The next day, January 7th 1964, at 10:25pm, which marks the end of the legal curfew, Blaring spotlights flash into the cloudy, starless British skies whilst I travel home through the empty and quiet streetlight lit streets of Westminster as German Gestapo and German issued storage trucks and military vehicles are stationed around the area.
Once I arrive off the London Autobahn in Westminster station, I slowly walk foreward in my Bartender and waiter unifrom towards the first layer of transport security.
"Halt Briton. Show me your Identifikation. Bitte." The German Gestapo officer states expectantly while he holds his black leather gloved hand out; his voice laced with a heavy German accent and his Grey button up German coat accoladed; clearly of some importance, possibly a captain.
"Natürlich." I nod in respond, taking out my mandatory German standard Identifikation and placing it in his hand before quietly looking to the side as he observes.
The Gestapo officer, accompanied by 2 other lesser ranked Gestapo officers, remains silent as he closely observes the small hand sized book with intensity, looking for anything out of the ordinary in the short document.
"Ah. Arthur Edmund Williams, 43, Ex- British soldier. You fight in the war?" He asks curiously, looking back up at me with his observant eyes, putting his thumb between the small hand sized book to conserve the page.
"Yes. That's- that's right. I fought in the war. From the start to the failed invasion of Normandy sir.." I nod quietly and keep my gaze from his in a subconscious sign of humility, now finding myself slightly nervous and fearful but also a bit upset about the memory of that fateful day at Normandy.
"I see. Why are you out past curfew Briton?" He asks with a more suspicious look, especially considering I am an Ex-British soldier who is part of the very small amount of soldiers that survived the failed invasion of Normandy 20 years prior to now, he probably suspects me of some association to a rebellion.
"I- was working and offered to stay and extra hour to help my manager close up the pub I work at…" I answer as honestly as I possibly can, knowing a lie wouldn't fly past a Gestapo officer such as the one currently questioning me for my disobedience of the Curfew.
"Hm. You opted to work outside of work hours? That isn't acceptable. Undocumented work is an offence." He frowns, looking down at his small handbook with an unamused and unsatisfactory tone; clearly frustrated that my activity was not monitored for an hour.
"I- I apologise I- I didn't mean to-" I stammer as the officer turns and whispers to his coworker in German, unable to catch what he says outside of "Inspection" and "Report".
Not long after he finishes whispering to his co-worker, the co-worker walks off with a raised wireless telephone, a new invention as of late in the German Reich, and the commanding Gestapo officer clicks a pen before facing me again from his notepad.
"Arthur Williams, you are to report to your local Gestapo office building and hand them this ticket regarding your undocumented hours at the workplace within the next 24 hours alongside a fine of 250 pounds. Failure to do so will result in us detaining you and assigning a court date for you. Is that clear?" He states clearly and confidently in English in his German accent rather than asking despite the question at the end whilst scribbling on the notepad of tickets before ripping it off and handing the small, hand sized piece of paper to me expectantly.
"I- I understand. Thank you sir." I forcfully nod respectfully before taking my ID and ticket back, slowly walking past him as another train speeds from behind me; the wind creating a loud, echoing vacuum sound in a blink of an eye before disappearing.
I slowly climb the stairs, the tiles chipped with broken glass and porcelain, with a bottomless pit of fear or anger or sadness or maybe all 3 fills my stomach, perfectly encapsulating the feeling of London in the modern day, leading me out to the wet, streetlight lit streets of Westminster; just outside of the Palace and Tower of Westminster whilst rain dampens my skin like a cold face wash in the morning of a hot summers day.
The streets, as usual, remain empty dark and desolate, with the exception of Gestapo plated Ford Mercury cars passing by; creating a gentle ripple in the water as I walk back home with my umbrella raised; wanting to escape the streets as soon as possible to prevent more questioning and suspicion from the imaginary watchful eyes of the Nazi regime.
Upon arrival at my apartment in Westminster near the towering London Eye ferris wheel, I remove my trench coat and hang it on the coat hanger; walking through the dark living room where a grey comfortable plush couch, alongisde a white fur carpet with a glass coffee table on top, rests opposite an early model Flatscreen TV. On the wall near the entrance rests the Nazi flag due to the mandatory requirement for any apartment or house to have at least one to "Remind Britons of the German Honour".
Despite the sense of quiet security within the confines of the apartment, hidden bugs and cameras linger everywhere around the apartment. The people know they are there, but they know not where they are and if they do, they dare not remove them for the fear of execution.
I quietly pour myself a glass of strong whiskey, preparing some spaghetti for dinner with the few quiet hours I have left before I need to sleep for work tommorow.
In the process of this however, I hear a floorboard creak from behind me from my apartment door. I open one of yheb kitchen draws turn slowly, my Lüger pistol from the drawer drawn what appears to be a shadowy figure omnipisly stood statuesquely behind me, his firm stance unwavering.
"Wh- who the hell are you? H-how'd- how'd you get in my house?! WHY are you inside my house?" I begin questioning as I keep my Lüger pistol raised high, ready for firing at the tall, ominous, firm stood figure before me.
"Calm down." The man's voice begins after a moment with his own calm and composed tone. His low voice sounds to be some form of accented polish; indicating how far away he is from home.
"I only want to talk. I'm not a danger to you." He continues as I keep my gun shakily held high, the polish male fogure standing opposite me still in the dark.
"Every Pole is a danger, you never want to just talk. You want to bring me into some rebellion to fight against our glorious leaders." I respond as if scripted, trying to ensure that the bugs listening and the cameras watching are sufficed, spewing the German propoganda the Reich wants us to believe so I'm not killed for "Disobedience and Disloyalty", a capital punishment in Germany.
"Hm… That almost sounded passable. I'm impressed. Worry not Arthur, I have a jammer in my pocket that disables the electronics in a room. I suppose you didn't try to activate the TV." He states before stepping forward, finally bringing the older, tall, muscular, bearded polish man into view.
The man, maybe 50-60 in age, wears flexible beige cargo pants and a darker blue polo top, accompanied with a simple cotton overcoat. His brown hair is short and brown whereas his beard is bushy and longer; with blue eyes and rough features on his face.
"Oh and you expect to just believe that? I should report you right no-" I continue fighting, remaining unsure in wether or not I could even trust the guy; but that's before the small jamming device is gently placed on the Kitchen table before me with a small green light and I stop speaking almost immediately.
"Arthur Williams. Correct? World War 2 survivor, fought from the start of the war up to the end of Normandy?" He asks, almost as if he knew he had already bought my submission, slowly approaching closer as I turn off the oven behind me, placing my gun on the counter.
"…Who are you..? How do you know my name? How do yow know I fought at Normandy..?" I ask more calmly and loosely but also still skeptical and afraid, monitoring his actions.
"My name is Ivan. As for how I know you, i've been watching you for a while. Almost 4 months now…" He answers honestly, scratching his beard as he speaks.
I remain silent, standing in front of the man quietly and anxiously, the room so quiet a pin drop would be audible.
"What you said was true however, I am fighting against the Nazi reigme. I'm part of a small rebel group in Marylebone. I wanted to maybe discuss some of those… experiences… with you, and try to reinvigorate that fighting spirit in you." He explains as he helps himself to the glass of Whiskey, pouring the yellowish-orange liquid into a glass before turning to me with a relaxed, maybe even slightly cocky expression.
"What are you my fucking therapist? We lost the war dipshit, look around. Every historical building you see has a Swastika banner on it, German Propaganda is spread through the news constantly, we're never safe from the eyes of the Reich and they breathe down our necks with a pistol barrel. Every time I hear a knock on the door I begin sweating and shaking, and I feel myself worried that this time it will be an officer because I somehow stepped out of line. I'd be lucky to be next in like for the labour camps instead of a public execution." I respond, dismissing Ivan's statement and explaining the status of current day Britain.
Ivan remains silent as I finish ranting, his frame unwavering as he sips his glads of whiskey and looks at his nails non-chalantly; like an ancient Egyptian queen. After a moment though, Ivan speaks up again, clearign his throay at his glass quietly clinks on the counter.
"…You got one part of that wrong Arthur. The war isn't over. The war is only over if you allow it to be over. War only ends when both parties sign the agreement. Germany signed it, but will you?" He asks calmly and calculated; like he had planned to say this and I just gave him the excuse to.
"Oh real good quote Sun Tzu, you want a medal? Here's a tip genius; you wanna fight an Empire? You better have a fuckin' Empire. And I don't think one man and some greek philosophy will have that." I cross my arms and reply with dripping sarcastic frustration.
"…hm… maybe. Maybe you're right." He nods quietly, putting the glass back down and leaning more against the counter.
"But… even if it is… I'd die happier knowing that I was still in control, that I didn't let some Nazi bastard dictate what I should do with my life. I'll die happier knowing I honoured my ancestors, that I stayed strong until the end." He sighs loudly, quietly standing up again, seemingly contemlating something.
"I wonder though… what would Marilyn think..?" He asks calmly once again as he looks at his wrist.
But the name. That name… it sends shivers up my spine. But it also enrages me.
"How… you don't mention her fucking name. You don't have the right." My fists clench and I immediately stiffen.
"What's wrong? Afraid of what she'd say? Afraid she'd hate you?" He pushes, smirking as he watches my blood boil, enjoying how i'm getting riled up over the name.
"Your daughter. Poor thing. Kidnapped at what..? 5 years old? By the Nazis? And you don't even want to rescue her?" He asks, continuing to try and accelerate my anger and rage.
"You wanna shut your fucking mouth right now. I will spin your fucking jaw worse than a moving Dreidel." I threaten, standing right in fromt of him. But he looks… happy. Satisfied.
"Good… that's good. But why me? The Nazi's are the ones indoctrinating her into a "German Correction and reform school" in Glasgow. If you want justice, why wouldn't you wanna fight the people who did that to-" He continues before widening his eyes and a hard punch hits him straight in the nose, causing a loud, disgusting crack and blood to seep out; laying on the ground as he pants.
"I said to shut the fuck up. She's dead. She's not in some camp in Glasgow, I saw them take her. They wouldnmy have kept her it- it doesn't make sense." I reply, wiping my hand as he stands up, clutching his nose and groaning quietly.
"Fuck.. okay-! Okay... But i'm telling the truth. I know she's alive. I saw her myself… in the least weird way possible she's a very pretty young lady." he sighs, grabbing a tissue from his pocket and pressing it to his now fractured nose.
"Are you trying to fuckin' die?" I ask, picking up Lüger, the cold iron touching my palm, after he calls ny daughter "pretty".
"No-! J-just look… trust me. The Nazi's will come searching here anyways because the Cameras and bugs are deactivated, you're a soldier. Do you really want to just live under- this..? For the rest of your life? Mocking your country that dominated the word for a century and a half? You know what the answer is.." He says, determined to pull me to his side.