by Susan L. Minnick
Hello again! Here's my latest fanfic. I thought Victor deserved one, especially for all he's been through . Hope you enjoy! The ending might qualify as a bit of spec, but it's only the last sentence or two, and it's just from Victor's perspective.
"Comstock. You are to, above all, assimilate as a Nazi. If you are found out for what you really are, then we will deny any knowledge of you, and you will die a merciless, painful death. Do you understand your mission and instructions?"
"Yes," the tall man replied calmly. He had done what he wanted, and needed to do- if he died now at least she would know.................
"Victor, Victor I don't understand...anything." His mind flashed back to what seemed like years beforehand, a better time, and place. Although it was only a few minutes past that he had said goodbye, he felt as if it was merely a dream. Finally he had a chance to explain, to tell her not to worry, that he was indeed alive, that he would come back to her if he could.
He woke from his thoughts and put his attention to the matters at hand. The training he had gone through after getting out of the hospital had been, for the most part, physical rehabilitation. Now he was to take the train to Washington for mental preparation before boarding the plane that would take him to his destiny.
Victor sat silent in the day coach, observing his surroundings. A small child was drawing in a notebook and humming a song to herself. Her mother was reading "Good Housekeeping", from what he could pick out it was an article on the latest kitchen items. Yawning, he looked at his watch and realized he hadn't slept since the day before. Leaning back in his chair, he stretched his legs out, and was received with a shout from the seat in front of him.
"Ow! Hey, giant, there are other people on this train too!" the man yelled from the red leather seat, pointing at the floor below where Victor's feet had pushed his out of the way.
"Sorry," Victor replied, and pulled himself back up into a sitting position. *How am I going to lie down in this place?*, he asked himself. His mind drifted back to the Green Room.....
"You're six foot five, that's going to be a tall order!"
Victor laughed and leaned back, drifting off to sleep and dreams about his love.
****************
"Ahnold- may I sveak to you a minute?", a thick German accent requested from behind the control room door. It had been two weeks since he had returned, and he still couldn't get accustomed to the shrill tone of the Nazi officers.
"Aw'll be right there!", he replied, making sure to add the Texas accent he'd come to know and loath. If there was one thing he hated the most, it was communicating like an uneducated Neanderthal. No class, and no style.
After checking the controls and adjusting some of the bakelite knobs, he exited the room to find two German soldiers blocking the hall. "Come vis us," they said sternly. Victor knew this wasn't going to be good.
The two soldiers took him down the hall to a small, dark room. Throwing him inside, they shut the door and, with a loud "click", locked him in. "Waait!", he screamed in utter desperation, "What's going on!!!!!!" he shouted, pounding on the invisible door. After a few minutes he recalled his training. It was useless trying to protest. The calls for help would mean nothing to these people. There could be only one reason why they did this. They had found him out.
Sitting on the floor, Victor let the darkness envelop him as he concentrated on what to do next. Recalling the week he spent in Washington, he knew to keep his mind on other things and not let the darkness scare him. They even use the dark as torture, he thought in disgust.
This was only the beginning. He knew that. The Nazis might leave him in here for up to a week. No food, no bathroom, no contact, and no light. As for an escape plan, it wasn't worth it. They'd have guards at the door and windows, if there were any. He felt around in his pocket and pulled out the sandwich he had bought for lunch. Leaning against the wall he unwrapped the sandwich and proceeded to ration what would be his only meal for the next week or so. After taking a bite he wrapped it up and put it back in his pocket. Keep your mind busy, he thought.
"Busy. Betty was always busy," he smiled to himself. "Betty."
******
"Comshtock! Ve know who you are, and ve are very displeased!" the German Kommandant screamed at the weary man lying face-down on the cold linoleum floor. Crack! He could feel the horsewhip beat against his spine for what must have been the fiftieth time and pulled his hands into tight fists.
"Don't try to fight back, Heir Comshtock! A man in your weakened state could not dare to beat zese men!", he motioned to the ten soldiers around him. "Now, vill you vork vis us, or vill you have to be DESTROYED?" the Kommandant asked, a maniacal gleam in his eyes.
"I'll......", he mustered up the words, "I'll work .... with you.", he replied, every fiber of his being sinking down to the depths of despair. Why did I just say that? he questioned himself. The only reason he could provide was the name he cherished, the name that kept him alive through the two weeks in that room, that pit of darkness. "Betty."
Several weeks of torture, unimaginable to the human mind, was imposed upon the civilian broadcaster. Once, when in London, he had gone into Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum on his day off. After viewing the three floors of Kings and Queens he descended to the basement and viewed the spectacle of human horror, the "Crimes of the World" display. In it wax figures of historical martyrs were burned, twisted, hung, stabbed, sliced, shot, beaten and bruised. Their faces hung limp, their eyelids drooped, their mouths opened in silent screams; their eyes were pierced with the terrifying feeling of gut wrenching pain. What Victor felt was far worse.
Finally, given a Nazi uniform and title of Lieutenant, he was sent out to the streets of Berlin on his first test runs, to see if he could be trusted. He did what he was told, the thought burned into his mind that if he didn't, it would only be another month of pain; bruises and breaks to be healed. After three missions in Berlin he was sent to London, to gather information there for the German High Command. He used his connections at the BBC to get German's air time. What they would do with it, he didn't know. It wasn't his job to know.
Soon he became accustomed to life as a Nazi. When he walked the streets with his uniform people would stop and greet him, children would give him flowers, young women would show coy smiles.
"Comshtock! You are to go to America now, and vork for us there!", the Kommandant ordered.
America? he thought. Where is America? Obligingly he went, following orders as usual. He was placed on a plane with five other soldiers and given instructions on what to do.
"And vhen you reach the Green Room of zis radio station, you are to do vhat?"
"Shoot whomever says the password."
"Gud. And vhat is zis password?"
"Buy Barley Futures."
"Gud. Very gud. You have learned vell, Comshtock."
Victor simply turned and looked out the window. Below him was land, dotted with houses and trees. If he looked close enough he could see the brown and blonde heads of people running through the streets.
"Ve vill be in Pittsburgh soon. And vhat radio station vill ve be attending?"
"WENN," he replied. The station name jerked a faint memory. WENN, he thought. The German he had been taught in the past months flew through his mind as he considered the station call letters that had been posed to him.
"What does WENN mean in German?", he asked in the broken dialect he had become used to over the past months.
"If," was the Kommandant's stern reply.
If, Victor thought. If I wasn't on this plane right now I would be in Berlin. If I wasn't in Berlin I would be out on a mission. If I wasn't on a mission I would be punished.
Punished. His mind traveled back to the weeks of pain, torture, and inhumane anguish that his bones reminded him of on a daily basis. What had gotten him through it? What was the memory, the vision, the goal that had kept him alive through beatings that had broken his ribs but not his soul?
Betty, the name came traveling out of the dark chasm that pervaded the portals of his mind. Darkness. Suddenly the vision came of a tall, slender woman nieve with youth yet mature beyond her Indiana upbringing. Dark curls surrounded a pale cream face with two almond eyes that could express over a thousand thoughts and ideas, the same thoughts and ideas he once held dear at a radio station he once called home.
"Does life repeat itself? Does everything happen in a circle, a chain?" he asked outloud.
The German soldier next to him bewildered by the English Victor spoke, reacted with trained ignorance and slapped him across the face.
Victor fell to the floor and immediately thought of Betty. I'm going home, he thought. WENN is home.
The plane touched down at McConnel Airport and Victor looked out the window across the Allegheny to the skyline he called home, suddenly recalling the last time he left.
Full circle. I'm home.
Four Hours Later -- the Green Room of WENN
~Snap~, the trigger was pulled and a bullet flew in the air. All Victor heard was the pound of metal against metal. Suddenly the weeks of brainwashing were over. A fuse burnt out in his brain, and the light bulb shown bright behind his eyes, revealing images that he thought had been lost forever.
"Betty, do you have the scripts prepared for "Sam Dane"?"
The shaken brunette stared at him in shock.
Alright, that's one of my semi- speculations. Hope you enjoyed, and comments are always welcome!
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