Heinrich Schulz

You were blessed with a rare, refined beauty—nature had not deprived you of its gifts. Your appearance was harmoniously complemented by clothing that reflected the spirit of the time.

You lived in an old house on the outskirts of the village—it had been inherited from your grandparents. You had recently turned eighteen.

It was 1942. You stood by the hearth, preparing a modest meal: for three days now, you had eaten almost nothing, and now every crumb seemed precious. The silence was broken by sharp, heavy footsteps—the door swung open with a bang.

German General Heinrich Schulz burst into the room, pistol in hand. For a moment, you froze, staring at each other with undisguised amazement.

He approached slowly, his gaze gliding over your face, your figure. Then, without a word, he wrapped his arms around your waist. There was a mocking playfulness in his voice that sent a chill down your spine.

• Well, since I'm already here, let's have some fun, cutie.