The streets of Kassel bore the peculiar quiet of a town on the cusp of something vast and unseen. Shops opened their shutters one by one, bakers dusted flour from their aprons into the air, and the sharp scent of rye loaves mingled with coal smoke from chimneys. Christian Wolfe walked briskly, his coat drawn tight against the lingering chill of morning. Every sound—the clip of his boots on cobblestones, the squeak of a cartwheel, the laughter of a boy chasing a stray dog—seemed sharpened by the weight pressing in on the nation.
In his breast pocket, beside Kristina's folded letter, lay his papers, sealed neatly in their leather folder. His mother's voice still echoed in his ears: Don't forget your papers. Karina Wolfe had said it as if those documents were more fragile than bread dough, more vital than breath itself. She had kissed his cheek with hands still floured, her eyes shadowed by a fear she had not dared speak. Mothers always knew what history refused to say aloud.
Christian adjusted his cap. The Reich spoke of order, of destiny, of a thousand years rising out of the ashes of humiliation. Yet beneath that rhetoric lay uncertainty. He felt it in the tightness of his father's voice, in Katia's teasing that cut too close to truth, and most of all in the secrecy of the organization he now approached: the Abwehr.
The building loomed ahead, set apart from the bustle of market squares, its brick walls severe, its windows shuttered against casual glances. A single sentry guarded the iron gate, rifle slung over his shoulder, eyes scanning with a practiced indifference. Christian presented his papers. The guard barely glanced at them before motioning him inside, as if already accustomed to young men drawn by ambition, or perhaps by something more complicated than ambition.
Inside, the corridors smelled faintly of tobacco and ink. Footsteps echoed on polished stone floors. Officers passed in pressed uniforms, their insignia gleaming, their expressions guarded. No one lingered in conversation; words were weighed carefully here, like gold on a scale. Christian straightened his back, reminding himself of his father's instruction: Discipline in posture is discipline in thought. Still, his pulse quickened. The Abwehr was not the Wehrmacht. It was a world of shadows, of double meanings, where a misplaced word could brand one either trustworthy or expendable.
He was ushered into a modest office lined with shelves of leather-bound volumes and maps pinned to the walls. A man sat behind the desk, spectacles perched low on his nose. His hair, streaked with silver, suggested age, but his eyes were sharp as a hawk's.
"Young Wolfe," the man said, his tone not unkind but clipped. "Have a seat."
Christian obeyed, lowering himself into the chair across from the desk. "My name is Herr Müller. You will call me that, nothing more. I am neither a general nor a commander. Titles are a luxury we do not indulge here. I am told you are punctual, disciplined and how shall I say, observant." His gaze lingered on Christian, as though measuring his very breath.
Christian swallowed. "I try to be, Herr Müller." Herr Müller's lips twitched into the faintest ghost of a smile. "That is good. Observation is not about trying—it is about becoming. One does not try to notice; one either sees or one does not. Tell me, on your way here, what did you observe?"
Christian blinked. His mind raced. "A milk cart… drawn by a brown mare. The driver favored his left arm, as though injured. Three shop windows were shuttered, though the hour was late enough for business. Two officers in uniform—infantry, I think—passed by the church, speaking quietly. And a boy chased a dog across the square. The dog had a limp."
Silence fell. Müller leaned back, interlocking his fingers. The faintest trace of satisfaction crossed his features. "Good. You will learn that the world speaks endlessly, even when men believe they are silent. Our work is to listen." Christian nodded, though unease coiled within him. This was a test, and he had barely passed.
"You are here because the Abwehr is not built on brute strength," Herr Müller continued. "Others will carry rifles into Poland, into France, into Russia. You will carry silence, and silence is heavier. Do you understand?" "I… think so," Christian said. "No. You will not understand, not yet. But you will. Tell me, why do you wish to serve here?"
The answer he had rehearsed—a dutiful echo of his father's words about loyalty to Reich and order suddenly felt thin. He hesitated. And in that pause, Kristina's face rose before him, her dark hair falling across her brow as she laughed softly in the garden, her hands ink-stained from writing letters. He thought of her words: Christian, love is also a kind of defiance.
"I wish to protect what is worth protecting," he said at last, carefully. "Not just borders, but people. Families. My family." Müller studied him for a long moment. "An unusual answer. Perhaps dangerous. But perhaps… necessary." He rose and walked to the map on the wall. His finger traced the line of Germany's border with Poland. "The storm will break soon, Young Wolfe. When it does, we will need men who see more than flags. You may prove to be such a man."
Christian's chest tightened. Herr Müller spoke as if the war had already been decided, inevitable, not a question of if but when. He thought of his father's stern insistence on duty, of Katia's laughter at the banister, of Kristina's whispered fears. The threads of his life were being drawn inexorably into a web he could not yet see.
Herr Müller turned back to him. "You will report here tomorrow at seven. Do not be late. Bring nothing unnecessary, leave nothing behind. From this moment forward, your life belongs as much to secrecy as to yourself."
"Yes, Herr Müller," Christian said, though the words felt heavier than any he had spoken before. When he stepped back into the corridor, the building seemed to close around him like a vault. He passed other recruits, their faces pale, their eyes darting like moths in a jar. Some looked eager, others frightened. He wondered which of them would remain a year from now, and which would be swallowed by silence.
Outside, Kassel carried on with its ordinary rhythms: women haggling in the marketplace, children skipping rope, soldiers striding past with rifles slung. But to Christian, everything looked sharper, more fragile, as though a great hand hovered over the town, ready to sweep it into history's furnace. He adjusted his cap once more. The leather folder pressed against his chest.
Kristina's letter lay folded beside it, a reminder that beyond uniforms and orders, there were promises made in stolen hours, in gardens and candlelit rooms. She had written of escape, of Paris, of a life together far from the Reich's grasp. Christian longed for it, yet even as he walked the thought seemed like smoke slipping through his fingers. The Reich was preparing for war. And now, so was he.