I walked up the small iron steps leading inside the train. A man wearing a long dark-blue coat without buttons and a conductor's cap was holding a puncher. He had a big mustache and asked kindly, "Tickets, please, sir."
I silently gave him my ticket. He punched a hole in it and said, "Sleeper car, cabin 2. Now move along, please."
So I did.
I was in the far back of the train. Nothing special, just a few passenger cabins for people who were only traveling a short distance. There were wooden doors with a bit of glass that could be pushed to the side using a rail system. The inside of the cabins was nothing special: windows you could open and an ashtray built into the side of the train. The benches were lined with cushions and faced parallel to each other. Above the benches was space for luggage.
I walked forward through the narrow corridor and suddenly stepped on something. I looked down. On the carpeted floor lay a black piece of paper and a round, heavy ball of iron—or rather, steel. It was about the size of a marble, but it was incredibly heavy.
I put them in my pocket and thought, That is probably nothing, but just to be sure...
I continued my journey through the train, and next I found myself inside a bar car.
On the left side were a few chairs in front of small tables, and on the right side was a bar with several bar stools. The bar itself was impressive. The counter was made of smooth black wood, and behind it stood a colored man wearing a red vest, a white shirt, and a red bow tie. He was clean-shaven and had better hair than I did on my best day.
He was performing tricks with a shaker. Behind him was a wide cabinet filled with all kinds of liquor.
All of a sudden, the door on the north side of the room slid forcefully open, and the bald man in the SA uniform came in.
He looked at me with a skeptical expression and then at the bartender. He murmured something I couldn't understand, but I didn't think it was kind. Then he walked past me and bumped into me while doing so. His skeptical look changed into a little smirk, as if he had done it on purpose just to provoke a confrontation.
I was ready to say something to him, but he simply said, "A hunter always hits his mark. What is your mark, Mr. Jaeger?"
Then he continued walking.
I was confused. I wanted to walk after him, but as soon as he went through the sliding door, it jammed shut.
Then, all of a sudden, I heard a loud whistle, followed by a heavy jolt as the train started moving.
I walked up to the bartender and asked in a nervous tone, "Sorry, have you also seen that old man just walking in here?"
I wanted to make sure that it wasn't one of my weird hallucinations again.
The bartender looked at me and seemed confused—not because he hadn't seen the man, but rather because he wasn't expecting someone to talk to him.
Regardless, he said, "Oh, yes. Sorry, sir, but I also saw the man. He just walked through this door."
He pointed toward the door that had just jammed shut on the south side of the room.
I moved my head and looked at the door as well, just to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.
Then I asked the man another question.
"Do you know who this man is?"
The bartender started forming words while his face twisted in disgust.
"Actually, we are not supposed to talk about the passengers, but, to be honest, he is not the kindest. His name is SA Obergruppenführer Johan von Waldorf. He is an SA follower and really unkind, to be honest. He always calls us names which are not pretty. And if he even suspects you're from a foreign country or Jewish, he tries everything to hunt you down or get you imprisoned. He doesn't care if it's illegal. He just does it, and the state looks away because they have higher priorities with the Great Depression. But please, sir, just ignore my rambling."
My gaze switched back to the bartender.
I searched my pockets, found two Reichsmarks, and gave them to him.
"Thanks for the tip, pal. And be careful. I have a bad feeling about this fella."
He nodded and started practicing his tricks again.
I thought about what the old man had said.
"A hunter always hits his mark."
He could have meant hunting foreigners or people opposing the NSDAP. But the second part—"What is your mark, Mr. Jaeger?"—made me wonder.
Could he be a member of the cult? Or did he just want to tease me?
If I saw him again, I would have to ask.
But for now, I continued my journey through the train.
The next car was the dining car.
Soft benches were arranged on the right and left sides of the train. Between every two benches was a table covered with a white tablecloth. On top were napkins and porcelain plates with silver cutlery. Between the benches on both sides was a small corridor in which a small serving cart could fit, allowing the staff to serve meals and drinks.
Windows were located on the left and right beside every bench.
I continued my journey while keeping a sharp eye out for any detail I might have missed.
The big man was sitting in one of the booths. He had a strong Eastern European accent and, surprisingly, was talking to Regin.
I was curious.
The big man laughed and said, "My friend Regin, I never heard such a story about the cold. I thought you experienced real cold, not itzy-bitzy chills. Where I'm from, you have to be careful. The chills will freeze you to the bones, and your skin peels just because you go outside."
Regin replied, sounding a bit challenged, "You big brute, you might be right about the cold of Norway not being that strong, but there is another place where it's so cold that our little friend down there would just fall off, and your flesh would freeze faster than you could say 'fucking cold.'"
They both laughed again. Regin had the laugh of an old man, while the big man's laugh was loud enough to shake the whole train.
The place Regin was referring to was probably Jotunheim, which would be strange, considering it was the home of the Jotun cult.
I might ask him about it later.
I knew now was probably the best time to interfere, so I asked, "Regin, I never heard you laugh like this. Seems like your new company is pretty funny."
Regin then noticed me.
"Oh, sorry, Tom. Didn't see you there. Yes, indeed, I haven't laughed like this in quite some time."
He made a hand gesture toward the big man.
"This here is Boris, but I better let him introduce himself."
The man stood up. He was about half a meter taller than me, but he had a cheerful smile.
"Yes, indeed. My name is Boris Rolov."
He held out his hand, and I shook it.
"Good to meet you, Mr. Rolov. My name is Tom Jaeger."
Boris laughed again, but then sat down.
I walked over to the bench opposite them so we could speak properly.
As soon as I sat down, Boris and Regin continued their conversation, but now I was a part of it.
"Please, Mr. Jaeger, call me Boris. I am not fond of my last name."
Interesting.
I wondered why someone wouldn't like his last name, but I thought it would be unfriendly not to respect his request.
"Of course, Boris. Then please call me Tom as well. And, if I may ask a question, how does a man find his way from Russia to Germany, especially in these—let's just say—peculiar times?"
Boris's eyes darkened, as if he usually didn't like speaking about his past.
Then he said, "Well, after the USSR and the Leninists took over, I noticed that the system of communism wasn't really to my taste. So I left Mother Russia as soon as I could."
I thought that what Boris was saying could be true, but it definitely felt like he was leaving something out.
Why leave in 1930, when the Soviet Union had been formed in 1922? And he still seemed to love Russia, considering that he called it "Mother Russia."
Why not simply flee to a more rural region where the state wasn't as present?
But maybe I was just imagining things.
I stood up again.
"Well, it was nice talking with you two, but I still have things to do. My friends, I wish you both a good rest of the evening."
Boris and Regin looked toward me and nodded.
They were both more interested in talking to each other than trying to keep me as the third wheel.