Paul stepped forward slowly, the men behind him tense. Even his own eyes were slightly unsteady as he moved ahead. Gustav and several Wehrmacht soldiers flanked him, their submachine guns lowered, but ready.
The wood creaked loudly beneath their boots as they reached the center of the bridge, stretching over the Vistula river.
Already standing there was a man in a dark green uniform, dozens of medals covering his chest. Paul knew that many more would be added if the war unfolded as it had in the original timeline.
The man was already famous, but his status would only grow.
He was shorter than Paul had expected, his hair already greying, his hairline receding.
"General Zhukov?" Paul asked, genuinely surprised. The man should have been on the other side of the world, fighting the Japanese.
"Generalmajor Jeager?" Zhukov replied, struggling slightly with the pronunciation, his heavy accent unmistakable.
Paul nodded and extended his hand. Zhukov met his gaze, and for a brief moment the two men studied each other. Then Zhukov took it and shook his hand firmly.
With his free hand, the Soviet general gestured to a nearby soldier. The man stepped closer, leaning in as Zhukov spoke quietly into his ear.
After listening, the soldier straightened and turned to Paul.
"General Zhukov is pleased to meet you and hopes for good cooperation between our two countries, here and in the future. He believes we have set a good example in this conflict."
Paul nodded before replying.
"I hope so as well. I have long heard of General Zhukov’s deeds, and it is an honor to meet him personally. If possible, I would like to remain in contact."
The soldier’s eyes widened slightly at the last words, but he quickly translated them. Zhukov, too, looked at Paul with clear surprise before responding.
"General Zhukov thanks you for your kind words. He agrees with the idea of keeping in contact, but wonders in which way you intend to do so. Letters, telegrams, or in person?"
"Preferably letters and telegrams," Paul replied with a faint smile, placing his hands behind his back. "Though I would not refuse a cup of coffee with the General. In fact, we could do something like that right now."
Paul gestured subtly to one of his attendants and whispered a few words. While the translator was still relaying the conversation, soldiers began carrying a small oak table toward the bridge.
Zhukov watched the scene unfold. Once the translation was finished, he nodded slowly, then smiled.
"No coffee. Vodka better."
Paul let out a short laugh and nodded in agreement.
Something truly unusual followed. The table was set in the middle of the bridge, two chairs placed opposite each other, all brought from a nearby truck. The two generals took their seats. A clear glass bottle of vodka was set between them, with two small glasses beside it.
Zhukov reached for the bottle, glancing at Paul for confirmation. Paul nodded. The glasses were filled without ceremony.
"Na zdorovye," Zhukov said loudly, raising his glass.
"Prost," Paul replied, lifting his own before drinking.
Behind him, Gustav remained standing, eyeing the glass with visible skepticism. Paul, however, was certain of one thing. In a geopolitical moment this tense, the Russian would not dare poison him.
It was not only the generals who had bonded, but the soldiers as well. They were allowed to cross the bridge and meet one another. Wehrmacht soldiers stepped onto Zhukov’s side, while Red Army troops crossed toward Paul’s.
Most of them did not understand each other’s language, but they still managed to communicate. Through gestures, broken words that existed in both languages, and simple expressions. They shared what they had, just as their commanders had demonstrated. Chocolate, liquor, cigarettes, small personal items. For a brief moment, the war felt distant.
Higher ranking officers held quieter discussions with the help of translators, standing on the bridge not far from Paul and Zhukov, who continued their own conversation.
"The General says that you are already known in Russia," the translator said. "Your maneuvers have been analyzed by the General Staff."
Paul’s eyes widened slightly, only for a fraction of a second, before his expression returned to normal as if nothing had happened.
"I am honored," Paul replied calmly.
The conversation continued for some time, touching on strategy, restraint, and mutual understanding, until it slowly reached its end.
"You know, General," Paul said at last, "one day I will show you a magic trick."
His eyes bearing something dangerous.
"A magic trick?" Zhukov asked, genuinely surprised.
"For a single moment," Paul continued, meeting his gaze, "the whole world will hold its breath."
Zhukov tilted his head slightly. "How?"
Paul paused, then looked him straight in the eyes.
"That you will see. Telling you now would take away its magic."
That moment, later known as Vodka on the Vistula, marked the end of the Polish–German war after only seventeen days, quicker than in the original timeline. More efficient.
Yet there was still someone who wished to defy fate, at any cost.
Prime Minister Sikorski practically lunged into the aircraft, two of his closest officers following close behind. The transport plane’s door was slammed shut before any of them had fully caught their breath.
Sikorski took his seat, his movements hurried and unsteady. His eyes darted nervously, his head tilting from side to side as he repeatedly glanced out of the small window.
The airport was little more than a dirt strip on the outskirts of Warsaw, a place the Germans and Russians had not yet reached.
The plane began to move. Slowly at first, then faster. It rattled violently as its tires tore across the uneven runway, the entire fuselage trembling beneath the strain.
Then, suddenly, nothing.
The wheels left the ground, and with them went much of Sikorski’s tension. He exhaled deeply, allowing himself a moment of relief. One last glance out of the window, before he leaned back into his seat.
His gaze dropped to the large suitcase resting between his knees.
It contained everything Sikorski still valued.
"Paris will be safe," he muttered, trying to calm himself further.
What he did not see in that moment was the co-pilot’s gaze through the half-open cabin door.
His head was tilted slightly to the side, his eyes carrying a dangerous glint, his lips curved into a faint, almost gentle smile. Then, without warning, he turned back toward the cockpit, his attention shifting to the pilot beside him.
Sikorski only blinked.
Suddenly, blood burst from the pilot’s neck, splattering across the cockpit.
"Seems like there was a slight accident," the co-pilot said calmly, smiling despite the situation.
Sikorski’s eyes widened, his breathing quickening as panic took hold.
"An accident? What—" he began to stammer, but the co-pilot was already on his feet, stepping out of the cockpit, a pistol raised.
The two officers reacted instinctively, reaching for their weapons, but they were far too slow.
Two shots rang out.
Both bullets pierced their foreheads cleanly. Their bodies tilted forward before collapsing lifelessly onto Sikorski, who shoved them aside in disgust.
"Fuck, what is this? What the hell is happening? Who are you?" he shouted, panic etched clearly across his face.
Slowly, the man reached up and removed his cap, his other hand still steady, the pistol now aimed directly at Sikorski.
A face all too familiar revealed itself.
"Reinhard Heydrich. Gestapo. Welcome onboard," Heydrich said, smiling at Sikorski like the devil himself.
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