The Quiet Arithmetic of Winter

Chapter 1: The Pimple on the Ass of History

⟨Character 1⟩’s apartment, night. A digital watch beeps on the nightstand.

⟨Character 1⟩: No. No, no, no. Not yet. I just got to sleep. The client can wait. The server can wait. The whole stupid world can wait.

He slaps the watch silent, rolls over, and pulls the blanket over his head. A minute later, he sighs and sits up.

⟨Character 1⟩: Fine. Debugging at three in the morning. This is my life. A forty-five-year-old man who owns a software company and still answers emails from idiots who can’t clear their cache. I should be sleeping. I should be eating a plate of biryani. Instead I’m here, staring at a legacy system that some intern wrote in 2003.

He opens his laptop. The screen glows. Lines of code scroll by. Then a file catches his eye: temporal_relay.exe.

⟨Character 1⟩: What’s this? A client’s website doesn’t need a time-travel module. Unless they’re selling DeLoreans. Let’s see what you do, you little piece of junk.

He double-clicks. The screen flashes. A progress bar appears: ‘Calibration complete. Destination: Berlin, 1943. Confirm?’

⟨Character 1⟩: Berlin, 1943? That’s not a test environment. That’s Hitler’s playground. Wait. If this works, I could go there. I could find him. I could kill him. Save a lot of people. But that’s insane. I’m a software guy, not a soldier. Still, it’s tempting. I mean, who wouldn’t want to put a bullet in that mustache? But I don’t have a gun. I do have rat poison from the neighbor’s shed. That’ll do. And my travel mug. Can’t forget the coffee.

He packs a small backpack: the rat poison, a stale chapati, and his digital watch. He types ‘confirm’ and hits enter. The room dissolves.

EXT. BERLIN ALLEY, NIGHT. ⟨Character 1⟩ stumbles out of a dark alley behind a bakery. The air smells of bread and coal smoke.

⟨Character 1⟩: Okay. That worked. I’m in Berlin. 1943. The air tastes like ash. And I’m starving. But first, find Hitler. How hard can it be? He’s the guy with the stupid mustache and the screaming. Wait. What’s that noise?

Around the corner, a soldier has a man and a young girl cornered. The man’s coat has a yellow star.

Soldier: Papers. Now. You and the girl. Hurry up.

Jewish man: Please, we have them. We’re just trying to get home. She’s only a child.

Soldier: A child who shouldn’t be here. You know the rules. Jews out after curfew. You’re coming with me.

⟨Character 1⟩ steps forward, heart pounding.

⟨Character 1⟩: Hey. What’s going on here? I’m Inspector Weber. From the Reich Security Office. These people are with me. They’re not out after curfew. They’re on official business. You want to explain to my superiors why you’re interfering?

Soldier: Inspector? I wasn’t told about any inspection. Papers?

⟨Character 1⟩: Papers? You want papers? I left them at the office. You know how it is. Bureaucracy. Now, unless you want a report on your desk by morning, I suggest you let these people go. They’re coming with me. Understood?

Soldier: Fine. But I’ll be watching. Get them inside.

The soldier leaves. The man exhales, clutching the girl.

Jewish man: Thank you. I don’t know who you are, but thank you. I’m David. This is my daughter, Sarah. We live just around the corner. Please, come. We have little, but we can offer you something hot to drink.

⟨Character 1⟩: I could use a cup of coffee. And maybe a place to sit. I’ve had a long trip. You have no idea.

They walk to a small apartment as the city hums with sirens and fear. ⟨Character 1⟩ clutches his backpack, the weight of the rat poison a secret. In the distance, a train whistle blows.

Chapter 2: The Boy Who Played Dead

The apartment smells of cabbage and damp wool. Reuven, an old man with hands like knotted rope, sits at the table. Sarah sleeps on a cot.

Reuven: David tells me you saved them. So you are a good German. That is a rare thing. What do you want from us?

⟨Character 1⟩: I’m not German. I’m from a different time. A different place. And what I want is to kill Hitler. I have rat poison in my bag. I need to know how to get into his bunker, and when he eats.

Reuven: You are mad. You come to a Jewish home, tired and strange, and tell us you are from the future. Next you will say you can fly. But I have seen too much to turn away a madman with hope. Hitler moved to the bunker under the old bakery. He eats bread and cake brought up from the bakery kitchen every afternoon. Soldiers carry trays. The guard changes at noon. That is all I know. But if you try this, you must be quick. They will hang you.

The next afternoon, ⟨Character 1⟩ walks into the bakery kitchen, wearing a borrowed baker’s apron. The air is thick with flour.

⟨Character 1⟩: Bread. Cake. Tray to the bunker. Just act like you belong. Nobody questions a man with an apron and a scowl.

A young soldier in a too-big uniform eyes the cakes. He slips one into his pocket.

Soldier: For my brother. He’s got a birthday. The Führer won’t miss one cake.

⟨Character 1⟩’s hands are steady as he pulls a small paper packet from his sleeve. He turns away, sprinkles the white powder onto a thick slice of bread, and sets it on the tray next to a cake.

Inside the bunker corridor, ⟨Character 1⟩ watches through a crack in the door. Hitler sits at a desk, a small man with a tired face. He takes the bread. He chews slowly. Then he stops. His hand goes to his throat. The tray clatters to the floor.

⟨Character 1⟩: It’s done. He’s choking. The poison is working. Now get out. Move.

Guard: Hey! You there! What are you doing? Stop!

⟨Character 1⟩ runs, the apron flapping, his heart a drum in his chest. Behind him, shouts rise like startled birds.

Chapter 3: Looking at the Moon

The alley behind the bakery, night. ⟨Character 1⟩ leans against the wall, breathing hard. David, Reuven, and Sarah hurry toward him from the shadow of a doorway.

⟨Character 1⟩: Hitler is dead. I watched him fall. The poison worked. But you have to leave Berlin tonight. All of you. There will be chaos, and they will look for someone to blame.

David: Dead? Truly dead? I never thought I would hear those words. But we have nowhere to go. The trains are watched.

Reuven: The bakery truck. It leaves at dawn for the countryside. I know the driver. He owes my father a favor. We can hide under the flour sacks. But what about you? You are coming with us.

⟨Character 1⟩: I can’t. They saw my face. If I run with you, they’ll catch us all. Better if I lead them away. But listen to me. There’s something else. They’ll drop a bomb tonight on the bunker. A double was there. A decoy. The bomb will make it look like Hitler died in the explosion, not by poison. That way nobody suspects a stranger from the future.

Sarah: The double. Will he be okay? The man who looks like Hitler?

⟨Character 1⟩: No, Sarah. He won’t. He’ll die in that bomb. I’m sorry. He’s a part of this too, whether he knows it or not. But you and your father and your grandfather will live. That matters. Here. Take my watch. It’s a signal watch. Beeps when it’s time to sleep. Keep it. Remember me when you look at it.

He presses the digital watch into Sarah’s small hand. She clutches it. David grips ⟨Character 1⟩’s shoulder. Reuven nods once, eyes wet.

David: Go. Take the bread truck. Run. I’ll find a quiet place. Don’t look back.

They disappear into the dark. ⟨Character 1⟩ walks the other way, toward the river. He sits on a bench under a streetlamp. The city is silent except for distant sirens.

A shot rings out. ⟨Character 1⟩ slumps. He looks up at the moon, pale and round. His hand falls to his side. The watch beeps once in Sarah’s pocket, far away.

⟨Character 1⟩: Good night. Sleep well.