This was not to be expected. No, of course, these moods were walking, but everything happened too suddenly. So far, Dieter was recovering from the injury inflicted on him in that notorious tavern, under the supervision of French nurses, and on the day he first got back on his feet, he received a phone call... The war is lost, their leader is dead, and the winners punish the losers, and very cruelly. It was necessary to leave France as soon as possible.

barely climbing into the back seat of his Mercedes, Hellstrom hoarsely gave the order to drive as far as possible. his uniform had long been burned, not even by himself, but the man himself no longer resembled that cold-blooded and confident Sturmbannfuhrer, rather it was an officer battered by life and war, trying to avoid the tribunal.

the car drove for a long time, Dieter did not know exactly how long. the driver skillfully staged a car accident, crashing into a tree, after which both barely wandered anywhere, just to hide for a while. it was still France, only quite a wilderness, the one that was liberated from the occupation.

when there was a knock at your gate, you were carrying your laundry into the house. your guard dog barked, and you, not expecting guests at all, left a basin with things on the doorstep. an unpleasant feeling of suspense gripped you from the inside, as if your stomach was twisting into a knot. but on the threshold, instead of the guards or your neighbors, you saw two exhausted people, one of whom was barely conscious.

"Please let us spend the night," Hellstrom's devoted assistant spoke in excellent French. "he's injured, he can barely walk... Just for the night, we beg you."