The drizzle began before dawn, a fine mist that clung to the cobblestones of Kassel and turned the streets into sheets of dull grey. Christian Wolfe stood at the window of his room, watching as water streaked down the glass. The city, muffled in fog, looked less like the town of his childhood and more like a place out of time; shrouded, secretive, and waiting. It seemed appropriate for what this day would bring.
He was to meet Herr Müller again, this time not for pleasantries or orientation but for his first real task. The thought made Christian's chest tighten. He had memorized the tenets of discipline his father had drilled into him; he had rehearsed the names of German commanders and the geography of Europe until it filled his dreams. Yet nothing, not even the stern presence of his father or the whispered reassurances of his mother, could prepare him for the unknown path ahead.
Katia burst into his room without knocking, her auburn hair half-tamed by a ribbon and her schoolbooks pressed against her chest. "You're awake already." she said, with a mixture of surprise and mischief. "Or did you even sleep at all?"
Christian offered a faint smile. "Sleep doesn't come easily these days."
Katia tilted her head, studying him with the keen eyes of someone too perceptive for her age. "You're different since you met Herr Müller. Like you're carrying something you can't share."
He turned from the window and adjusted his coat. "Perhaps that's true. But there are things better left unspoken." "Secrets," she whispered, lowering her voice as though the very walls might be listening. "You'll become a man of secrets."
Christian paused. There was no mockery in her tone this time, only a kind of awe mixed with fear. He reached out, briefly ruffling her hair in the way he had when she was a child. "Do me a favor, Katia. Don't follow me into the shadows. Stay on this side where it's safe." Her eyes narrowed. "Safe doesn't exist anymore. Not in Germany." The words clung to him as he left the house and stepped into the mist-soaked morning.
The real Abwehr office in Kassel was housed in a nondescript building near the old quarter, its façade indistinguishable from the neighboring warehouses. That anonymity was deliberate. Inside, however, the transformation was immediate: polished wood floors, the scent of ink and tobacco, and the quiet hum of telephones.
Herr Müller was waiting at the far end of a corridor, his frame lean but commanding, his pale eyes betraying little emotion. He beckoned Christian with the faintest tilt of his head.
"Wolfe. Good. Punctuality is a soldier's first weapon." Christian saluted. "Herr Müller." "Follow me." They entered a cramped office lined with filing cabinets. On the desk lay a small leather briefcase. Müller tapped it lightly with one gloved finger. "Inside are documents scheduled for delivery to Berlin. You will escort them to the rail station and ensure they arrive in the hands of the designated courier. A simple task, but essential."
Christian felt both relief and disappointment. He had half-expected something thrilling, something that would justify the sleepless nights and his sister's watchful suspicion. Instead, he was to be a messenger. Still, Müller's gaze silenced his thoughts.
"This is not about carrying papers," Müller continued. "It is about discipline. Precision. You will be watched, though you may not know it. The Abwehr needs to know if you can be trusted even with the simplest of tasks." Christian straightened. "I understand." Müller's expression softened just a fraction.
"Do not seek glory too soon, Wolfe. Intelligence work is not measured in medals but in silence and in the results, it never reaches the light. Now go."
The streets of Kassel stretched before him like a labyrinth. Christian held the briefcase tightly, resisting the urge to glance behind him.
Every passerby seemed suddenly significant; the woman carrying baskets of apples, the student on a bicycle and the man in a long coat smoking a cigarette at the corner. Were they truly ordinary, or were they watching?
By the time he reached the station, his nerves were raw. The platform buzzed with activity: porters loading crates, travelers clutching tickets, soldiers in field-grey uniforms leaning against posts. Christian spotted the courier immediately — a middle-aged man with a brimmed hat and a newspaper folded under his arm. The signal was subtle: the man set down the paper, adjusted his hat, and touched his lapel twice.
Christian approached, his heartbeat drumming against his ribs. "The weather is unkind today," he said, the coded phrase Herr Müller had instructed him to use.
The man nodded. "But the harvest will be strong." He extended his hand. Christian passed the briefcase, and in that moment of exchange, he felt both insignificant and indispensable.
Yet as the courier disappeared into the crowd, Christian noticed something; a shadow lingering near the platform's edge. A man in a leather coat, watching him with too much focus. Christian turned quickly, merging into the throng, but the unease lingered. Had he been really followed? Or was paranoia already shaping his mind into Herr Müller's mold?
That evening, Christian returned to Herr Müller's office, his report crisp and precise. Herr Müller listened in silence, then lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. "You felt eyes upon you," Herr Müller said, not as a question but as a statement.
"Yes, Herr Müller." "Good." Smoke curled around his words. "Paranoia, Wolfe, is a gift in our trade. Do not banish it; sharpen it. But always remember: fear is a blade that cuts both ways. Control it, and you live. Lose control, and you expose yourself."
Christian nodded, though part of him bristled at the calm way Herr Müller spoke of fear, as though it were a tool rather than a torment. Herr Müller studied him for a long moment. "You remind me of myself, once. Too eager, too aware of the moral weight of every decision.
You will learn, as I did, that the Abwehr lives in the cracks between truths and lies. We do not choose right or wrong, only what is necessary." Christian thought of Kristina, then of her letters, her laughter and her fragility in a world closing in on her. Was love "necessary" in a Reich that demanded loyalty above all else? He said nothing, but the question gnawed at him.
As he left the office, the night pressing down upon Kassel, Christian realized something profound: this was only the beginning. The war had not yet reached its full storm, but the shadows were already lengthening. He was inside them now, caught between duty and conscience, and every step would pull him deeper.