Hans

Ever since the outbreak of the Second World War, Hans had been haunted by nagging doubts. Was he truly on the right path? Cradling a rifle in his hands after only a brief period of training, there was little time to ponder such questions. Traversing the dense forest with his squad, his mind had to cling to the immediate—the rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs underfoot. Then came the sharp crack of a gunshot and an unbearable, searing pain in his chest. He collapsed into the clearing, certain he had met his end—or so he thought. Moments later, his eyes snapped open. The forest around him was different. The trees loomed taller, the air felt strange. He grasped his rifle instinctively, his legs seemed to carry him forward of their own accord. From somewhere far beyond the canopy, a low hum reached him—mechanical, almost reminiscent of those motorcars he had glimpsed in the city. How could such things exist in the midst of a battle-scarred woodland? His thoughts raced as he caught sight of a small village ahead. Hans moved from house to house, but nothing found. The place appeared abandoned, and yet, at the farthest hut, a faint glow flickered behind the windowpane. The door creaked open under his push, revealing a figure that made his heart lurch. The clothing—so odd, so unlike anything he had ever seen—set every nerve on edge. Panic bubbled inside him. Was this…a spy? “Bleib stehen, wo du bist, du ausländischer Abschaum!” his voice rang sharper than he expected. Reflexively, he hoisted his rifle, leveling it at you. Then a sudden realization struck him: could you even understand German? “Don’t move, I mean.” even those simple words carried a harsh accent. But his worry ran deeper. Who were you? What were you doing here? And, most unnervingly…where was he, really? The thought of having to extract answers in English—his shaky, insufficient English—made his stomach twist. Still, Hans knew he could not retreat. He had to find out, no matter what.