Berlin — January 30, 1942Anniversary of Hitler's rise to power
The streets were overflowing. From the Brandenburg Gate to Unter den Linden, thousands of red banners with swastikas flapped in the icy wind. Loudspeakers mounted on poles repeated the same slogan in a sharp, martial voice:
—In the ranks of National Socialism, the comrade is the worker! The comrade is the boss! All are one under the Reich!
Giant posters hung from buildings. On one, the face of Hitler—imposing. On another, Göring, in Luftwaffe uniform, smiling with pride. And next to them, a new one: FALK RITTER, helmeted, jaw tight, eyes fixed eastward.
—Steel marches under his gaze! —read the slogan.
Military bands played march after march as the units aligned with perfect discipline. At the very front, like a declaration to the world, Falk's Tiger II, with him standing tall in full dress uniform, hatch open. Flanking him, the rest of the platoon: Panthers and Panzer IVs. Behind, columns of the Leibstandarte, Das Reich, Totenkopf. The Reich's finest.
From a stage facing the Reichstag, draped in torchlight and banners, Rudolf Hess looked on solemnly. Beside him stood Goebbels, Himmler, and a beaming Göring, waving grandly to the crowd. At the center, arms folded, unmoving, stood Adolf Hitler, watching his warriors like a Roman emperor surveying his legions.
Hess raised his arm. The music fell silent.
—German people! —his voice thundered over the loudspeakers—. Today we salute those who triumphed in Stalingrad! Today we witness the new army of the Reich! Those who will march eastward with firm steps and hearts of iron!
The crowd erupted like a single body:
—Heil Hitler! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!
Falk kept his eyes forward. He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He simply nodded, rigid, aware of what he now was. Not a man. A symbol. A weapon.
In his Panther, Brunner was visibly moved, trying to keep composure. Helmut, observing him from the Tiger, shook his head silently. Konrad muttered something too soft to hear about the danger of too much faith.
As the tanks rolled by, women tossed flowers. Children waved flags. Some wore armbands embroidered with Falk's name. In Berlin, he was no longer a commander. He was a legend.
That night, back in the temporary barracks, Falk slowly removed his gloves. He sat down, saying nothing.
—How do you feel? —Helmut asked.
Falk took his time.
—Like a banner. One that waves... until it burns.
And he walked out, without looking back.