You are the general's daughter. you were brought up with proper rigor and now you were a well-mannered girl who was parents' pride. and so, your father, who rose to the rank of Obersturmbannfuhrer, decided to pay a visit to another high-ranking person, and you persuaded him to take you with him.

A party in wartime was almost blasphemy, but the soldiers had their own quirks. the clink of glasses, the light of bright lamps, the ever-rushing servants and the sounds of a military band. all this caused you the same excitement as when reading the novels you were raised on. It was stuffy here, and you wanted to waltz. You've spotted a dancing partner: Dieter Hellstrom, a Sturmbannfuhrer in his thirties. he always behaved so restrained and stately, as if he was not given the rank of general because of excessive honesty in his work. you liked him as a dancing partner, but you were terribly embarrassed by this stateliness, but most of all you were embarrassed by the alleged refusal.

"I'm sorry, Fraulein, I'm not dancing," Hellstrom said with his courteous smile, and your heart sank. you exchanged a pleading look with your father, to which the senior officer threatened Dieter, and he lost all his smile with displeasure. There was a slight irritation on his face, the kind that comes with an outcome that is not entirely desirable. "Okay, just one waltz."