have a toast – and then we are going to plan the hit. Comrades” said Grigulovitch, standing up as soon as Pavel had filled the small glasses, “to Comrade Stalin !”

“To Comrade Stalin !” echoed the rest of the hit team.


************​

Oslo, July the 23rd , 1938

To Lev Bronstein, the wooded area around his house was a haven of peace, which reminded him of the poplar groves that abounded around Moscow. On many occasions, he had walked among the thin, silent sentries, focusing on the problem at hand, be that a White offensive or the delicate balance of inner democracy inside the Bolshevist Party. Tonight, as he walked through luxuriant moss and dead branches, Leon Trotsky thought the main mistake of the Russian Revolution had been to focus on external threats instead on the unfortunately natural tendency of men to crave personal power. Had they been more aware of that threat, would things have been different today ? He fervently hoped so, for doubting it was doubting the Revolution itself.

Crack. Somewhere between him and the house, someone had walked on a fallen branch.

Bronstein’s head jerked up at the sound. Usually his bodyguards were more respectful of his solitary walk, staying out of sight and out of hearshot. His tired mibnd told him the noise was nothing to worry about but his instincts, honed by almost ten years of escaping the Despot’s assassins and agents provocateurs, screamed to be heard. The noise was unusual, and in his position an unusual noise could make a difference between life and death.

Cra-crack. Now the noise sounded closer. The sudden silence that followed it suggested the man – why a man ? thought Bronstein – had stopped moving as soon as he had felt the dead wood snap under his feet. That meant stalking, not walking.

“Niels ?” the man said, hoping against all hope there would be an answer. Not unsurprisingly, none came from the woods. The sun was quietly setting after a stormy day, making the woods darker than usual.



A poplar grove near the Maridalsvannet. Will this be Lev Bronstein's final resting place ?​

Bronstein’s heart started beating louder. He was now quite sure it was not Niels who was moving towards him, pausing every few steps as if to listen where he was and whether he was moving away. Hope sank, strangely replaced by some form of inner peace. They had found him, just as he had always known they would, and they had come for him. His firtst thought was for Natalya. Hopefully, if he ventured deeper into the poplar grove, they would move away from the house and his wife would be safe. A quieter inner voice also told him that as long as he was moving away from the house, the bodyguards, if they were still alive, would realize something was very wrong and come to the rescue.

Now, maybe I can walk silently back towards the lake, thought Bronstein. From here it will be a short run to the house and to safety.

He started edging sideways, keeping his head turned towards the general direction of the first noise. He cursed himself for not having taken a gun. Years of exile had made him soft, reliant on foreign protection, be that the bodyguards’ or the host government’s. He hoped he would live to correct that mistake.

To his left, coming from the lake’s shores, rose a distant ruckus, which he couldn’t decide was natural or not. He had lived here for the past year, and had thought her had grown familiar with the noises of Oslo, but he couldn’t remember if there were animals roaming the woods. The noise he had heard before was certainly no animal, but that distant ruffle could have been something natural; If it was, hopefully he could use it to hide his footsteps and possibly confuse his pursuer – or was it his pursuers ? Now that he thought of it, the two cracks he had heard could have come from different sources.

Focus, Lev, focus. Do NOT let fear paralyse you, they’re counting on this.

Bronstein began walking quickly towards the direction of the setting sun, which would lead him to the lake and the road that linked it to the center of Oslo. Even though it was getting late, hopefully he would meet there a couple of lovers about to go back to the city after a picnic near the Maridalsvannet, or maybe a police patrol.

The police. Where are the police inspectors that usually follow my every move ? Now I’d gladly welcome some bourgeois surveillance. They’re only 200 meters away, maybe 300. You could make it. You CAN make it.

While Bronstein had little love nor respect for them, for once he would welcome the sight of the two plain-clothes inspectors who followed him everywhere and noted down the plate numbers of his visitors. For all his hatred of capitalist states’ police, he had no doubt the two Norwegian officers would intervene if their quarry ever found himself threatened by GPU goons. And while he knew they probably didn’t care much about a dead Marxist, he was sure they would regard an attack on Natalya as an emergency. Putting aside decades of defiance, along with a lot of personal pride, he decided to take a run towards the policemen’s usually conspicuous parking spot. Surprisingly enough, his legs responded at once and darted towards perceived safety.

Cra-cra-crack.

Now the men behind him were had started to run too, and Bronstein could almost see them, raincoats flapping wildly as they ran from poplar tree to poplar tree, their empty holsters bouncing under their armpits, their shoes stomping on mud and fallen leaves. Bronstein ran, like he had never run since boyhood, like he had forgotten a man could run. He both marvelled his body still had the ability to propel him this fast, and hated himself for the fear he knew was what really fuelled his muscles.

Cra-crack, cra-crack.

Behind him his pursuers were in hot pursuit, and to Bronstein it seemed he could almost feel them right behind him. He fought the stupid urge to look back, and sped forward. There was no use calling for help now, as it would only help his pursuers, but in a couple of minutes he would be within hearshot of the policemen.

Run, Lev, run ! Three hundred meters, maybe less, certainly less !

His heart was now beating wildly, and his pulse and panting breath seemed to be the only noises he was able to distinguish. The idea that he would not even hear his pursuers before they’d catch up with him or shoot him was debilitating, and Bronstein had to force himself into running when a part of his tired soul longed for the peace that would come with death.

Two hundred meters now, probably less ! You’re going to make it ! Think of Natalya, think of Natalya ! Don’t let her down !

It felt like one of his childhood nightmares, with him running through dense woods while the sun was going down and monsters were stirring up behind him. All of a sudden, loud cracks resounded behind him, and despite of his knowing better, Bronstein turned his head to his back. He caught a glimpse of a slender silhouette running towards him, thought for a second that it was Natalya, and before he could even realize there was no way the young woman running after him with a gun in her hand was his wife, he ran into a poplar head first. A bright nova of pain flashed in Bronstein’s mind, blotting out every conscious thought process, and without his even noticing he found himself lying down. The world was spinning wildly, and he felt like throwing up out of terror and pain.

Towering above him, the woman with the gun had been joined by a man. To Lev Bronstein, confused and wrecked by pain, the man looked like a supernatural creature, a wild spirit of the woods. He stood on top of him, his left hand resting on his belt while the right one wielded an automatic gun Bronstein immediately recognized as a Makarov. He made no attempt to get up, preferring to let the pain ebb away. The wild spirits of the woods had caught him, they were on the Despot’s payroll, and now he was going to die. The man raised his hand with the Makarov towards Bronstein. His face was tanned and creased, and his thick eyebrows arched almost comically as he spoke.

“Lev Bronstein – or should I call you Leon Trotsky ? I’ll tell you this much, you gave us a run for it. You know who sends me, I suppose ?”

“Josef Stalin ?” ventured Trotsky, feeling grateful he and his killer could share a few words before he pressed the trigger.

“What ? No way I’ll ever do that pig Stalin’s dirty chores” said the spirit of the woods, visibly offended. “No way in Hell. I was sent by your old friend Grandizo Munis. Didn’t he tell you ?”

“Who - who the Hell are you ?” finally asked Leon Trotsky, who, now that his mind was clear again, remembered Munis as a fellow revolutionary and an acquaintance of his wife’s.

“Me ? Call me your worst nightmare, Commissar Trotsky. Call me Anarchy. I’m freedom and disorder”

“Look, can we just grab him and leave ?” asked the woman, irritated by her companion’s babbling. “The man is supposed to be in danger, and so are we”

“Who are you ?” asked Trosky again, a little more forcefully. The couple traded a look, and the man shrugged. Such things, said the shrug, had to be done properly and thoroughly.

“The name's Buenaventura Durruti. Rings any bell? And this is Irina. But above all, we are your ticket to freedom and safety. Let’s get back to your home. You leave tonight for Mexico.”

As the young woman kept watching around, Durruti leaned forward and extended a hand to help Trostky back on his feet.



Once again, Buenaventura Durruti finds out dire times make strange bedfellows.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------​

In RL, Trosky did spend some time in Royan, western France, not too far from where I live incidently. The French government of the time made him understand he was not welcome anymore in 1935, probably as they tried to curry favor with the USSR to form an anti-fascist front. I thought the Croix de feu government, while not particularly desiring to reach an agreement with Stalin, would just be happy to get rid of a revolutionary.

Trotsky then moved to Norway, where he was again expelled in 1937-1938 under pressure from the Soviets. Here I chose to have Norway keep him a little longer, and to have Grandizo Munis, who really was a friend of Trostky's wife and of Durruti's alike, convince the Spanish Anarchist to launch a rescue mission just as Stalin's agents enter Norway to assassinate Stalin's main opponent. Iosif Romualdovitch Grigulovitch did exist and did lead a GPU/KGB hit team in an unsuccessful attempt on Trotsky's life.

The man was quite the character, as although Lithuanian he impersonated a Costa Rican so well he was actually appointed Costa Rica's ambassador to Italy after WW2. He was then tasked to assassinate Tito in Yugoslavia, but Stalin's death put an end to his KGB career. He then became an Historian under a new identity (watch out, people, for even your mouldy History teacher might have been a former KGB hitman), and baffled his colleagues with his refusal to be photogra^phed and lack of personal records before 1953. It's only after his death that he was outed as a KGB agent.

One great thing about History is that, regardless of what kind of connection you're looking for, you find them.

One even greater thing is that you get characters an author wouldn't dare include in a fiction story because people would say "come on, that was soooo unbelievable"
 
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Wow, I just realized the next update (which will still deal with Trotsky and Durruti) will be the 52nd. To tell you the truth, if someone had told me I'd find the brawn and the inspiration to write over 50 chapters, I'd have quietly sidled away while keeping an eye on the lunatic...

So thank you, devout readers ! It's been a blast torturing you with my utter lack of talent, and you can depend on my sadistic self to keep on mistreating you ! ;)
 
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Does this mean we'll have a nice revolution in Mexico, or Trotsky will simply live the rest of his life there until KGB finally gets him.
 
4th Dimension said:
Does this mean we'll have a nice revolution in Mexico, or Trotsky will simply live the rest of his life there until KGB finally gets him.
Click to expand...

Let's just say Leon Trotsky still has a long journey to make to reach Mexico, and that many things can happen even before he does... and many more even if he does.
 
rcduggan said:
oh man, that was DEFIANTLY worth the wait.
Click to expand...

Glad you think so ! It took me longer than usual, because I had to find a way to connect Trotsky, which I wanted to include, and Durruti. But when you look into the flames of Clio's lamp long enough, real or plausible connections always appear.
 
A truly massive update. Well-written and interesting.
Your usage of Bronstien is sneaky, since it causes a certain smugness in the reader who thinks that he shares knowledge of who Bronstein really is with the author ;)

Oh, and Durruti had a horrid sense of fashion, if that image is a sign of what he usually wore...
 
Eams said:
A truly massive update. Well-written and interesting.
Your usage of Bronstien is sneaky, since it causes a certain smugness in the reader who thinks that he shares knowledge of who Bronstein really is with the author ;)

Oh, and Durruti had a horrid sense of fashion, if that image is a sign of what he usually wore...
Click to expand...

The man wears his horrible cap in almost every goddamn picture I found of him ! If he hadn't been killed in 1936, nowadays he'd be a serious contender for Che Guevara amongst crappy headgear manufacturers.
 
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Atlantic Friend said:
My German is rather rusty, but it's something like "When you look into the Absynth for too long, the Absynth looks back into you ?" :D
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'He who deals with beasts, should take care not to become a beast himself. He who gazes into the Absinthe for a long time will find the Absinthe staring back at him.'

Of course, the original quote deals with abysses.

The real question, of course, is whether the absinthe really did stare back at you!

Atlantic Friend said:
I have been Canonized on 10/21/2007 !
Click to expand...

Nice!


Good on the Anarchist Action.
Not such a very strange union, either; the POUM (Marxist, i.e. Trotskyist) and CNT-FAI (Anarchist, Durruti's club) did cooperate in the Spanish Civil War in Barcelona.
 
Great to see an AAR from a French perspective.

The more I see, the more I like the Croix de Feu, and while I'm not sure about the way the world is turning out, of course in reality everything goes completely to rat-shit, so this could still be better.

Appreciating the story, keep it coming :D
 
CHAPTER 52 : FREEDOM




Something is rotten in the Kingdom of Norway…​

Oslo, July the 23rd, 1938

“Look, no more chit-chat” said Irina, sternly. “We need to take him and his family out of this house, out of this city, and out of this country”

“She’s right, you know ?” said Durruti, flashing an ironic smirk at Trotsky, who, his spectacles still askew, was busy brushing dirt off his jacket. “Better do what Irina says, Commissar. Believe me, it’s less painful this way”

Seeing the smirk was now directed at her, Irina frowned and sharply turned her head towards the general direction of the house. In the course of their pursuit, they had ventured rather deeply into the forest, and were now several hundred meters away from the lakeside villa. With the rest of the their team somewhere in Oslo’s harbour to find a suitable ship, Irina felt the need to round up the members of the Trotsky household and lead them to safety. And that, Irina knew, would not be as easy as her smirking and fearless leader seemed to think it would. Coming back to the house meant facing Trotsky’s bodyguards, who probably had begun to search the woods, and who would be on the edge. When Oleg had told Irina what he had just learned, Durruti had decided they’d attempt to contact Trotsky when he would be separated from his bodyguards.

“So” she said, turning her cold gaze back to the bearded man “We need to get to your house quick. There’s one important thing : we know for a fact one member of your household works for the NKVD. We don’t know who, but we know one of them does, and has done so for months. All the reason more to pick up your wife quickly and to get you both to safety as we told Munis we would. That means you’ll have to make sure your bodyguards don’t shoot us when they see us with you, and we’ll make sure one of them don’t shoot you when he sees you with us.”

Irina hadn’t protested Durruti’s decision to try to get to talk to Trotsky alone, for it had made a lot of sense, particularly in the light of a probable treason among his staff. But it had placed them between a rock and a hard place, particularly after that wild chase throughout the woods. She was no stranger to violence, and thus had no intention of dying in the woods of Oslo because of a trigger-happy bodyguard if she could prevent it. Nothing, and particularly not Trotsky’s possible loyalty to his staff would ever come between her and a safe trip off Norway with her “package” safely tucked in the ship’s cabin. She wished her boss could be as pragmatic, but inwardly she doubted the Spanish Anarchist would ever renounce his romantic dream

Good old Buenaventura…she thought with a rare thin smile. He’s too busy being Buenaventura to worry about anything, as usual.

“Let’s go. Now” she said, the smile vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. Her voice indicated the time for disagreement or witty answers had long passed.

Trading a look with Durruti, Trotsky followed her lead, and the Spanish Anarchist, an automatic gun now in hand, joined the end of the file.

“I can’t believe someone from my staff is betraying me” whispered Trotsky, to himself as much as to his two companions.

“Then you have grown soft in your old age” hissed Irina, dismissively.

“That’s ridiculous” said Trotsky, offended by the flippant remark and the cold, hard truth it contained.

“Keep your voice down ! So you think because you’re Leon Trotsky, no one would want or dare to betray you ? Ha !” said the young woman, visibly struggling to muffle down her growing anger.

“I’ve seen treason up close” spat Trotsky. “It works with the weak, the gullible, the romantic. Not with…me”. Even as he said it he realized how hollow this sounded. He was no stranger to treason indeed, and he had even used it in the old days of the Soviet Revolution, but he had always thought that it couldn’t work against him because…well, because he was Leon Trotsky.

“The weak, the gullible, the romantic can be betrayed, eh ?” muttered Irina with a soft, cruel chuckle. “But surely not with the all-powerful and all-knowing Leon Trotsky, eh ? Foolish and romantic Anarchists, they can be betrayed, oh yes, but not the great Trot…”

“Shut up, Irina”, said Durruti, walking up to their level. “And you shut up too, Commissar. If it wasn’t for the fact I’d like us to approach your home as silently as possible, I’d let Irina debate you into shreds, just for the sheer pleasure of watching her teach you some much-needed humility. You’re walking in the woods under the protection of two complete strangers. That should tell you something about how powerful and clever you are. Now let’s move out”

The three companions resumed their march through the woods, none addressing or even really looking at the others. Durruti, assuming flank security, could feel the emotional wavelengths that were rolling from his two companions. In front, walking like a panther on the prowl, Irina thought of the many comrades who had fallen because they had cast their lot with the Bolshevists, with the Communists, with the Stalinists, and had foolishly cast their lot with them on a dozen ideological battlefields, from the Weimar Republik to Fascist Italy, from Republican Spain to Schussnig’s Clerical-Fascist Austria. These men had come with their own purity, their eagerness to fight Capitalism and its Church-enforced Dark Ages. They had come as comrades, as brothers in arms. All too often they had fallen, not under the Capitalists’ bullets, but under those of the local Communists who had received orders from Moscow. Inside Irina’s heart, each and every one of these deaths echoed endlessly, for she had lost close friends, lovers and relatives.

What was that ?

Durruti abruptly stopped, waving his companions into silence. He thought he had heard something, some commotion that seemed to have come outside of the woods, like a booming voice heard from afar. Maybe Trotsky’s bodyguards were calling his name, or shouting instructions at each other. The sun had almost completely set, and the poplars’ long shadows seemed to come alive, shrouding the wooden patch.

Let’s go have a look this way. But be careful, Buenaventura, be careful, or else you’ll be the late Malaventura Durruti before sunrise.

He signalled them to follow and took the lead. From Trotsky, who had stopped when he had signalled them and was now right behind him, Durruti could feel a different kind of anger – or hatred, maybe. He shot quick, hard glances at Irina and at himself that expressed, more eloquently than any speech could ever do, the extent of his humiliation. He, Leon Trotsky, who could have been Lenin’s successor, who had led millions into battle to set Europe ablaze, was now reduced to a frail aging man who had to depend upon “romantic“ Anarchists because most of his Bolshevists had deserted him. He, who like to portray himself as the leading light of the true Revolution, as a man who tyrants spoke only with fear and hatred, had suddenly to face the fact his death could have been arranged weeks ago, and had only been postponed because there had been more pressing matters on Stalin’s mind.

Just as he was about to turn and take a look at his two companions, two sounds broke the silence of the woods. First, there was a shout, some distance away, in the general direction of the house. Durruti could not understand the language, but it seemed to expressed both surprise and anguish. Before he could even begin to make sense of what he had heard, gunfire exploded. In front of them, among the shadows of the night, a small and desperate battle had begun.

“Natalya !” shouted Trotsky, who started running towards the house.

Shit.

Without even realizing it, Durruti rushed forward, followed by Irina.


**************************​


Hidden behind a pile of logs lying against the side of the tool shed, Pyotr Bromkovsky tried to make sense of what had just transpired over the past 30 minutes.

First, and as was usual after supper, the Boss had wandered into the woods, where he could smoke a cigarette and sometimes read a newspaper in peace, before going to bed. Vassili and he had prepared to go with him, while Papu, the Mingrelian, and his fellow Leningrader Boris had returned to their lodgings, in a small bed and breakfast on the other side of the lake. Vassili, as usual, had stayed with Natalya Sedova to help her with the chores before joining Pyotr in the woods. The presence of the two Norwegian policemen, which was a pain in the neck during the day, became much more welcome at night, as it contributed to the security of the household. All in all, everything had seemed extremely normal, until later in the evening.

Around 10:00 PM, Pyotr had had the impression something was not quite right. The Boss had seemed to have ventured much further into the woods than usual, and Pyotr had begun feeling an acid grip squeeze his ulcers. He had drawn his gun and had gone to every one of the Boss’ favourite reading spots. Nowhere had he seen it, and while he had found a cigarette stub near a felled tree, it had seemed weeks old. Several times while he was searching the woods, he had heard a distant ruffle. Unable to remember if that was part of the usual noises of the woods, Pyotr had cautiously ventured in that direction, but the noises had faded away before he could ascertain where precisely it was coming from.

Shit, there’s no way I can search woods at night, I don’t even have a torchlight had thought Pyotr, and searching alone is useless, I need Vassili.

His hand gripping his Tokarev automatic handgun, he had walked back, trying to focus on the surrounding noises. He knew it would be impossible to search the woods alone, and under a rapidly declining daylight to boot, but he nevertheless hated himself for walking away from the Boss. Hoping against all hope that the Boss wasn’t in dire need of help that very minute, Pyotr had quickly run towards the back of the house.

“Vassili ! Vassili ! Quick !” he had shouted as soon as he had emerged from the woods.

Then two things had happened almost simultaneously.

First, tall Vassili had appeared in the doorway, still holding the plate and the rag he was wiping it clean with. As Pyotr had run towards him, he had seen surprise and growing anxiety on the Muscovite’s face.

“What’s the matter ?” had asked Vassili, confused.

Before Pyotr could respond, Papu Rapava had appeared in the garden, walking round the house. The Mingrelian bodyguard was holding a drawn gun, and to Pyotr his eyes were not unlike is grandfather’s when he hunted. Another armed man appeared from behind Papu.

“Shoot them, Vassili !” had shouted Pyotr, leaping towards the tool shed where he flattened himself behind the stacked logs.

Dropping his plate, Vassili had moved his hand towards his shoulder holster, but even though the tall Muscovite had moved with the speed of a mongoose, Papu had already his gun drawn and had shot him twice in the chest before Vassili could even bring his gun out of the holster. Somewhere in a dark corner of his brain that was not entirely focused on merely surviving, Pyotr registered the fall of he plate fell on the doorway, where it broke in three neat pieces with a loud crash, maybe a couple of seconds before tall Vassili fell face-first on the gravel alley.

“Shit ! Go get her now !” shouted the stranger to Papu, before throwing himself behind the corner of the stone. No sooner had he reached his hiding place than Pyotr’s first two bullets hit the wall a mere inch away from his head.

Two bullets. Only five more now, said a little voice inside Pyotr’s head.

Tactically speaking, Pyotr knew his current position was good. It gave him a clear view of the back of the house, and unless they had accomplices coming from the woods they couldn’t turn him. But the problem was, they didn’t even have to. With Papu rushing inside to grab the Boss’ wife – Papu could hear her shout – all they had to do was to exit the house by the front door and climb into a car – their own or the Boss’, leaving Pyotr Bromkovsky behind to answer the questions of the Norwegian police.

The police ! suddenly thought Bromkovsky. If I delay them long enough, they’ll come to investigate the gunfire. They’ll foil their plans !

Taking a quick but potentially deadly decision, Bromkovsky leaped on his feet and fired two more bullets in the corner of the house where Papu’s accomplice had been hiding. He was already running when he fired the second bullet, and he hit the wall just as the man’s head and armed hand came into view. Pyotr had been expecting that, and shot his third bullet right through the assassin’s skull. Grabbing the fallen man’s gun – he was not surprised to see it was a Tokarev too – Pyotr moved along the wall, flattening himself against it, his automatic ready to fire at whoever would appear in his line of sight. He hoped it would not be Boris, who with the years had become his closest friend.

For all his caution, Bromkovsky almost died as he reached the opposite corner of the house. He barely had time to see a man pushing the Boss’ wife into her car that a bullet ricocheted on the wall, thrusting a fragment of granite deep into his right cheek. Falling on his knees as he tried to fight the pain away, Pyotr saw Papu had knelt behind the house’s well, in the front garden, and was taking aim at him. A few meters away, the dark green sedan that was used by the dayshift bodyguards was starting to move down the alley, its engine revving up.

“I killed Boris, Pyotr !” shouted Papu. “I killed him from behind, and he died squealing like a stupid slaughtered pig !”

Bastard ! thought Pyotr.

He knew the man was trying to coax him out of his hiding place, but he could feel a blind and primitive rage welling up within him, combining with despair to override his rational brain. The cowardly little Mingrelian had killed Boris. They had shoved the Boss’ wife into the car. They probably had killed or subdued the Boss too. In a few seconds the two cars would race away from the house, and he, Pyotr, would be left alone, with his utter failure. He was alone, and all he had was two handguns, one half-emp..

Yes. Sure. Now !

Somewhere in Pyotr’s heart, rage and ruse struck a deal, just before rational thought let hatred and anger take charge.

"Traitor ! Bastaaaard !” yelled Bromkovsky at the top of his lung, firing wildly the half-empty Makarov at the well as he rushed towards Papu and the now retreating cars. The first shot came within an inch of hitting the Mingrelian, and the two following ones forced him to keep his head down. The fourth and last bullet flew wildly off-target and shattered a flowerpot. Then the handgun’s hammer found no more bullets to fire.

Click.

Startled by his near-death experience, afraid the cars would leave without him, and elated at the prospect of shooting down Bromkovsky, Papu Rapava rose from behind the well, his arm rising to shoot his whole clip at that fool who was running towards him, screaming like a madman. As the bodyguard’s body was starting to fill Papu’s entire line of sight, his finger started pressing the trigger.

Bang !

Rapava’s shot entered Bromkovsky’s left arm, and the wounded Leningrader dropped his Tokarev on the gravel. Rapava felt a wave of triumph and relief, which was suddenly washed away by an icy doubt as the madman kept moving towards him.

Pyotr’s never been left-handed ! He’s…

Bromkovsky’s first bullet hit Rapava in the guts, bending him double. The second bullet shattered his kneecap, and Rapava felt a white-hot flash of pain irradiate from his entire lower body as he collapsed on the side of the well. Numbed by the shock and the pain, his brain started to make sense of what had just happened. He barely had time to see Pyotr has been holding two guns before the Leningrader rammed his heavy foot on Rapava’s hand, loudly snapping three of his fingers in the process and forcing the Mingrelian to let go of his weapon.

“Where are they taking them ? Where are they taking them, bastard ?”

Wild-eyed, nauseated with pain and fear, Papu Rapava looked blankly at Bromkovsky, his mouth agape. He understood every word, but couldn’t make sense of what the madman was saying. A sickening smell of faeces and urine seemed to float around him, and he could feel life gurgling away from his tormented body.

“Where are they taking them, Rapava ?” shouted Bromkovsky, shaking desperately the stricken Mingrelian. But he could see it served no purpose, as the man had gone into shock. The cars had disappeared behind the trees that masked the main road, and with the Boss’ Packard gone, there was no way Bromkovsky could follow them. Another roaring engine signalled him the cops would be arriving on the scene soon – soon, but too late to do anything useful. He didn’t speak Norwegian, and he doubted they would speak enough Russian for him to give them vital information in time. As he was looking around, trying to decide what to do next, Bromkovsky heard a ruckus coming from behind him. Oblivious of the approaching police car, he turned around swiftly, Tokarev raised and ready to fire. What he saw emerge from the woods left him speechless.

“Boss !” he exclaimed, as Trotsky and a couple of strangers ran towards him.


********************​

“Bloody Hell, what’s going on here !” cursed Detective Jens Sjoslberg as Sergeant Borgen stomped on the brakes of the Buick sedan, missing the dead man’s head by an inch.

The day before, Sjoslberg and Borgen had been assigned by the Special Branch of the Oslo Police to keep an eye on Leon Trotsky. From what Sjoslberg understood, the very presence of the Bolshevist exile in Norway was becoming an embarrassment for the government, and an obstacle to mutually profitable commercial relationships between Norway and the powerful Soviet Union. As such, the mission of the policemen had increasingly moved from protecting Trotsky and towards merely shadowing him in the hope they could find a good reason to expel him. Discreet contacts had been taken with possible host countries, but so far there hadn’t been any breakthrough that would have allowed Sjolsberg and his men to return to normal police duties.

That 23rd of July had started just like any other, with the two officers playing nanny and checking up licence plates. Then the two “day bodyguards” had left the house, which for a change hadn’t received any visitors, and the two Norwegian cops had prepared for yet another fruitless night on the stake-out. Then, some unexpected activity had cropped up. First, Sjoslberg had noticed a black car had stationed at some the entrance of the lakeside villa. It had stayed here for five to ten minutes, its engine running, without anyone climbing out of it. Borgen had been tempted to go have a closer look at the car, but Sjolsberg had thought it was just some third party keeping an eye on Trotsky – there was a lot of that going on, any day, any time of the year. Now he regretted to have reined his Sergeant back. Shortly after that, the dark green Chevrolet used by the dayshift bodyguards had returned, which was unusual, and had quietly taken the wooden trail that led to the villa.

That move had left the two policemen fidgeting. Their own car didn’t have a radio, and the nearest phone was probably at the level crossing, a solid five minutes’ drive from their quarry. Sjoslberg could sense there was something fishy going on, and he suspected the old Bolshevist was about to take a powder and leave the country clandestinely. He had been having half a mind to intercept and block any incoming car under false pretences, until the authorities in Oslo could sort the situation out, when some noise had caught his attention. Born and raised in the countryside, Sjoslberg knew gunfire when he heard it, and it sure had sounded just like a kid’s gun.

Or a handgun, he had suddenly thought.

Half-opening his door to hear better, he had immediately got confirmation that a gunfight was taking place. Slamming his door, he had ordered a startled Borgen to step on it. As their Buick roared towards the house, rocking wildly for all the potholes of the small forest trail, a convoy of two speeding cars had almost sent them into the nearest tree. Sjoslberg had barely had time to get a look at the cars, but he did recognize Trotsky’s white Packard as the lead car before it disappeared from view.

“To the villa ! If anything, you’ll make a U-turn there !”

As dark pines flashed by, Sjolsberg wondered what they would find at the villa. There had been a gunfight. Trotsky and his bodyguards had left the villa in a hurry. Was it an assassination attempt ? Or did the old Bolshevist commit a crime at the villa ? Too many questions rushed through Sjolsberg’s head, and when the car had suddenly emerged from the forest trail, he barely had time to see the dead body lying in the middle of the gravel alley.

“Watch out !” he had shouted to Borgen, who had swerved wildly to avoid the corpse.

As the Buick screeched to a halt, sending gravel everywhere, Sjolsberg slung open his door and stepped outside, his revolver firmly in his hands, closely followed by Borgen. The house was intact, its porch light on. The main door was wide open, and a group of four persons was running towards him, led by a woman who made imploring gestures and asked him not to shoot. Behind her, there was an elderly man who was a visibly shaken Leon Trotsky. Behind them, a man he had never seen before was helping one of Trotsky’s bodyguards, who seemed wounded. And a few meters away, there was the body of a dead man lying in the middle of the alley. Because he was confused, because everything was happening far too rapidly, and because the woman was leading the group seemed distraught, Sjoslberg didn’t think about keeping her at bay.

The first thing he felt when she levelled with him was how coldly beautiful her eyes were. The second thing, which made a considerably longer impression, was her knee ramming his groin while the two men behind Trotsky suddenly pointed their guns at Borgen. Falling on his knees, Sjoslberg had barely time to see the man knock Borgen unconscious before the woman rammed her handgun down his skull. Darkness descended upon Sjolsberg, mercifully taking the pain and nausea away.


*************************​

“Faster ! Faster !” said Trotsky, almost imploringly.

Durruti grunted, pushing hard on the gas pedal to make the policemen’s Buick give all the power it had. The pines on the left side of the road flashed by as the Buick roared forward. To their left, the waters of the Maridalsvannet had started reflecting the lights of Oslo. In front of them two growing sets of red lights indicated the presence of the hit team’s cars. The lead car – which was the best of the two, as Pyotr had told them, was still a long way away, and its rear lights were tiny specks of light no bigger than stars, but the bodyguards’ green sedan was clearly being overtaken by the speeding police car and its demented driver. Hunched over the wheel as if to improve the streamlining of the car, Durruti seemed oblivious of anything but the sedan he was chasing, and the rapidly diminishing distance that separated them.

“They’re slowing down” he said “They must think we’re the police, the stupid bastards !” he grumbled. Easing his pressure on the gas pedal a little, he cast a long, calculating look at the sedan car that was now caught in his headlights, and at the road both cars were travelling.

“They think we’re the cops, they want to slow us down by being cooperative and sending us to a wild goose chase eh ?” he said with a cruel smile. “Well, if they like red herrings this much…”

Just as it seemed he was going to ram the tail of the sedan, Durruti slammed on the gas pedal and overtook the surprised bodyguards’ car. As the sedan’s driver turned his head towards him in fear and incomprehension, Durruti swerved right to hit the side of the car, and finished his manoeuvre by cutting in front of the sedan. Surprised, the driver swerved right to avoid a frontal collision, and ventured into the long grass that prospered on both sides of the road. At the speed the sedan was going, its tires instantly lost adherence, and the car skidded down the gentle slope. Stechko, the driver, let a scream of terror go as he watched the dark mass of water approach like a timeless animal ready to feast upon human flesh. Before the occupants of the car could even react, the sedan plunged right into the waters of the lake.



The dark waters of the Maridalsvannet claim their pound of flesh​

“Christ, Durruti !” said Irina, half-horrified, half impressed, turning away from the now invisible drama that her companion had engineered.

“Keep your damn Christ for yourself !” replied Durruti, laughing.

“Look !” said Irina, pointing towards a rapidly-moving line of lighted windows. “A train !”

“The Bergen express !” exclaimed Trotsky, his voice filling with hope. “Tell me that means they’re going to be stuck at the level crossing !”

“Not only that, commissar. That means they’re going to die”

Sitting in front of the Packard, Andrei was trying to decide how he would explain the partial failure of tonight’s operation to “Karl”. Even though they now had the Jew’s wife, the man himself was still on the loose, and Andrei had little illusion that rat Rapava would start searching the woods to finish him off, not after Andrei had ordered the cars to leave him behind he wouldn’t. It had seemed a good idea at the time, because of the unexpected resistance from the last surviving bodyguard, and because Andrei had been sure the Norwegian policemen would eventually intervene, but he could all too easily see how Karl would just say Andrei had lost his nerves and fled the area instead of completing his mission.

A sudden slam of brakes interrupted his gloomy reflexions.

“What do you think you’re doing ?” he asked Pavel, who was slowing down.

“I’m not ramming this car into an incoming train, that’s what I’m NOT doing, you fool” shot back the driver, angrily.

Damn Jews, all the same, thought Andrei. Maybe I could lay the blame on Pavel ? Would that work ?

Behind them, headlights were growing, as the as the train reached the crossing level, filling the air with the rumble of a dozen broadly-lit cars. Andrei’s eyes followed the dining car a moment, wondering once again how he could present the events to Karl in such a way the blame would be laid on other people

Finally, here they come, he thought, as the following car slowed down and approached the crossing. But where are the damn cops ? Shit, there ARE the cops. That pig Stechko, he was supposed to lure them away ! He’s going to hear about it !

The police Buick stopped behind the Packard, filling its cabin with crude, white light. Blinded by the Buick’s headlight, and deafened by the rumble of the train which was slowing down in its preparations to enter Oslo’s main train station, neither Andrei nor his team-mates ever had a chance to see what happened. Suddenly, the car doors flew wildly open, and guns appeared. Pavel and Andrei died even before they could register what the sudden movement and gust of fresh air meant. Sacha, who had been busy gagging the woman they had just abducted saw twin flashes and heard twin detonations that achieved to confuse him. Still thinking it was the Norwegian cops, he offered no resistance when sturdy hands yanked him out of the car and led him to the grassy slopes.

“I surrender, I give up” he kept repeating, before the bullet tore through his brain.


***********************​

Oslo, July the 24th, at Oslo’s fishing harbour



Oslo’s harbour, gateway to safety.​

As the whaler Thorvard prepared to lumber forward, Durruti walked down the catwalk and joined Irina on the stone quay. Finding a ship ready to embark three people clandestinely had been, all in all, the easiest part of the mission. Many Norwegian sailors, particularly among the fishermen and the whalers’ crews, had sympathy for the generous ideas of Communism. They saw themselves as the proletariat of the sea, and related closely to the plight of their landlocked brothers.

Thomsen, the captain of the Thorvard, was an old associate of the Durruti Column. Back then during the Civil War, the Thorvard had ferried mail, supplies and even weapons to Durruti’s fighters. Thomsen had also provided them with useful information about the wherewithal of the Nationalist ships, and about the amount of Nationalist shipping he could see in Norway, Sweden, Canada or the United Kingdom. While himself not a fighter, Thomsen was a staunch friend of the Anarchists, and had proven that time on countless occasions, helping Spanish Anarchists flee Stalin’s goons when Lister had used the Communist units of the Republican army to stage his own coup the year before. He had even helped spiriting Orwell from Barcelona just before the SSR's Seguridad had raided the last Anarchist safe houses.

“Farewell, Thomsen, my friend” muttered Durruti as the Norwegian whaler left its moorings. Sleeping in Thomsen’s cabin, Leon Trotsky was sailing to freedom. His trip would take him to Saint Pierre et Miquelon, off Canada, and then to Cuba, but in a few weeks he would reach Mexico.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------​

[Alright, this should conclude this little Norwegian interlude. As we prepare to go back to more game-related events, brace ourselves for the outbreak of the Sudeten Crisis, which may bring Europe to war...]
 
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Atlantic Friend said:
Yes, this is going to be Munich - a truly defining moment in world politics, and one which I hope will bring its fair share of surprises.
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I don't see how Germany will be able to succeed, as Austria and Italy are allied to you, and will support you (I would think)...
 
GeneralHannibal said:
I don't see how Germany will be able to succeed, as Austria and Italy are allied to you, and will support you (I would think)...
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I certainly enjoy more support than in RL - but on the other hand, I haven't Great Britain on my side.

If push comes to shove, having Austria on my side means Czecholovakia won't be attacked from the Southwest. But Hungary is now a member of the Axis, which offers Germany another route of invasion. Poland could rein Hungary back, but Poland's northern flank is now gravely threatened. As for the Soviet Union, who knows what it will do ?

All in all, it's a nice and complex situation. :D
 
Hooray ! First , wanted to say thank you for being on the interview and welcome to the club ! As for this latest chapter , I remember learning about Trotsky and what happened to him in the Americas back in high school and I have to say that your interlude is an interesting twist on the whole idea while simultaneously having it be such an action packed chapter !
 
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