I told Andymond that if this continues, my feelings for him will fade away sooner or later. It's not his fault, and it's not my fault. We were wrong not to love each other in this war time.
Andremon didn't answer me, he just took off my shirt silently but firmly, entered my body over and over again, forcing me to say I love him.
He asked me, if one day I could go out from here, where would I go
I said back to Beckenfordshire, my uncle's house in the country.
Andmond thought for a while: "No, you can't leave me."
Time has lost its original meaning, and the torrent of life has gradually shrunk to abstract black and white symbols on newspapers. The best beef is hard to come by, and the government encourages women to use cheap rabbit meat instead, and provides various ways to get rid of the smell of rabbit meat. German warships are constantly being sunk by the air force near our coastline. A Cambridge mathematician uses probability to help the Navy reduce its chances of encountering German submarines in the Pacific, the reporter mentioned Emily. Roth's name. I remember her, we used to be in the Cambridge mathematics club together, and she once recommended my thesis to the professor.
On April 27, 1945, I spread out The Times and saw that the headline was that the Soviets had captured Berlin.
The Soviets won the Battle of Berlin, and Hitler and his lover committed suicide by taking poison in the basement of the Chancellery.
Three days later, the last battle. More than a thousand SS and foreign volunteers guard the last symbol of the Third Reich - the Reichstag. Most of them died. I understand the behavior of the SS, but I don't understand why there are foreign volunteers and why they are willing to fight for the Nazis.
Like I don't understand why my mother would work for the Nazis.
The day after Berlin was taken, Andermond handed me a translated cipher. This is the last ciphertext I received from my mother.
The content is still only one sentence.
Please tell Ellen I love him—Jane. Custer.
Andemund said that the Soviet side had thoroughly searched Berlin, the headquarters of the Intelligence Bureau had been burned down, and important information had been lost. Judging from the existing materials, they did not find traces of the Custers' existence. But in an office that was burned beyond recognition, someone found a prototype of an early "Enigma" transmitter, with cursive characters engraved on the iron base, which seemed to be "Jane" in English after barely being recognized.
The world is a combination of contradictions. Every choice I make is wrong, yet I cannot stop making choices.
I asked Andrew, Germany has surrendered, can I go home
He looked at me apologetically and said, No, Alan. You are on the organization's distrust list.
He can only say sorry over and over again, but what's the use
I'm tired of the empty sky outside the watchtower, tired of the horribly empty hours of the day. I tried to hurt Andremon, and said to him: "When I first chased you, you should have rejected me and found a woman to marry. I was too young to fully understand the darkness of the intelligence agency, and now I regret it."
He just hugged me and said, sorry, Ellen.
Andrew told me that there were only two roads before me.
Keep the memory of the present, and be locked up in this watchtower for the rest of your life.
Or clear the memory of these years and return to the original life. Forget Plimpton Park, forget the war, forget "fans" and all that.
"Alan, you know too much. You are on the authorities' distrust list and once held the heart of the 'fan'." He said: "This is the system of the organization."
I stubbornly chose the first option.
I said to him, "Honey, I'd rather rot here with this bad memory. I've lost enough, you can't wipe that Alan Custer out of my brain. You can't do that .”
When you open this notebook, Alan Custer no longer exists in this world. He doesn't remember who he is, he may have been changed to a new name, imbued with a lot of memories that don't belong to him, and become someone else, numb and alive.
The reason why I record everything is because nothing can be changed. Andrea García made the choice for me.
He wants me to forget everything, get out of here, and be with him.
"You're murder, honey," I told him.
He just said, "I love you, Ellen."
Everything could have been salvaged.
On August 15, 1945, Andrew brought me the news that the World War was officially over. Various editions of newspapers were spread out on the table, and the first article on the front page of each was the news of Japan's surrender, with "The End of the War" written in bold next to it.
I thought, well, it's finally over.
Then I drew the gun that was on Andman's belt, and pointed it at him, and told him to let me out.
Under long-term captivity, my nerves became extremely fragile, and it was easy to reach the level of hysteria.
The heart was beating extremely hard.
The key was in his hand, I asked him to give it to me, and then prepared the car to help me leave.
"I know you can do it," I said.
Andemon blocked the door and shook his head: "Honey, you can't get out from here unless you shoot me. I can't give you the key."
I was shaking all over, and it took me a long time to pull the safety catch. Finally I hit him in the stomach and got the key to the door.
Andermeng squatted down against the door, clutching his stomach, and grabbed my hand, his face pale and sad.
He said, "Alan, it seems that you really don't love me anymore."
I picked him up and walked out: "Don't do this, I need you as a hostage. I will call a doctor for you when it is safe."
The tower is very high, and the revolving stone staircase has almost no end. Andemon was very weak, he leaned on my shoulder and bled profusely. I almost thought it would go on like this for the rest of my life.
Downstairs were the petrified guards.
Soldiers surrounded me and I ordered them to prepare cars and money.
Andmon hugged my shoulders tightly and made a gesture of unknown meaning.
Seeing his gesture, the nearest shot me.
The last memory is the swirling blue sky and the towering factory chimneys in the distance. I fell to the ground. Andmon hugged me, his face pressed against mine, the blood on his clothes kept soaking my coat.
"Alan, I'm sorry," he said. "Let's go out, and I will definitely take you out. Forget about these things and let's start over."
My chest still hurts when I write now. The bullet grazed his lungs and passed through, and when he smoked and coughed, there were bursts of pain. I have never been suitable for smoking, no matter what brand of cigarettes I cough, but recently I have been unable to leave my hands.
It is only now that I gradually understand why Arnold started to obsess over whole packs of cigarettes after falling out of love.
The first person I saw when I woke up was Arnold.
He gave me painkillers: "Alan, you are in a terrible situation. When you get out of here, you need to rest."
"I took a four-year break." I told him, "Get out of here? Did Andemon ask you to erase my memory? You can't do that."
The psychiatrist smiled: "Don't be too nervous, it's not what you imagined. Memory is like a room. I just lock the things in your memory and throw away the key. Don't be afraid, they are still in your brain, and they are not in your mind. Nothing is lost."
"With drugs?" I asked.
"Yes, with drugs."
Arnold was a little sad: "I talked to Mr. Garcia, this is the best choice for you. Alan, sorry, I can't help you, the only thing I can do for you is this. I hope you can happiness."
Arnold said that as long as I was relaxed enough, the amnestics would not cause any pain. But I know that if a person is injected with a large dose of morphine, the pain will not be felt anyway.
I heard footsteps outside the door, maybe it was Andrew, maybe it was Arnold. These may be the last words I write.
I just want to tell people who see this notebook that the author is Alan Custer, who died after the victory in World War II. He misses the blue sky of Cambridge, and his lover who smiles with his eyes bent under the apple tree outside the library. He will abandon all memories and be reborn, but he is not happy.
I suddenly remembered Andymond's rank. After C stepped down, Andremon showed me his letter of appointment to take over as the head of the General Intelligence Bureau.
The first line reads:
Andrémon Garcia: Admiral