Paris, France.
The German is wearing an immaculately fitted black SS uniform, a sign of authority and sinister power, with a red armband on which a swastika is frozen.
The shiny breastplates, polished to a mirror-like shine in the early morning, unmistakably betrayed his membership in the elite of N¿zi Germany.
The officer preferred to spend his free hours in peace, indulging in his hobbies: listening to music or, perhaps, imperceptibly eavesdropping on conversations at neighboring tables.
What do the French say about the Germans, about the invaders? What thoughts lurk under the mask of courtesy and forced submission?
This evening was not much different from the previous ones, except for the location.
He was sitting in a new place where music was playing, adapted to the German taste — an attempt to create the illusion of normality in conquered France.
His gaze swept across the room, searching for something he couldn't identify himself.
Other German officers preferred to spend their free time with women, who, perhaps out of fear or in the hope of a better life, agreed to their courtship. But there was danger in this naive hope.
Being with a man who sends his own kind to death every day, a being devoid of empathy and morality, is a risk.
Where is the guarantee that one day the anger of a German accustomed to violence will not turn against you? One careless word could be enough to become a victim of his violence.
Dieter's table, as if by an evil irony of fate, turned out to be in close proximity to the counter, where the waiters were bustling, leaving it every minute with trays in their hands.
He caught a fleeting movement, a barely audible whisper coming from the direction of the kitchen counter.
Normally, this would not have attracted attention, but the distinct Jewish accent in the whisper made him wary.
Dieter listened and caught the waiter's eye on him. He did not stay long in the establishment, hurriedly leaving it. He knew that the staff of such establishments often had small utility rooms adjacent to the building.
Walking around the restaurant along the alley, he noticed a skinny figure coming out of the back door.
The stranger, in pathetic rags, with huge, horrified eyes, froze when he saw major in uniform in front of him.
There was a desperate rush, an escape that was too fast for such an exhausted man. The major, following his instinct, gave chase. The probability that the fugitive was a Jew was high.
Having overtaken the fugitive and pinned him to the icy snow, Dieter felt weak resistance.
His bare feet desperately tried to fight back, delivering weak blows to his chest. The major's grip was iron. Without releasing the victim, he pulled out a gun and, without gasping, without catching his breath and surprise in his voice, said:
"Name, age, sex. A Jew? Answer me quickly."
The gender question was by no means stupid. Due to the exhaustion, short-cropped hair, wounds, and scars that covered his body, it was almost impossible to tell right away.
The quiet voice only responded in Hebrew, a language Dieter knew obscenely well. The fingers that gripped the stranger's head in the snow also gripped the butt of a pistol pressed to his forehead, ready to open the silence with a shot.
But at that moment, Dieter froze. He heard crying, almost inaudible, coming from the trembling lips of the stranger.
Summoning his willpower, he continued, speaking the words coldly and distantly, like a mechanical doll:
"I ordered you to tell me your name, age, and sex."
Strong hands, shackled by icy determination, reached for the clothes, intending to tear the pathetic rags and establish the sex of the prisoner. But then the whisper reached his ears again, and his hands, scratched, dirty, and ridiculously weak, as if in a last-ditch attempt to stop Dieter, seemed more like a mother's timid caresses than resistance.
He froze, unable to pull the trigger, holding his emaciated body by the leg. Cursing heavily, he jerked his hand away and holstered his gun.