At 2 a.m., residents of Berlin woke to an enormous light shining through their half-open windows. They climbed out of their beds, opened their windows, and what they saw took their breath away.
The Reichstag, the symbol of Germany's power, of its democracy, was ablaze. The fire formed a towering column that seemed to reach into the clouds above.
Throughout the morning, no one was allowed outside. Countless Wehrmacht soldiers and tanks patrolled the streets, sealing the city in iron.
When the first streaks of sunlight finally broke through, the fire was still burning. The rain had diminished much of it, yet the ashes remained hot.
Under those first rays, an individual walked through the field of debris, quietly and slowly.
He crouched down, pulled off his leather glove, and reached into the hot ashes with his bare hand. When he raised it again, a small amount rested in his palm.
"The ashes of the past are so fleeting, don't you think, Gustaf?" Paul asked, suddenly turning toward the man behind him.
Gustaf did not understand. He only nodded.
"So, how is Scholz doing? We will have to make an announcement at noon," Paul said.
"He is working tirelessly, sir," Gustaf answered.
"Is that so?" Paul replied. "Do you know what I did while you visited Scholz?" He started walking toward Gustaf.
"I visited my dear wife," Paul whispered, venom dripping from every word.
Paul grabbed him by the shoulder, with force.
"Listen to me," Paul said coldly, his voice filled with fury.
"You will never keep something like this from me. Do you understand?" He stared directly into Gustaf's eyes.
"I did what I thought was best for you," Gustaf answered.
"Perhaps," Paul said, releasing him. "But that is simply not for you to decide, Ghost. If something like this happens again, I will consider our past as fleeting as these ashes."
Gustaf nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on Paul.
12 p.m.
Thomas Scholz nodded, raising his thumb while nervously glancing at the microphone before Paul.
Paul exhaled, then opened his mouth.
"Fellow countrymen."
Fellow countrymen
His voice could be heard through every radio in the German Reich. Families, parents and their children, people who had noticed what had happened during the night, all listened. The evidence was undeniable.
The Reichstag had been blown up.
"My name is Heinrich Jaeger, Generalleutnant of the Wehrmacht. I speak to you regarding the terrible attack that has been committed against us. Many of you have already seen what has transpired. You have seen the outcome of last night's events. Yet the darkness still remains."
A pause.
"Tonight, at around midnight, a large group of assailants managed to enter our capital city. Through trickery, these men struck at our very core, a stab at the heart of the Reich. Thankfully, we reacted quickly enough to capture those who bear an indescribable debt of blood. These men, no, these monsters, attacked our Reichstag. Countless party members have died. The number continues to rise as salvage operations by the Wehrmacht are still ongoing, but…"
Another pause.
"Our beloved Führer, Adolf Hitler, has passed away. He was killed in cold blood by one of these assailants. That is why I am speaking to you today, filled with anger and sorrow, burdened by the great task he entrusted to me. In his final moments, our Führer proclaimed me his rightful successor. I accepted with a heavy heart, but with unwavering resolve."
"Now, fellow citizens, you wish to know the identity of these monsters, and the identity of their masters. I will give it to you. The men who dared to hurt us were none other than a French and British special commando, tasked personally by the French and British presidents."
"Today we grieve. Today we remember. Tomorrow, we act. Tomorrow, we act upon our memories."
"The French dogs will learn what a blood debt truly means. Tomorrow at dawn, the French and British soldiers will be hanged before the ruins of the Reichstag. Let it stand as a statement to all who believe Germany has entered a period of weakness."
"Just moments ago, I gave the order for our troops to continue their merciless advance into French territory. They are to bring President Lebrun to me alive."
"This is what they have sown. This is what follows."
"Let the world remember this period, not as one of weakness, but of strength."
Somewhere deep under the capital
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water continuously hit the ground while loud coughing echoed from one of the rooms, iron bars separating it from the hallway.
"Stop coughing, you dumb fuck," a man shouted, his voice filled with anger.
"Shut up, Keitel," Jodl answered, coughing once again.
"You know this is..." Keitel began, before suddenly stopping. Even the rattling of his chains diminished.
Quiet footsteps approached, accompanied by a small moving light.
Two men emerged from the darkness, clad in dark robes.
One of them lifted his hood, revealing his face under the damp glow of the lantern he carried.
"Heydrich!" Keitel roared, suddenly jumping up and rushing toward the iron bars. Before he could reach them, his hand only inches away, a violent pull surged through his body. He crashed to the ground as the iron chain around his foot snapped him back.
"Fuck!" he shouted, grabbing at the chain.
"Not even two days, and you have already become a beast," Heydrich said calmly. "Or perhaps this is what you always were."
He pressed a light switch on the wall slowly, deliberately.
One lamp after another flickered to life, stretching dozens of meters down the corridor.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
The full length of the corridor was revealed, muffled sobbing audible from somewhere in the distance.
"Most cells are empty," Heydrich said to the man beside him. "Around thirty are occupied."
The man nodded, then turned his gaze back toward the prisoners.
"They look filthy," he said. "You should dress them better."
The Iron Cross on his chest gleamed faintly beneath his robe, catching the overhead light even through the narrow slit in the fabric.
"Yes, sir," Heydrich replied.
The word sounded almost awkward on his tongue.
Time passed, with the first streaks of sunlight arriving after an impactful night.
Loud but damp shouts could be heard from outside. A massive crowd had gathered before the Reichstag, shouting and screaming, some crying, others rejoicing. Their reasons were different, yet all the same.
On the elevation, a row of wooden poles stood silently, lonely, the wind fluttering the ropes hanging from their tops. It was an ominous sight. Right before the poles stood a long row of Wehrmacht soldiers, a one meter gap between them, parting the crowd from the stairs and the elevated platform.
A second row stood directly in front of the crowd, backs turned. The two rows formed a corridor through which a column of Mercedes cars and military vehicles drove in, coming to a quick halt.
The crowd grew quieter, heads lifting as people tried to catch a glimpse of their new leader.
"Do you see him?" a smaller man asked the tall one next to him.
"N... yes, I think that's him," the tall man answered, sudden enthusiasm in his voice.
Indeed, from one of the cars a man stepped out, clad fully in black, the silver Iron Cross forming a majestic contrast. His gaze swept over the crowd as the rows of soldiers suddenly raised their right arms.
Slowly, others raised theirs too, some hesitating.
Paul's gaze did not linger. He walked toward the platform, the soldiers opening a path for him. Behind him walked Gustaf and another Ghost, both at attention. From the military trucks, more and more familiar figures emerged.
General Witzleben, General Manstein, Generalmajor Rommel, Admiral Raeder, General Kesselring, Generalmajor Richthofen, General Sperrle, and two other men. Some knowledgeable people in the crowd widened their eyes, shocked by the appearance of men believed to be dead.
The group of generals and other high ranking officers made their way to the platform as well, assembling behind Paul.
Meanwhile, from the cars emerged three key individuals, all clad in expensive suits, their hair neatly combed, their appearance sleek.
Albert Speer, Martin Bormann, and Mervin arrived at the platform, greeted by scattered cheers from the crowd.
Werner and Heydrich arrived as well, remaining in the shadows at the back.
Paul stood before the microphone, letting his gaze wander over the massive crowd once more. Ten thousand, perhaps more.
Suddenly, he turned to the side.
A long column of men appeared, clad in French and British military uniforms, each pushed forward by two Wehrmacht soldiers.
The crowd thundered with excitement and anger upon seeing the alleged terrorists for the first time. Many shouted.
"KILL THEM!"
"HANG THEM!"
"DEATH TO THE FRENCH!"
...
"Yes, yes, I hear you," Paul began, his voice echoing through the loudspeakers.
The crowd cheered, pouring fuel onto a massive fire.
The prisoners, each restrained with chains around their feet and hands, sacks covering their heads, were pushed forward and assembled before the wooden poles.
From beneath the sacks, muffled shouts and screams could be heard, something obstructing their speech. Many prisoners struggled like this, desperately trying to draw attention. Others remained still, seemingly accepting their fate. One man coughed frantically, the sound escaping through the fabric.
Paul tilted his head slightly, his eyes resting on the coughing man. Quietly, he watched as dozens of nooses were tied around the prisoners' necks.
At the far back of the assembled elite of the Reich, Heydrich tilted his head to the side, whispering toward Werner, who stood emotionless.
"You know there are only two things in the world that make people blind, besides blindness itself," Heydrich said, laughing lightly.
Werner raised an eyebrow, turning his head toward him, showing no visible enthusiasm.
"One is love. It is like a sweet that turns out to be poison, slowly covering your eyes. The second one..." He paused.
"Mhm?" Werner replied, as Heydrich watched the nooses being tied.
Suddenly, Heydrich turned back to him.
"Anger. Once you make someone angry, truly so, their field of view diminishes to nothing more than what you give them. Everything else becomes irrelevant. That is how you fool a country. He is a genius," Heydrich said, his eyes filled with reverence as they rested on the man standing before the microphone.
Werner studied Heydrich for a moment, then turned his gaze forward again, thoughtful.
"End to France. End to Britain. End to them all. To all those who wish nothing but harm upon us. Let the world see our response, not just hear it, but feel it."
Paul's voice echoed across the courtyard.
Slowly, he raised his hands.
With a collective clank, the supports were kicked away.
The prisoners dropped, dangling freely in the air, their choking drowned out by the massive cheers and shouts erupting from the crowd.
A row of poles now stood marked, each bearing a corpse. Bodies swayed lifelessly in the wind, like grotesque scarecrows.
Yet not all shared the enthusiasm.
Deep within the crowd, hidden behind a tall man or using the shadow of a tree, some did not rejoice. No, they watched in silence, fear etched clearly across their faces, a fear rarely seen.
Their eyes did not linger on the corpses, but on the man at the forefront, alive and unshaken. It felt as if he was looking directly at them, seeing them, picking them out from the countless faces.
Paul stepped back from the microphone, surveying the crowd.
"Two players remain exposed. Others remain in the shadows."
"Let the hunt begin anew," he whispered.
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