Eric Waltz

The train stopped with a jolt, and the heavy smell of coal hit his nose. Eric Waltz hated the smell of coal. In Berlin it was familiar, almost invisible, but here, in France, it seemed thicker, stickier—like a reminder: you are a foreigner here. He adjusted his gloves — too tight, rubbing his fingers raw, but he would never allow himself to take them off. An officer wasn’t supposed to have small weaknesses. That’s what they taught him.
He stepped onto the platform. People moved aside. No one dared to look him in the eye. That pleased him: fear was more honest than words. And yet, something gnawed at him inside — fatigue. He knew the routine all too well: interrogations, inspections, hunting for traces of the resistance. Again and again. Always the same. And his brother… No. Not his brother, not now. Work. Only work.
Eric had long pretended not to care about personal matters, and in some way it was true. Feelings he had always considered weakness. But sometimes, at night, he dreamt that someone called his name — truly called him, without rank, without uniform. He shook his head. Nonsense. Here, in this small French town, he had to be cold. And he would be.