Doppelgänger - Voyage of HMAT Tyche

15 September 1946 – New York City, 0800 hours

Irwin Kuckuck stood at the edge of the Brooklyn waterfront, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his cheap overcoat, staring at the dark mass of the HMAT Tyche. Somewhere deep inside, he felt it again—that aching hollowness, the feeling that he was only a shadow wearing a man’s skin. Always copying. Always pretending. A doppelgänger.

Irwin knew he wasn’t like the others. He hadn’t worked in the camps like Gasspuk. He hadn’t hurt anyone. He didn’t make false documents or fake art. He’d made and repaired his clocks - an honest unassuming trade. The Nazi’s had been a terror to him for the last decade - and the Russians promised to be worse. Homosexuality was a **** sentence under their regimes.

Otto—Irwin’s cousin, a Nazi co-conspirator and rogue—had been the one to hatch the plan. Smuggle themselves and eight of the worst excuses for humanity out of Europe into New York under forged papers. No politics, just business. The gold the guards possessed was worth its weight in these dire times. Irwin did not want to dwell upon how Kruger and his fellow guards came upon it. He gritted his teeth.

Otto was good at business and Kruger had a scheme to set them up for good. Irwin was just good at hiding - but not good enough he knew. He regretted joining Kruger. He should leave. Hide from these monsters.

But they were here, about to rob this woman and flee again. Otto had slipped away to organise the escape boat. They had Otto’s false documents - papers for Irwin Kuckuck, Kruger Gasspuk and the other guard… Godfrey. They had their tickets for the voyage.

Irwin flinched when Gasspuk clapped him on the shoulder, all smiles and false bonhomie. “Almost done, little cuckoo,” he said, using Irwin’s old nickname. “We steal these **** and then it’s a new life. Sunshine. Opportunity. Perhaps in Brazil. A new start for true Aryans…” was there a veiled threat there? Did Kruger know?

Irwin ignored the threat. A new life. Irwin wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe he could leave the past behind, the terror, the lies, the secret knowledge that one wrong word—one wrong look—could mean the end. Because even now, Gasspuk would kill him if he knew what Irwin really was. And he would laugh while he did it.

Irwin said nothing. He pulled his coat tighter, hiding his pale, clever hands. Around him, men barked orders, laughter crackled, crates thudded against steel—and still he felt apart from it all. Always apart. Always pretending.

He looked at Gasspuk, a vile man who claimed to be the “hero of Sachsenhausen”, a monster in crisp tailoring, watching everything with the lazy confidence of a man who believed the world belonged to him and his.

“Let’s get on board…” Gasspuk said.