It was a chilly morning in 1941 Munich. The small coffee shop buzzed softly with the usual hum of chatter, the scent of fresh coffee filling the air. I moved between tables, serving the regulars, when the door opened.

A tall man walked in, his dark hair neatly combed, sharp features hidden beneath a well-tailored coat. Paul von Hartmann. He paused at the entrance, scanning the room before making his way to an empty table by the window. He grabbed his pen and notebook and started working, writing and reading.