The Abwehr compound outside Kassel was a building one could almost miss if not looking closely. Its walls were plain brick, its windows shuttered, and its gates unremarkable compared to the imposing architecture of Berlin. To passersby, it seemed like nothing more than a bureaucrat's office. But inside, Christian Wolfe quickly discovered, the world he knew would end.
Boots thundered against worn linoleum as he and the other recruits marched in formation behind Herr Müller. The air smelled of chalk dust, damp wool, and gun oil. Christian's pulse matched the cadence of their steps, though each beat carried him further away from his old life.
They entered a chamber that resembled both classroom and chapel. Wooden benches faced a lectern. Behind it, instead of a cross, hung a massive map of Europe. Red pins clustered at borders, and black arrows slashed through cities Christian had only seen in atlases: Warsaw, Paris, and Prague.
Herr Müller stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. His gray eyes cut through them with clinical precision. "Gentlemen, and ladies," he nodded at the two women among the recruits. "Today you cease to be merely sons and daughters of your cities. From this moment, you belong to shadows. You are no longer citizens first. You are servants of the Reich, bound to the Abwehr."
A ripple of unease moved through the room. Christian fixed his eyes on the map. "The Wehrmacht fights openly," Herr Müller continued. "The Luftwaffe takes to the skies, the Kriegsmarine to the seas. But we," he wrapped his knuckles against Warsaw. "We fight everywhere and nowhere. Our weapons are silence, deception, observation. Our victories will never see parades. Our failures will never see graves."
The recruits shifted uneasily. Müller's tone dropped lower, weightier. "Understand this: once you leave this building on your first mission, you cannot return home until the war is over. Not for Christmas, not for funerals, not for weddings. You belong to the Abwehr until Europe's conflict ends, until we have won this Great War."
Christian's breath caught. Not return home? The words rang like a death knell in his ears. He pictured his mother dusting flour from her hands, his father with the newspaper, Katia's laughter echoing through their house. He pictured Kristina, her soft smile, her letters folded carefully in his pocket.
A tall recruit from Bavaria, Reinhardt rose abruptly. "You mean we sever ourselves entirely? That we cannot even write?" "You may write," Herr Müller said evenly. "But your letters will be censored, and many will never leave this compound. You will learn to write with omission, to speak through silence. Fail, and you endanger everyone you love."
Reinhardt faltered and sat. "Listen well," Herr Müller pressed. "The Reich asks this sacrifice because war devours nations. Poland will fall soon. France, perhaps England, will follow. To slip home is to risk the safety of your family and every single citizen of our country. Loose words at a dinner table can undo months of intelligence. To return home is treason to your comrades and betrayal to your blood."
He let the silence stretch until it pressed heavily against their chests.
"If you wish to remain ordinary citizens, leave now. If you wish to serve in the shadows, stand." The weight of choice pressed down on Christian. Every instinct screamed to stay seated, to cling to family and Kristina. Yet, as if guided by unseen force, he stood. One by one, others followed until the entire room was on their feet.
Müller's face softened almost imperceptibly.
He pulled from a drawer a small leather-bound ledger. It was no Bible, but a record. "Repeat after me: I swear upon my life and honor that I shall serve the Abwehr with loyalty, secrecy, and obedience. I shall not betray my comrades, nor my mission, nor my nation, even unto death. I renounce my home until the war is finished."
Their voices echoed unevenly at first, then strengthened in unison. Christian felt each word carve itself into his flesh. I renounce my home until the war is finished. Müller closed the ledger with a decisive snap. "From this day forward, you are no longer merely men and women. You are shadows. Welcome to the Abwehr."
That night, the barracks buzzed with whispered speculation. Some believed they would be sent east into Poland to track troop movements. Others whispered of France or Belgium. Christian sat in silence, Kristina's letter folded once more in his pocket. By lamplight he read it again.
Do not let them take your soul, Christian. Whatever uniform you wear, remember you are more than the Reich. You are better.
The Oath burned in his mind. Her words lingered like a plea. Between them stretched a chasm he could not yet see the bottom of. For the first time, he wondered: could he honor both? Or had he already lost one to serve the other?