The air had grown colder. Leaves had aged, changed colour, some too weak to hold on any longer drifting down, their remains gathering at the base of the trunks. Winter was coming, faster than one would have liked.
Paul stood still for a moment, watching the scene, his gaze deliberately avoiding the commotion not far from him.
"Dirty Jew, fuck off quickly!" a bald man shouted, a kitchen roll clenched in his hand, raised dangerously above two silhouettes clad in filthy, dark robes.
"We apologize, good sir, my sister and I, we…"
Paul, dressed in civilian clothes, tilted his head slightly, his jaw tightening.
Painful screams rang out from the centre of the commotion. Not the cries of grown men, but childlike pleading, raw and desperate. The sound cut into Paul's ears brutally.
He shook his head once before walking straight toward the man who had been beating the two children without pause.
The bald man raised his arm again, swinging for another blow, aiming at the children who were already curled up in the dirt, utterly defenceless. His arm came down with all his weight, the kitchen roll stopping only centimetres from its target.
Suddenly, he froze.
Not by choice.
A hand had clamped around his arm, iron hard.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the bald man barked, raising his free hand.
The onlookers held their breath.
"Don't you think they've had enough?" Paul asked quietly.
"Enough?" the man shouted back, bursting into loud laughter.
Paul studied him for a moment, weighing whether to simply draw the pistol hidden in his pocket. Only the last strands of rationality held him back.
Then he heard a quiet voice rise from somewhere among the onlookers.
"Hey… isn't that that young guy? What was he called again? I saw him in the newspaper."
Paul sighed softly and turned his back to the voice at once.
"Yes. Enough of this," Paul said. "But not enough punishment for their crime. I'll take them with me. They'll receive plenty of it."
His voice was calm, deliberately dangerous.
The bald man stared at Paul, judging his gestures, his expression, deciding he was dealing with a lunatic. It did not trouble him.
"Take them then. Make them pay, dear friend," he said, dismissing Paul with a wave.
Paul bent down and hauled the two children out of the mud. Blood streamed from one of their noses, the crimson liquid dripping onto the freshly fallen leaves.
He grabbed them rather violently, tossing them with him, walking away from the scene.
As Paul walked through the park, he exchanged brief looks with various men. All were dressed in civilian clothes, yet they shared something unmistakable.
Their gaze.
Paul gave one of them a subtle, affirming nod before continuing on with the two children.
The men scattered throughout the park began to move. Quietly, deliberately, they converged on the bald man's restaurant, the place where the scene had unfolded. Each approached from a different direction, unconnected at first glance.
The man Paul had nodded to slipped a small knife from his pocket, concealing it beneath his sleeve, his hand closing around the handle as he walked.
"Good sir, the body, muttured, almost inaudible, as he was pressign his hand against his bloody nose.
"Please, my sister and I haven't done anything," he cried, looking up at Paul with pleading eyes.
For the first time, Paul truly saw the boy's face. His childish features were caked in dust and grime, the corners of his mouth dry and cracked, his eyes filled with raw emotion.
Paul stopped walking.
Without warning, he guided the children into a narrow side street. The sudden movement startled them.
He pulled a container of water from his coat and tossed it toward the boy.
"Drink," he said, leaning against the wall, scanning the alley for anyone approaching.
The boy stared at him in confusion for a moment before slowly picking up the container. He did not drink. Instead, he held it up while his sister drank greedily. Only when she was finished did he take the rest for himself.
"Where do you live?" Paul asked, still not looking at them.
They hesitated, then answered in unison.
"Josephine Street."
Paul nodded once and called out softly.
"Gustaf."
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a silhouette appeared at the far end of the alley, it'd footsteps echoing through the valley. As it approached, a familiar face emerged from the shadows.
Paul studied the man. Gustaf, the commander of his newly formed guard squad. Unofficial, unregistered, but filled with dangerous men. Fighters. Survivors.
Gustaf was one of them. He had saved Paul's life by killing James on that fateful day. An excellent combatant, trained by the Gestapo, disciplined and ruthless when needed. He and several others had chosen to join Paul's unit, a force that still lacked a name.
But not a purpose.
Paul had recruited not only from the Gestapo, but also from the Wehrmacht, the Luftwaffe, the Kriegsmarine, and even the SS. Only a handful were chosen.
Officially, they had resigned, retired, or died. Some had vanished in training accidents. Others were listed as casualties of distant missions. Gustaf, for example, had fallen during the operation in the US. At least, that was what Heydrich had reported.
In truth, they still lived.
A group of ghosts, loyal only to Paul, had been created. They were selected not only for their skill, but also for their loose ties to the establishment. Men who could act without hesitation. Without questions.
One of them had even been a prisoner, released through a favour Paul had still been owed.
Behind the approaching Gustaf, more silhouettes emerged from the shadows. One of them still held a knife, fresh blood slowly dripping from the blade.
"One of you," Paul commanded calmly. "Take these children home."
The boy's eyes widened.
"Thank you, sir. Thank you," he cried, wrapping his arms around Paul's leg.
Paul's gaze drifted back to the tree he had watched earlier. Leaves were still falling, slowly but inevitably reaching the ground. Others clung to the branches, stubborn, defiant against what awaited them.
He looked down at the boy.
"You are a stubborn one," he said quietly, then placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
The boy smiled, not truly understanding the meaning behind the words.
One of the dark clothed men took the children with him, guiding them away before disappearing around the corner.
What the boy did not hear were Paul's final words.
"As defiant as they may be, not a single leaf remains when winter comes. All fall in the end," he whispered bitterly, turning away.
His shadows followed him through the streets. Some close, some at a distance. But every one of their eyes was fixed on Paul.
Paul walked through the streets. Many people watched him. Perhaps because of his height, perhaps because of his growing fame. He did not know.
"The November pogroms! Newly established Jewish laws! Read now!" a vendor shouted, leaning out from his stall.
Paul cast a brief glance at the newspaper.
2 November 1938The Führer Announces New Jewish Laws
The vendor looked at Paul more closely. The face seemed familiar. For a moment, he opened his mouth, as if about to speak.
Then he closed it again.
He watched Paul walk away.
A shiver ran down the man's spine after meeting that gaze. He shook his head, forcing the feeling aside, and resumed shouting.
"News! News! New Jew laws!"
Later that evening, a black Mercedes rolled into the driveway of Paul's estate.
As the door opened, Paul was greeted by his attendant, who took his coat and shoes with practiced efficiency.
"Sir, Herr Friedrich…" the attendant began.
Paul's eyes had already moved past him. Werner was seated at the large table in the living room, his posture relaxed but alert.
"…is here," the attendant finished quietly.
"Not only him, right?" Paul replied, rhetorical, as his gaze shifted to the man sitting beside Werner.
Messy grey hair. A sharp, piercing stare that did not waver as Paul entered.
A man who had not come by accident.
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100k Words milestone
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