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Late autumn of 1991. In a remote corner of Bulgaria, there was a safehouse called "The Rook." It was located in such an isolated area, and funding for supplies was being minimised to avoid surveillance, meaning that it had to be almost entirely self-sufficient. This also meant they had to source their own food, not to mention fixing and maintaining the facilities.
With Marshall, Case, and Adler out on an operation in the desert, we did have fewer mouths to feed, but I, Felix, still had to gather supplies to cook for the others at the Rook. And so, here I was, chasing a deer in the nearby woods. But unlike my usual hunting experiences, I was currently facing a major predicament.
The fog was too thick. I could feel that the day in the mountains was getting dark even in that thick, white fog, signaling that I was in distress and in danger. Even if I were to smoke a signal of distress in this foggy, remote place, who would come to my rescue? Or was this place always so enveloped in heavy night fog in the first place? As such thoughts filled my head, a light appeared in the distance.
“Is anyone there?” The desperate shout slipped out of me. But despite my cry, the other side remained silent, and the light didn't budge. I furrowed my brow in response. Something felt off. But the only possible path seemed to be in that direction.
What if I was wrong? What if the light was from a village, and the people were just inside their homes, unable to hear me shout? In any case, I had no time to hesitate. I needed to get back to the Rook, alive. So, I pressed forward, kicking against the unnervingly smooth and solid stone path, running toward the light.
I ran, and ran… until I wondered, at some point, how I could even see a light this distant through the fog, and began to question if this light was just a mirage...
Then the fog cleared.
And I doubted my own eyes.
Beyond the dusk, illuminated by the glittering lights of the city with the sunset behind them, was none other than the 'Wall'. That's right. As far as I knew, this was the Berlin Wall, which was so done with being dismantled. A chilling wave of fear ran down my spine the moment I saw it.
No matter the situation, I immediately decided I needed to turn back. Perhaps it was obvious. If my judgment was correct, I was looking at the wall that separated East Berlin from West Berlin from the East side, and the time I was in was still within the era of the division. I push aside the thought that I couldn't make sense of any of this. If I got any closer to the wall, no matter the reason, I would be shot on sight by the guards monitoring the area.
Overwhelmed by such fear, I made the decision to turn back with the thought that I had to go back, and as soon as I did,
A man in a Stasi uniform, his face lit by blinding lights, was staring right at me.
... I could barely swallow the sinking feeling in my heart and the look on my face. It was only when I noticed the face before me, showing a hint of concern, muttering a quiet “I am sorry,” and stepping back, that the reality of the situation fully dawned upon me. I, too, was wearing the uniform of the Stasi, and I found myself standing here, between East and West Berlin, directly above the Death Strip, looking out over the Wall. In other words...
I have returned. To the time when I was a Stasi enforcer.
I suppressed the urge to retch, hardening my expression as I issued a command to the man before me, who I presumed to be one of my subordinates. “Return,” I said. The man, pitiful and desperate, scrambled away in haste, disappearing into the distance. The moment he vanished, I took the opportunity to glance at my wrist. The watch I had worn back then was ticking away at seven o'clock. Though the guards at the post prevented me from getting a clear look, I could still make out the month from the calendar hanging nearby—it read March. It seemed impossible, yet I was certain of one thing: I had truly returned to the past.
*
My legs gradually picked up its speed, and before long, I found myself heading toward my own home through the all-too-familiar route, one I had taken countless times before. Only there, where I would stay alone, could I make sense of what was happening and decide the next steps in how to proceed. Even so, I had a feeling I wouldn't be safe there. After all, Berlin was a city where even your neighbour could be a collaborator of the Stasi. If I were to be too careless, despite being an enforcer, I might be turned in by anyone who sensed something was amiss.
However, to put it another way, there weren't many places around me where I could avoid danger as much as in my own home. My office was a natural staging ground for the Stasi, and any suspicious behaviour on the street was bound to attract attention. Seeking out old acquaintances was out of the question. I had no clear understanding of exactly where I was in time, nor of my current relationship with those around me.
Eliminating such risks left me with nothing but the prospect of my own dwelling.
I rounded the corner, walked up a few blocks, and finally arrived at my own home, only to find the lights on. This could only mean one thing—someone was inside, uninvited. My senses heightened, I crept silently into the yard. How many were there? What was their purpose for being here? Yet, despite the light spilling from within, there was no sign of movement or any unusual sounds coming from the lighted house.
In fact, it was a moment of reckoning for me.
Someone was in my home.
This could have meant that I was being investigated, but no, otherwise I wouldn't have made it all the way from the lookout post to this place, exchanging pleasantries with countless individuals along the way. So I took a gamble. I carefully turned the doorknob—it was locked. That is, someone who would leave the lights on, stay quiet, and lock the door behind them...
When it came down to it, I—Felix Neumann myself—was the only one who could be inside.
In other words, I had to entertain the possibility that I had, in fact, tripped into the past as an uninvited guest. I decided to bet everything on that possibility. I pulled my house key out of my pocket, and the door opened effortlessly.
….
I stealthily moved around my former home as I entered, examining it. It was cold, barren, with no sign of decoration or warmth. The only things that stood out were the items for sustenance and technological research—things I had meticulously kept up with in the past. It was the only evidence that my former self had been meticulous about his needs, a chilling reminder of just how much I had hidden my peculiarities from the world. It almost made me scoff, the absurdity of it all. With these thoughts in mind, I walked around the house and made my way toward my bedroom, the one place where I had hidden most things, the safest place in the house. But just as I was about to enter...
Thud!
A sudden strike knocked me off balance before I could react, sending me crashing to the floor in my bedroom. I looked behind me and saw the reflection of the blade coming straight at me. Instinctively, I rolled back to avoid the slash. And then, I saw the face of the person holding the knife. It was a face I knew all too well, a face I saw often in the mirror. But this time, there was a cold, palpable hostility in those eyes. I was right about at least more than one thing: the person inside the house was another version of myself. And that if he found me, the situation would likely become far more complicated than I could've ever imagined.
In any case, I was fortunate that my assumption had been correct, but what mattered to me now was stopping the other me, the one holding the knife, who was intent on capturing me — the ‘intruder’.
The ‘other me’ lunged and threw a kick at my knifed hand as I fell to the floor. The blade went flying under the bed in the distance, but I caught him off guard and thrust with all my might, and he and I began to tangle and roll together, toppling over and pummelling each other.
Eventually, it was I who succeeded in subduing my opponent, and I was so intoxicated by the violence that my instinct was to 'kill at all cost', not to subdue him. My hands were clasped around the throat of the other me, who was gurgling, writhing with agony. I was probably determined to kill him. I was going to wipe out the abomination of my past, to eradicate the core in front of my own eyes this very moment.
Then the sound of a particular melody brought me to my senses.
It was a fragment of a song that had been playing on the radio since earlier.
Przerwać tę ponurą bzdurę, Przerwać tę niechętną hecę!
Scheiße! It was Lombard's song, my favorite. A regular radio favourite, a song I'd even secretly bought a record of. As the melody reached my ears, my vision began to clear. The torn calendar on the floor, the dates and the year it indicated, the scattered, cherished, subversive items rolling around the bedroom floor.
I... I was...
Yes, this version of myself was the one who was already preparing for exile. The me who realised the cycle of violence and tried to break it, believing that it was possible to escape. Foolish, trusting, and unaware that my tainted soul would never find forgiveness, until a very distant future.
Tears welled up, and my clenched hands loosened. As much as I despised my past self, that version of me had pinned everything on the future me. I had risked my life, tried to cross the Wall, seeking freedom. I no longer wanted to harm anyone. And yet, here I was—why, for what, did I hate and despise myself so much?
The other version of myself, lying beneath me, didn’t strike back despite the power that had been strangling him had disappeared. Instead, he looked at me with eyes filled with concern. There was perhaps a tremor in those eyes, a hint of anxiety, but with the tears clouding my vision, I couldn’t be sure if that’s what I had truly seen.
I pressed my forehead against his, holding back the sobs that threatened to overflow from my throat. With great difficulty, I managed to utter a few words.
“You… will cross the Wall.”
“What?” Came the reply, confused, but I continued, my voice thick with emotion.
"You, you will cross the Wall. And.... Your life will be one of freedom.
But…
Your, no. Our...
The sins committed by our hand… they will never be washed away.”
With those words, my vision blurred white.