Chapter 14: Berghain

The bass throbbed through the electric space of Berghain, a pulsating heartbeat of the night. Bodies moved in synchrony with the music, a hypnotic tide of sweat and euphoria. Amid the chaos, Adolf sat at the bar, sipping a drink he had not wanted in the first place. He glanced sideways at Igglepiggle, who seemed entirely at ease as he navigated the dancefloor with that sturdy and safe physique.

It had been Hermy G's idea - hiding in plain sight, at the centre of the British occupation zone. Nobody would suspect this. Still, he had been compelled to shave his little mustache off, 'just in case'. He fingered its lifeless corpse now, the little hairs that began to pathetically cluster across his lip like flies to a rotten apricot. How could Stalin ever find him beautiful again?

Stalin...

Doubt nibbled at Adolf's insides. Why was Joseph not looking for him? Or was he? He wanted to cry with nagging uncertainty, with the whispers in his mind telling him he wasn't enough. That the explosion of sparks he had felt in Joseph's room had just been a game for the Russian.

Da Real Heinrich-H, meanwhile, had evidently found his own amusement. He leaned in close to a pretty man with sharp features and laughing eyes, performing his role with theatrical enthusiasm as he stole glances at Göring, who sat scowling in the corner, arms folded, jealousy ablaze.

The night stretched on, an endless loop of music, flashing lights, and the occasional altercation. Eventually, the Germans found themselves at the apartment of Himmler's new...acquaintance. Göring retreated to a spare room in a sulk, slamming the door behind him with a flick of his bony wrist. Igglepiggle too, chose to rest, taking to the attic, where a spare mattress waited lustfully to embrace his body. Himmler barely made it to the couch before passing out, his snores harmonising with the distant echo of the club.

Left alone, Adolf sat across from the stranger. They studied each other for a long moment before speaking.

'You look like a man who carries a great weight.'

Adolf let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. 'That obvious?'

'Love is heavy, no?'

The words cut through him like a blade. He hesitated, then spoke, his voice a little shaky. 'Yes, you're quite right, my friend.'

A pause.

'I'm Adolf, by the way. Adolf Hitler. And you?'

'Jürg Elias,' smiled the man, 'are you Swiss as well? You don't sound as if you're from around here...'

'I-i'm from Austria'

'Ooooooh!'

'You can't tell anyone that, ja. Promise me!' Hitler blushed passionately, frantically checking that Himmler was still asleep.

Jürg smiled, a little sadly though. 'You have nothing to be ashamed of, Adolf. That's a lesson I've learnt the hard way. But, I'll keep your secret. Allow me to ask you though, in return let's say, what is it that troubles you, my friend? Boy problems?'

Hitler nodded slowly. 'I love him. I know I do. But sometimes, I wonder if he even thinks of me at all. And if he does, am I just... an amusement, something to be used and then discarded.'

Jürg tilted his head, considering. 'If everything you say is true, Adolf. What then?'

Adolf flinched, taken aback. 'Then... then I don't know.' He let out a sigh, running a hand through his chestnut hair. 'I am nothing without him.'

'And yet, here you are. Without him.'

'Not by choice,' Adolf scoffed, shaking his head.

'Choice or not,' Jürg said, his voice gentle but firm, 'you are still here.' He studied Adolf for a moment, then added, 'You love this man, but does he love you in the way you need to be loved?'

Adolf swallowed hard. 'He must.'

'Must he?'

Silence stretched between them. A war waged in Adolf's mind, a battle between hope and the gnawing fear that had never truly left him.

Jürg considered him, before leaning forward. 'I hear you, Adolf. I hear your pain.I know the voices of doubt whisper in your ear, telling you that you are not enough, that you should shrink, that the world belongs to someone else. But the world isn't listening to those voices, the world is listening out for you. You must choose what is right for you; it is the only way.'

Adolf swallowed hard. He wanted to believe that. He needed to believe that. But before he could respond, a sharp knock at the door shattered the moment into a thousand pointed pieces.

Jürg frowned but stood, making his way over. When he opened it, a man stepped inside, his presence casting a sudden chill over the room.

Himmler woke with a start, springing to his feet with a loud thud. 'Who is this??'

But the mysterious man met Adolf's gaze and Adolf's alone, his expression unreadable. 'My name is Piotr Pavlov and I come on behalf of Moscow.  It's urgent.'

Hitler's heart thudded in his chest. 'You have news from Stalin?'

Piotr neither confirmed nor denied this, simply pulling a photograph from his coat and placing it on the table. Adolf reached for it, hands trembling. His breath hitched as he took in the image...

Stalin. As breathtaking as ever. The thick mustache that framed his lips, the deep-set eyes veiling a world of unspoken promises. His broad shoulders, the way his uniform stretched across his muscular chest - power and passion made one. He was a god in the form of a man, a lover who could conquer both lands and hearts with ease. And beside him, a girl... their lips intertwined.

'No...'

For a long moment, the world seemed to tilt around Adolf as if it were leaving him behind. The photograph blurred as tears burned in his screwed up eyes.

Piotr said nothing more. He simply turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Himmler stared at the picture, confusion lingering in his gaze. Jürg exhaled sharply, looking at Adolf with quiet sympathy. But Adolf couldn't look at either of them. He couldn't look at anything except the image before him, the proof of everything he had feared.

Joseph had moved on. Adolf was nothing to him anymore. And Jürg was wrong. Without Stalin, he was truly worthless.