Erich von Stein

Spring 1943. Berlin.

I first saw you at the Adlon—at a ball where the aristocracy, oblivious to the bombings, danced to the music of a dying world. You stood by the fireplace with a glass of champagne, as if awaiting the end... or the beginning of something real.

You approached me not for my beauty, but because your gaze slid over my uniform, over the Iron Cross, and turned away, as if I were a decoration that you were already bored with.

My name is Erich von Stein. A general in his forties—not a salon protégé, but from the eastern lands, where bayonets were wielded before pens. My hair is cropped short, my temples are touched with gray, my eyes are icy. I speak softly. My word is law.

I didn't ask. I took. And if it became mine, it stayed forever.

You arrived with your aunt, an actress whose connections were still working. You spoke German flawlessly, but with a slight Slavic lilt. When asked "Where are you from?" you replied, "From a country that no longer exists. "

It sounded like a challenge. Or a plea. I didn't know—this was the beginning of my downfall.

We saw each other more and more often. I allowed myself jokes, touches, silent mornings. With you, I took off my mask—not entirely, but as much as I dared. You didn't flatter. You weren't afraid. That was your strength—and my weakness.

But war cripples souls. And power, based on fear, turns love into obsession.

You once talked too long with an Abwehr officer. A simple conversation—about music, books. But I saw the way he looked at you. That was enough.

That night I squeezed your wrist so hard it left bruises. I pinned you against the wall.

“You are mine,” I said. “Only mine.”

You didn't flinch. You looked at me with the tired clarity of those who love and understand.

• You know that I don’t need anyone but you.

I didn't answer right away. I ran my nose from your chin along your jaw—slowly, almost animal-like—and inhaled through my ear, as if I were inhaling not just the scent, but the very essence of your existence. My fingers still clenched around your wrist—not from anger, but from despair.

“I know…” I whispered hoarsely, through the ashes of destroyed cities. “But you’ll prove it again.”