The town of Kassel still smelled of bread and smoke when the sun broke over its tiled rooftops. From the chimneys of bakeries and workshops, drifted the familiar haze of flour and coal, mingling into an aroma that was at once comforting and faintly suffocating. The streets, damp with dew, seemed to glimmer in the light of dawn, though already the murmur of movement stirred in alleyways and markets. Germany was waking, restless in its bones.
Christian Wolfe stood in the doorway of his family's home, fastening the last brass button of his grey coat. The fabric, a little too stiff, scratched faintly against his neck, though his mother had pressed it carefully the night before. He breathed deeply, the morning air crisp enough to freeze his lungs. It felt as though the wind itself had sharpened overnight, preparing for something momentous. For weeks now, a tension had lingered over Kassel; intangible, like the charged silence before thunder.
"Christian, don't forget to take your papers." His mother's voice, warm and insistent, pulled him back from his drifting thoughts. Karina Wolfe appeared in the frame behind him, apron powdered white with flour. She had risen before dawn to knead bread, as she always did, the scent of yeast and dough clinging to her. Her hands, lined by years of work, still held a certain elegance, though her eyes betrayed her constant worry. That soft urgency—mothers everywhere carried it, but for Karina it had sharpened into something almost desperate.
Christian turned, smiled faintly, and reached for the small leather folder she extended. Inside lay his identification, a letter of reference, and the papers that would allow him entry into the Abwehr offices later that morning. He slipped them into his coat as though they were ordinary, though to him they felt heavier than steel.
"I won't forget," he said gently, though his words did little to ease the crease in her brow.
From the parlor came the deliberate rustle of newspaper pages. Herr Wolfe sat rigidly in his armchair, glasses glinting in the pale light that filtered through the lace curtains. His features had sharpened with age, carved into stern lines by years of service and discipline. Even here, in his own home, he carried himself like an officer awaiting inspection.
"Your examination is at nine," Herr Wolfe said without glancing up. His voice was clipped, steady, devoid of affection yet not entirely unkind. "Punctuality, Christian. Remember what I taught you." "Yes, Father." Herr Wolfe turned a page, the headline stark in its black letters: Danzig Question to Be Resolved.
A shadow passed across his face, though he masked it quickly. Christian wondered if his father believed the propaganda he read each morning, or if he simply accepted it as the rhythm of the age. In the Wolfe household, duty was rarely questioned. A sudden voice broke the solemnity.
"You'll come back in a new uniform!" Christian glanced upward. His sister Katia leaned over the stairwell banister, hair unpinned, tumbling in loose waves over her nightdress. Seventeen, restless, and unafraid, she wore her mischief like a badge of honor. Her grin was wide and defiant. "And then you'll start barking orders at us like Father. 'Katia, straighten your books! Katia, stop your singing!'"
"Katia," their mother warned, though the scolding lacked conviction.
Christian smirked, adjusting his cap. "Don't be ridiculous." But her words lodged within him. The Abwehr was not the Wehrmacht—it had no parade grounds, no grand uniforms for boasting. It was a world of shadows, of whispers exchanged in half-lit rooms.
Herr Müller, his mentor, had spoken of it as though it were a noble calling, a shield to protect Germany from the chaos abroad. Yet Christian knew, deep down, that to step into that world was to step into moral quicksand. Once in, every choice would carry a weight that might never be shed.
Still, he said nothing. With a final glance at his mother, he stepped outside. The cobbled street stretched ahead, narrow and slick with dew. A milk cart rattled in the distance, the horse's breath steaming in the cool air. Shopkeepers were beginning to stir—doors opening, shutters lifting and the clink of glass bottles echoing faintly.
Kassel was alive, ordinary in its motions, and yet to Christian every sound felt sharper, more defined. His boots struck the stones in a steady rhythm, a cadence that seemed to announce the beginning of something greater than himself.
His thoughts, as always, turned to Kristina.
Her last letter rested in his pocket, folded and refolded until the edges had begun to fray. He had nearly memorized her words, though he dared not read them openly where others might see. Her handwriting carried a grace that softened even the hardest days, her phrases etched with tenderness, with a quiet courage he both admired and feared. She was Jewish. The Reich had already made such love a dangerous defiance.
Yet in the fragile sanctuary of her letters, they were simply Christian and Kristina, two souls clinging to each other against the storm. He pressed a hand briefly against the pocket where her words lay hidden, as though the gesture might summon her presence beside him.
The streets widened as he neared Friedrichsplatz, the heart of Kassel. Here the architecture bore the weight of centuries—grand façades, churches steeples that reached for heaven, statues of princes who had ruled long before Hitler's banners. Yet even these relics of history were now overshadowed. Posters bearing the Führer's image had been plastered across walls and shopfronts. Black swastikas unfurled from windows where once flower boxes had hung.
The town was changing, its colors bled and replaced by the stark red, white, and black of the Reich. Christian slowed as he passed a group of boys in brown Hitler Youth uniforms. They marched in uneven lines, a young leader shouting cadence with a voice that cracked mid-command. Passersby smiled faintly, some with pride, others with the hollow expression of people resigned.
It was here, in the shifting currents of Kassel, that Christian felt the pull of two worlds. On one side stood his father's discipline, his mentor's urging, the Reich's promises of order and strength. On the other stood Kristina's eyes, her whispered dreams of a life free from chains, her courage in the face of persecution.
He wondered if it was possible to belong to both.
A church bell tolled the half-hour. He quickened his pace, boots echoing against the square. Ahead lay the offices of the Abwehr, housed in a building that had once belonged to a merchant family. Its doors loomed dark and solid, a threshold that once crossed would not easily allow retreat.
Christian hesitated for a moment, glancing back toward the town he knew—the rooftops of Kassel, the bakery smoke, the narrow lane that led back to his mother's bread and his sister's laughter. For a fleeting instant, he wished to turn around, to vanish into the ordinary rhythm of life.
But the world did not wait for hesitation. Squaring his shoulders, Christian ascended the steps. The door groaned faintly as it opened, swallowing him into the shadows of the Abwehr. Outside, the sun rose higher, gilding Kassel in light. Yet beneath the glow, the air still carried that sharp, uneasy edge, as if the very stones of the town knew what history was about to demand.