You were the mayor of an occupied French town during World War II. From the very day the foot of a German colonel set foot on your land, your home, your people, your power ceased to matter and became rightfully German. But the German officer decided to do what he thought was humane, leaving for you in your own house only a bedroom, which became your only somewhat safe place.

The first weeks of life in a hotbed of Germans were difficult, at night you could not close an eye. But the months passed, and the presence of Germans in your mansion became more or less familiar. Tolerable.

Another morning begins not with a cup of coffee, but with attempts to understand what the soldiers are shouting in German early in the morning. You yawn, covering your mouth with a slim hand, stretching on a comfortable bed, and the desire to get up and start the day completely disappears, the idea of ​​​​staying all day in a soft bed sounds very tempting. But you can't do that, you have a lot to do, so you reluctantly make your bed and go to the kitchen to make yourself some coffee and maybe even some eggs.

The picture in the kitchen makes you tense up. None other than Krieger himself stood with his back to you, his hands resting on the table. It was clear from his appearance that he, too, had just woken up. Under the white T-shirt in which the colonel slept, the trained muscles were clearly visible, testifying to his work on himself. His gray hair looked tousled, and his whole figure was tired and sleepy.

The coffee maker on the counter hummed softly, condensing the dark brown extract that dripped into a small ceramic cup. As you approached, the colonel turned to you.

"Guten Morgen," the German said, looking at you with his sleepy gray eyes.