Vladimir chopped steadily at the corn stalk.
“Thunk, thunk, thunk.” The worn down handle of his poorly conditioned steel axe thunked onto the thick husk of the innumerable stalks in his father’s farm. He rose up and wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was around 5:30 on the morning of January 7th, 1937. He was the middle child of 13, at the age of 13, living in a large, rural farm outside of Leningrad, USSR.
“Chop, Chop, Chop.” He continued to cut the corn stalks, one after another, with a numbing boredom sweeping over him. Why was he the one who had to do everything? A flicker of annoyance started, but died out as he heard the voice of his mother, calling him in.
“Vlad, Vlad. Come in quickly. We are having our meal now. You can get back to the work later.”
“Coming, Ma”, he replied, a little exasperation taking over.
He walked inside the house, a small but tidy cottage on the hill, overlooking the nearby village. As he walked in, the smell of corn mush overwhelmed his senses, and he was sharply distracted to the smell of the food.
“Come quick, and sit down.”
Quietly obeying, Vladimir took the seat at the dining table that he had made many years ago with his father. His thoughts took the best of him, and now Vladimir was dreaming away at the one thing he had always wanted. School. He loved to go to school, but he never had the chance, as his family was too poor to pay for books or supplies for any of their 13 children, let alone all of them at once. So he tried to learn on his own. Vladimir would count everything from the number bushels of corn in the farm (2986), the number of kernels per ear (512), the number of shingles on his roof (729), to the area of the hill on which he lived on.
After munching down his breakfast, he walked back to the field and started slogging through the day, just like any other. He watered the corn, milked the cow, collected the eggs, and fixed the leaky gutters. Every day was like today, a blur, filled with the boredom and monotony of everyday life. Slog through the day, and when his tired father came home from work at 9:00 PM from a school in Leningrad, wanting peace and quiet. Under the covers, however, Vladimir had stolen papers ripped from old textbooks found in his dad’s old leather bag. He would cherish and live those moments, learning every day about new topics; DNA one day, trigonometry identities another, Electromagnetism the next. But his absolute favorite was code-cracking. He loved it, and he would solve any code he came across in the book, make new ones, and solve them. Over the years, Vladimir never really knew what his intelligence and willpower would bring him; he was just reading and learning for fun. But all that changed, one day when he was 19, after he made a choice that would truly change his life.

“Come fast, the wagon’s leaving now. Fast, fast, get everything you need. Say bye to Ma,” his father said in a kind sort of yell as Vladimir rushed, liquid ecstasy running through his body; it was his first day going to anywhere outside his village. He had been invited by a “professor” in Leningrad, thanks to precise deduction skills of which his father had informed the professor. He grabbed his new carpet-bag as he got into the old horse-carriage. Two scenic hours later, he arrived in the big city of Leningrad. It was unimaginably busy, compared to the still and somewhat boring life that he lived back at home. Vendors everywhere, selling everything from street food to pots, thronged the streets as people rushed to buy them. At last, they arrived at the majestic Leningrad University, a university with esteem that reached as far as could be. Only the very best came here. Vladimir jumped out of the seat and ran behind his father, trying to absorb all the features as well. But instead of going into the big building, his father and a man that had come with them lead Vladimir to a small door, a door that would be oblivious to the naked eye. They went in, and he followed behind, wondering the secrecy of such a place. He was lead to another small room, where many stern and rough voices were being heard. A bit scared though intrigued, he walked in through the wooden planked door, following the queer man with a secret nature. Inside, he saw in big, formal letters: USSR FEDERAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY. Why he was taken here, he knew not, but he always had loved surprises.
“Hello, child. We have been expecting you. Come in, and make yourself comfortable.” An older man was sitting in a wooden swivel chair, wearing a nametag that said DMITROV. He looked like the leader of this group of about 7 people sitting around a round table: ASHKOV, IVANOV,

ABALYSHEV, CHEBYSHEV, DANSHEV, and YUGELEV, discussing something very important.
“Hello, sir. Is there any way I can be of help to you?” he asked humbly, remembering that the first impression was the most important.
“You can very much be of help young man. We are the UFIA, or the intelligence agency of this great country. Currently, as you may have heard, a very evil man named Adolf Hitler, from Germany (a country to the west) is a danger. And from what your father told me, you have some very valuable skills that might help us with some problems we are having deciphering many coded messages that we think are from battle plans, against us.”
“OK, sir. So when should should I start working on trying to make sense of these messages?”
“Now. Here is the file we are having particular trouble with,” he said, handing him a half-sheet of paper with D%QOBB09BB9%% written on it.
What nonsense! This was the most random garbage he had ever seen. Days and Weeks he pored over the string at the headquarters, testing every possible monogram and letter combination. Finally, it hit him. Every single letter had a hole inside it! He counted the number of holes, and now it was so easy! He knew Morse Code, and it translated to “Stalingrad. 75 Tanks. 12 Luftwaffen.” He rushed to Mr. Dmitrov to inform him of the good news. Immediately, Dmitrov called the army, and told them to dispatch a troop to Stalingrad immediately. Waiting for news of the battle days later eating the comforting porridge of his mother, he was anxious to know the news when his dad burst through the door one night, carrying his leather bag.
“You did it! You saved this country,” he cried. Tears of happiness and awe were falling from the cheeks of his face, staring with wonder at his son, the boy who had never been taught anything, who never had any resources, but had finally done what he had dreamed as a child. To change history.