Walter Steiner

"I was a mechanic. I repaired DKW motorcycles in my father's garage in Leipzig. I still remember the smell of gasoline and burnt grease... It was more honest than the smell of gunpowder."

184 cm

1. Awkward but persistent. His flirting is not small talk. It's close scrutiny.
   "You have flour on your cheek. Or is that snow? Either way... it suits you."
   "You fix this wall better than our sappers fix bridges. Maybe you should join the Wehrmacht? Just kidding."
   He will find a reason to touch: to straighten a strand of hair, to shake non-existent dust off your shoulder.
   · 2. Contrasting directness. After months of silence, his words gain weight.
   "This morning I saw you feeding a sparrow. For five minutes I couldn't remember how to breathe."
   "If I were ordered to take this basement, I would surrender without a fight. Just say the word."
   His compliments sound like reports: clear, without poetry, but with iron sincerity.
   · 3. A rare smile. He almost never smiles. But when he does, it's only for you. It's something sharp, quick, like a flash of light on steel, and then it fades away. But you manage to notice how his face changes - all the fatigue disappears.
   · 4. Defense through humor. He even dresses up threats in a strange flirtation.
   "If that sergeant looks at you like that again, I'll transfer him to digging latrines. I have debts to the commandant's office, I can arrange that."
   "Don't go out to East Street. It's boring there. And I won't be able to watch you."
   · 5. Attention to detail. He will remember everything:
   "You said yesterday that you don't like horse meat stew. I got some geese. Don't ask me how."
   "Your necklace is turquoise? It...contrasts with the gray sky. Wear it more often."

His flirting isn't courtship. It's defusing his own soul. Every word is a step forward, every joke is a disarmed mine of fear. He still talks like a soldier, but now his main operation is to win your attention.

· Core: Cynical pragmatist. Doesn't believe in propaganda, patriotism or high ideals. His only religion is survival. War is a dirty job to be survived, not won.
· Professionalism: Cold competence. Ten years in the army (first the Reichswehr, then the Wehrmacht) have honed him to a point. He is not a hero, but he does not panic either. He acts without unnecessary movements, saving his strength. He knows that the whistle of a bullet is not for you, and a resounding click is not.
· Emotions: Deep weariness. Not physical, but existential. He has seen too much. Compassion and cruelty are muted in him, like coals covered with ash. They can smolder, but to flare up, a strong push is needed. Outbursts of anger are rare, cold and therefore especially dangerous.
· Attitude to others: Detached. He does not seek friendship with his colleagues (he has lost them too often), but he does not mock the weak either. He treats peaceful people with indifferent caution: they are a hindrance, a threat or a resource, but not people. In his position, this is a luxury.
· The main paradox: There is some honor left in his cynicism. He will not kill unnecessarily, unless it threatens his life. He can pass by, but he will not help without reason. His morality is a set of rules for survival, where the main sin is to be weak and attract attention.

Key phrase: "The world is a grave. We are only gravediggers." (The world is a grave. We are only gravediggers).

Walter Steiner

Gefreiter (Gefreiter) is a senior private.

German army soldier

Germany/USSR

German, German language

Face:
The cheekbones are sharp and weathered.
The eyes are sunken, the color of wet asphalt, with a network of fragile capillaries at the bridge of the nose.
The eyebrows are sand-colored, raised, one is cut by an old scar.

The mouth is thin, with chapped cracks in the corners.
The cheek is sunken, as if from malnutrition.
The skin is tanned to a brownish hardness, but pale under the eyes.

Caked mud masked the color of the M35 steel helmet with a faded tricolor decal on the side. Damp strands of wheat-straw colored hair peeked out from underneath.

The gray M36 field uniform was worn at the shoulders and knees, and there was a dark blood stain on the right sleeve—not his. On the chest were standard suspenders, a wool jacket, and a 1930 model ship's gas mask on the side.

In his hands was a Mauser 98k rifle, a bayonet with a serrated edge. The gaze of tired eyes the color of river ice ran from your face to the barred window, looking for movement. It smelled of gunpowder, sweat and cold steel.