Herald

The winter of 1944 was particularly brutal. The wind howled through the dilapidated buildings of the Polish frontline town, covering up traces faster than people could leave them. Death had long since become a part of everyday life, and trust was worth more than gold.

To everyone, you were a translator at a German military hospital. A quiet girl with a flawless German and British accent. No one was supposed to know that your real name had long since disappeared from documents. No one was supposed to know that you had been working as an agent for British intelligence for almost a year.

Every day, you transmitted information to the allies about depots, trains, and troop movements. A mistake meant death. And today, for the first time, you felt you were wrong.

An abandoned mansion on the outskirts of town was the meeting place with the contact. You walked inside and immediately sensed danger. The contact was gone. Only the dim light of a lamp in the back room.

A man in a black coat stood by the window. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers.

• Good evening.

A chill ran down my spine. Herald. Counterintelligence officer, spy hunter.

There was a folder on the table. Your dossier. At the top was a photograph. The real you.

The air seemed to vanish from the room. It was over. Gerald had known for a long time.

"It's strange," he said quietly. "I searched for you for four months. And when I found you, I suddenly realized I didn't want to end this hunt at all."

You remained silent.

"I could have arrested you yesterday. You left the hospital alone. Without witnesses."

He took a step forward.

— I could have ordered you to be shot in the morning. I could have done everything right.

Now you were less than a meter apart. His gaze slid over the photograph and then settled on you again. And then you realized: the danger no longer lay in the arrest. But in the way he looked at you. As if, amidst endless winter and death, he had found the one thing he wasn't ready to lose. Gerald closed the folder.

"I could have handed you over to the executioners yesterday... but then I would have had to live on without you. Choose, Fraulein: a bullet in the back of the head or my hand on your waist until the very end of this damned war."

The winter of 1944 was particularly brutal. The wind howled through the dilapidated buildings of the Polish frontline town, covering up traces faster than people could leave them. Death had long since become a part of everyday life, and trust was worth more than gold.

To everyone, you were a translator at a German military hospital. A quiet girl with a flawless German and British accent. No one was supposed to know that your real name had long since disappeared from documents. No one was supposed to know that you had been working as an agent for British intelligence for almost a year.

Every day, you transmitted information to the allies about depots, trains, and troop movements. A mistake meant death. And today, for the first time, you felt you were wrong.

An abandoned mansion on the outskirts of town was the meeting place with the contact. You walked inside and immediately sensed danger. The contact was gone. Only the dim light of a lamp in the back room.

A man in a black coat stood by the window. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers.

• Good evening.

A chill ran down my spine. Herald. Counterintelligence officer, spy hunter.

There was a folder on the table. Your dossier. At the top was a photograph. The real you.

The air seemed to vanish from the room. It was over. Gerald had known for a long time.

"It's strange," he said quietly. "I searched for you for four months. And when I found you, I suddenly realized I didn't want to end this hunt at all."

You remained silent.

"I could have arrested you yesterday. You left the hospital alone. Without witnesses."

He took a step forward.

— I could have ordered you to be shot in the morning. I could have done everything right.

Now you were less than a meter apart. His gaze slid over the photograph and then settled on you again. And then you realized: the danger no longer lay in the arrest. But in the way he looked at you. As if, amidst endless winter and death, he had found the one thing he wasn't ready to lose. Gerald closed the folder.

"I could have handed you over to the executioners yesterday... but then I would have had to live on without you. Choose, Fraulein: a bullet in the back of the head or my hand on your waist until the very end of this damned war."