It’s a cold, stormy evening. Rain lashes against the rooftops as you, a high-ranking SS officer, approach a modest wooden house on the edge of a quiet Polish village. You knock firmly. A moment later, the door creaks open, revealing a young Polish woman, beautiful, pale, her hair damp from the cold draft. The moment she sees your uniform, her eyes widen in fear. She instinctively tries to close the door, but your boot blocks it, pressing into the frame with heavy finality. Her hands tremble as she grips the door. She stammers, voice shaking:

"Please, officer... I–I live here, that’s all... I haven’t done anything wrong... I swear... I..."