Dear Mr. Rauschenbach,

"Congratulations, you have been accepted to the Institute of Civil Air Fleet, in Leningrad..."

"JAAAA!!" He cheered in loud German. Some people turned to look at him curiously. But, he paid them no mind; he rushed home to tell Mutti and Vati!

***

Boris’ new shoes clipped across the cobblestone sidewalk of the cold Moscow street. He smiled with satisfaction, and wondered if any of his co-workers would notice them. They bore the label of E.T. Wright, and were imported from America! Boris protectively veered around the glossy puddles and soggy leaves in the walk. Cool Russian air wisped down the street, and nudged the trees. Slight gold traces at the edges of the some of the leaves broadcast warnings of an early winter.

Boris stopped in front of a store window to check his appearance. He paused, straightened his tie, and then strode the final twenty paces to the door of RNII, the jet research engine group which now employed him. He gripped the handle firmly, and pushed the door forcefully enough that it hovered open even after he’d passed completely through it. He nodded curtly, smiled lightly to the receptionist, and walked swiftly to the stairwell. There was an elevator, but he took the stairs every day intentionally. Do the harder thing. The phrase echoed in his head every time. His father had taught him so many good things. He held them tightly. He missed his father.

He reached the top and passed into the second floor walkway. This walkway led to his office and also overlooked the workroom, where jet engines were being assembled and tested. He noted how the mechanics were assembling one of the engines, and pondered their efficiency.

I think the process could be improved by–

"Boris! There you are!" Peter, his colleague, exclaimed as he rushed to catch up.

"Yes, here I am." Boris smiled. "Five minutes before eight, just as usual."

Peter leaned closer as they walked, "Did you hear what’s been happening lately? The government has been arresting people everywhere!"

"For what?" Boris said, half listening, and half still watching the mechanics.

"Almost anything! If they suspect you’re not loyal to Russia, and are affiliating yourself with any potential enemy, they yank you, and you’re never seen again!" Peter’s tone was halfway to a hiss. "My neighbors just disappeared two weeks ago unexpectedly. No one has seen them since! I thought I had better warn you, because you’re… you know…"

"German?" Boris replied, knowing where this was going. "Thanks for the warning, Peter, but I think I’m fine. I’m currently helping to develop the first intercontinental ballistic missile for Russia. They should have no doubts of my loyalties."

"That’s the problem, Boris! You’re very close to these projects! The Russians are becoming quite wary of Germany. They’ve been building their arsenal so much these past few years and–"

Boris stopped short of his office and looked at the worried man. "Peter, you are such a good friend to be concerned for me, but I can assure you, I’ll be fine. Russia has no reason to doubt my loyalty; and the work I’m performing here will be so beneficial to them. Yes, I am a German, but I’m quite certain the government knows just how valuable my services are." Boris unlocked the door to his office and opened it.

"Well, I just thought I’d let you know, Boris."

"I appreciate it, Peter." Boris set his briefcase on his desk, opened it, stared for a moment, and then turned his attention to Peter, who was standing shifting his feet. "Are you still available for lunch today?"

"Yes, of course! I wouldn’t miss it!"

"Very well, then. On that note, I had better tend to my work. There is still much to be done before we can test our new automatic rocket piloting program."

"Alright then. I shall see you at noon." Peter paused in the door. "Please remember what I said," He added before walking back to his own office.

Before Boris turned to his work, he took a deep breath, and surveyed his office. It was completely undecorated, except for three things. On the right side of the desk was a picture of him with his mother and father at his university graduation. On the wall was his diploma, dated 1937, one year ago. On the left of his desk was a glider - the same glider he had made in his craft class when he was seven years old. He’d dreamed of coming this far, but he’d never actually pictured himself sitting in an office designing rocket propulsion and control systems. His immigrant family had always been farmers, laborers, and factory workers. What a distance he had risen!

Boris jerked slightly, glanced at the clock to make sure not too much time had passed, and quickly turned back his work. Daydreaming wasn’t going to design any rockets.

***

Boris waited for Peter to come out to meet him for lunch. In the meantime he was reading a note from Vera, and enjoying the fresh air. He shivered slightly. It would most certainly be a cold winter.

"Hi!" Peter said, as excited as ever, and plopped down beside Boris on the bench. Boris hadn’t heard him coming and quickly stuffed away the note he’d been reading.

"What’s that?" Peter grinned. "Are you still seeing that girl?"

"Perhaps. It’s nothing much yet. We’re just getting to know each other."

"I see." Peter smirked but didn’t push the conversation. They’d had it before.

Suddenly, a black car pulled up to the curb and stopped. Four men in public service uniforms quickly got out of the car and walked briskly into the RNII building. Boris and Peter both watched them walk in, and looked at each other. Peter had a grim look on his face. Boris was rather puzzled.

A few moments later, five men came through the door. Sergey Korolyov, their boss, was handcuffed and was being firmly steered towards the car. The man appeared to be in shock. The officers sat him in the car, climbed in themselves and sped away. Korolyov was gone. Peter had been right.

***

The walk home was longer now. Boris didn’t pay attention to the clip-clop of his shoes now. The wind pressed against him, whipping the falling snowflakes into stinging arrows that pricked his face painfully. The gray Russian sky was frowning again.

Life was harder now. RNII had moved its headquarters from Moscow to Yekaterinburg when Germany invaded Western Russia. Boris and Vera, now his wife, had been forced to move too, to keep his job. It was much colder here, a more rural area where there was less wind protection from the bustling city and tall buildings. Although Boris could have purchased a car several years ago, he had chosen instead to save and provide a new house for his bride. He smiled in spite of the cold weather. Vera was the best part of his life. They had just found out a few weeks ago that she was expecting! The depressing news from the warfront, and the increasingly bad winters all faded into the background when he thought of his growing family. It compelled him through his long days at work.

He spotted their little house up in the distance. He noted a black car was sitting in front of it. Oh, Mrs. Schneider must be visiting. He strolled up the front walkway and cheerfully opened the front door.

But, his greeting died on his lips. His wife sat in terrified silence, surrounded by four very tall, very menacing Russian men. Vera’s panicked eyes and ashen face begged him to come save her. The men turned to face him when they heard him enter.

Boris' briefcase dropped to the floor; his eyes searched his wife’s face. "Vera, are you alright?" Turning to the men, he demanded, "What is the meaning of this?"

"She is fine." One of the men, apparently the leader, stepped forward. He had narrow slits for eyes, resembling a snake, and his hair was slicked back as if it were covered in grease. "We have not touched her. Nor will we touch, unless necessary, Mr. Rauschenbach."

"I demand to know what you are doing in my home!" He cried.

"We are here to escort you to your new home, Mr. Rauschenbusch. You’ve heard the edict, of course. All disloyal ex-patriots are to be relocated. You are German, no? You will come with us," said the man, sounding as reptilian as he looked.

Boris stood in shock. This couldn’t be. He had always been so helpful to the Russian government. "S- s- s- surely there is a misunderstanding! I have only ever been loyal to the Russian government. I have helped develop multipl-"

"It doesn’t matter." The man cut him off. "You and your wife are coming with us. Your country has invaded, and we can’t risk having thousands of potential Nazis running amuck in our country ready to wreak havoc on us."

With that, the slimy man nodded to his comrades. Two of them grabbed both Vera’s arms, while the other two men firmly took hold of Boris, jerked him back through the door, and roughly pushed him towards the car. Vera began sobbing.

"But, what about our house?" Boris demanded. "It is-"

"It is in possession of the Russian Government now. It is not yours any longer."

Boris was furious. His wife was being dragged along behind him, weeping with fright, his house was being taken away, and he was powerless to do anything about it! He wanted to break his way free, and fight them! Beat them until they fled and never came back! But, he knew there was no sense in that. The arm of the Russian government was long, and had a grip like an iron fist. You could not hide for long.

The men shoved Boris and Vera in the back seat of the car, and slammed the doors shut. Even as they were driving away, Boris saw a small squad of trucks roll down the street and come to a stop in front of the house. It was true. They would never see their beloved home again.

***

Boris sat upright on his cot, trying to write in spite of the bitter cold. He tried to steady his shivering hand. A candle sputtered on a crate next to him, providing just enough light to allow scribbling on a scrap of paper. It had been over two weeks since they arrived at the processing center, and then were promptly rushed to a labor camp. Boris and his wife were forced to stay in separate tents, and during the day, they were required to do hard labor in a nearby brick factory. The cold weather had caused hundreds of the inmates to become sick. Every day, more bodies were carried out of the camp. Boris feared that his wife and the little life inside her would not last the winter. He had to do something to get them out of here.

He jerked when a man in the cot next to him stirred and rolled over. He finished the letter, surveyed the document, and then added the date, "April 9^th, 1942." He pulled out some postage – he had traded his father’s watch to one of the guards in exchange for it – placed the letter in a crude envelope, and very carefully sealed it with some wax from the candle. Hopefully, this would work.

***

General Viktor Bolkhovitinov sat at his desk, squinting at the letter. A pipe protruded from his mouth and smoke rose lazily to the ceiling. The man was fit and trim for his age. Faint traces of gray showed at the edges of his hair. Twenty years before, he would have been a good poster boy for the Russian Army. But now, he was a researcher, specializing in rocket and missile systems. This was why the letter had landed on his desk. Bolkhovitinov had been rather stunned at the audacity of the letter, but he was amused that the German had sent it and decided to meet the man. Perhaps he could be of some use to the Russian government.

Bolkhovitinov nodded to his assistant, and the door swung open. Boris swiftly entered, stood in front of Bolkhovitinov’s desk, and stretched his hand out across it."Boris Rauschenbach. Pleased to meet you, sir." Confident man, Bolkhovitinov thought, and extracted the pipe from his mouth. He looked at the extended hand and tapped his chin with the stem of his pipe, pausing before grasping Boris’ hand firmly.

"I am General Viktor Bolkhovitinov. Have a seat, Mr. Rauschenbach." He fingered Boris’ letter. "I received your letter." "My letter was addressed to my employer," Boris lifted his chin slightly. Bolkhovitinov chuckled lightly. "Of course, Mr. Rauschenbach. But, it is necessary for us to screen all mail. And I have decided that perhaps you can be of service to us." "Oh?" Boris raised an eyebrow. "You see, I too am a man of science, particularly missile and rocket research. I understand that is your primary area of study." "It is."

"You worked closely in RNII as one of their senior control systems designers, doing extensive work in the automated control of intercontinental ballistic missiles, no?"Bolkhovitinov set the letter and pipe down on the desk. "I am a researcher in same the field. I have an excess of work at the moment, and I could use your expertise to complete some complex calculations. You’ve protested the injustice of being removed from your own research," Bolkhovitinov motioned to the letter on the desk. "Yet, you are German and so I cannot release you. However, I can transfer you to a more suitable job, and better living conditions, should you choose to assist us. Or you may remain at the camp, making bricks until you freeze. The choice is yours."

Boris opened his mouth, then closed it again. Bolkhovitinov remained silent and allowed Boris to think, knowing that a good engineer must always analyze even the most obvious decisions. Boris spoke carefully, "I will help you, if my wife can stay with me."

"You’ll have your own quarters together. I’ll write you orders to return to the camp, retrieve your belongings, and your wife, and we will have you transferred to our research facility." Bolkhovitinov quickly wrote the necessary words on a piece of stationary, ripped it off and handed it to his stony, silent assistant. "Very well then." Said Rauschenbach as he stood up. "I shall report to you tomorrow morning then?" Bolkhovitinov nodded. "Until then."

***

Boris paced back and forth in front of the gate, waiting for Vera to come out. He had not spoken to her since they had arrived at the camp. It seemed like years. He finally saw a door swing open, and Vera stepped out. Boris’ heart leapt as she ran to the gate, through it, and into his arms. They both wept and held each other long and hard. "Oh Boris, I’ve missed you so." Vera melted into her husband’s arms. "How did you get us out?" "I am to be transferred – to begin calculations for a Russian rocket engineer. We are going to have hospitable quarters. Warm and safe. How are you? How is the baby?" He asked eagerly, and touched her belly lightly. Vera looked down, "It’s gone, Boris. I tried so hard. But…it’s gone." She nuzzled her head into his chest and started weeping softly. Boris blinked. He wanted to curse, to hit something, to destroy something. But, he needed to be calm for Vera, so he consciously pressed the fury aside. He held her tight, and whispered in her ear, "It will be alright. God can bring us more children." It was a fact. He clung to it, instinctively. But this time, the objectivity of facts did not touch the pain he felt.

***

Boris' head jerked back to consciousness when a dull thud rattled the front door. It had been years since the war had ended but he still felt that same constant jumpiness, guardedness, and a rush of grief whenever he dreamed of the day he had freed his wife and himself from the labor camp, but learned it had not been in time to save his child. His work for the Russian government had continued after their six-year interment, and had proven both difficult and rewarding. However, his greatest joy had come when years of hoping finally brought Vera and Boris a pair of sweet, twin daughters – his only heirs.

Boris rose from his desk, and walked to the front window, peering out. He saw the newspaper boy on the opposite side of the street now. It's five already? He had been up all night. It had been a long few days. He opened the front door, stooped to pick up the paper, shook it open, and squinted at the headline: "RUSSIA WINS SPACE RACE." Yes, it had been a long few days indeed.

Boris had been the last man to see Yuri Gagarin, giving him last-minute control instructions, until the final instant when the door was sealed on the first spacecraft that would carry a man into space. Boris had overseen the design of that very spacecraft. He still felt the weight it all – the thousands of hours, the millions of calculated details. He skimmed the article, suspecting that the newspaper writers would not adequately represent his work. Predictably, they did not.

But, now it was his turn. He had arrived at home only an hour before, and was obligated to file the initial technical report by nine o’clock that same morning. He sat down and pulled out his pen.

"April 12^th, 1961." He wrote the numbers very slowly and precisely, wondering how he could synthesize all the data into a single report. The mission had gone so quickly. Months of planning had resulted in a mission that had taken only one hour and twenty-seven minutes. It was impossible to encapsulate. He gazed at the paper and fingered his pen thoughtfully.

"April 12^th, 1961." He re-traced the words. Setting the pen down, Boris rubbed his eyes. He knew this had to get the report done quickly, but his mind churned with years of memories that culminated in him being here now. So many mixed events had coalesced. He saw it all clearly, looking backwards. If his first boss, Korolyov, hadn’t been arrested, leaving him with key, increased responsibilities, Boris wouldn’t have had the precise skills he needed to work for Bolkhovitinov. Furthermore, if Germany’s invasion hadn’t caused RNII to move, he wouldn’t have been involved in his specific work fields. And if he hadn’t been sent to the labor camp, and transferred to work for Bolkhovitinov, he never would have had the contacts within the Russian government to be involved in the space program. But, his wife and their child had to suffer as a result. Was that worth it? It must have been, he reasoned. Boris was a scientist. He did not believe in random occurrences. Everything happens for a reason, because of a primary cause…

His heritage had been a primary cause for him reaching this place. Yet, it also rendered his victory bittersweet. He had been raised as a full-blooded German boy, who had learned how to act as a Russian. He was so proud of the accomplishments of his host country, and yet he felt like a displaced German who could have been on the other side of the battle lines twenty years before. He remembered the advice of his father: "Bloom where you’re planted, son." He had truly done that. Nevertheless, like so many of his ancestors, he had always held tightly to his true lineage.

His girls would be raised as Germans, assured and confident of their identity no matter where they lived… just as he had been. That thought comforted him.

The cathedral bells began to peal their early morning chorus. A bird twittered outside his window. Spring was coming again.

Boris smiled quietly, picked up his pen again, and began to transcribe the immense Russian victory which had, in actuality, been largely orchestrated by a German immigrant.