Across the ocean, far from the gilded mansions of America, Paul stood, sunlight bathing him in a pale, forgiving glow. The last remnants of winter had melted away, and the air smelled faintly of wet earth and new blossoms.
The world seemed caught between two seasons. The streets were damp from a morning drizzle, the cobblestones reflecting the pale light. Children splashed through puddles with laughter while a group of soldiers in gray-black uniforms marched past, boots striking sharp against the ground. It was May.
Paul stood at the same place, the same bridge where he had planted the flag two months ago. His gaze lingered on the flag.
A weeks ago, he had taken a step that would change everything. Now, the path ahead was clearer, and more dangerous, than ever.
"I’m officially a Nazi now huh," Paul muttered, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping him."A criminal of history."
*Flashback*
Paul walked through Cologne, the streets bustling with life. A businessman hurried to a meeting, a mother cradled her child, a group of young boys arm-wrestled, debating who would make the better soldier and then there was Paul.
As he moved through the crowd, Paul noticed heads turning. Whispers followed him down the street, "That’s the officer who raised the flag..." "The young hero of the Rhineland..." Children paused in their play to stare, and even soldiers in passing formations gave a respectful nod.
Thomas’s arcticle blew up. Newspapers across Germany reprinted the image of Paul raising the flag, the headlines hailing him as the hero of the Rhineland. Street vendors shouted it from their stalls, children read about it in classrooms, and the radio repeated the story on an endless loop, praising his quick thinking and bravery.
Paul held an envelope in his hands, sealed with an eagle stamped over a swastika. His sudden rise to fame had earned him an invitation to a gathering of high-ranking party members.
In truth, it was less a meeting and more a staged demonstration for the press, an attempt to solidifie his association with the Party and to officially welcome him into their ranks. Paul had already applied for membership through the usual channels, but he had never received a reply, until now.
"You sure are popular, sir," Hans said as he walked a step behind Paul.
Once a shy recruit, Hans had sharpened his marksmanship to the point that Paul personally chose him as the guard, who would accompanying him. Additionally Paul’s recent actions had been anything but discreet, he feared retaliation. If not from political enemies at home, then from abroad, especially the French, after the soldier he had killed.. It’s always best, he thought his jaw tightening, to pluck the weed before it had a chance to grow. My enemies will likely think so too.
Paul snapped out of his thoughts, seeing that they had arrived at their destination: a tailor’s shop right in the heart of Cologne.
Paul and Hans stepped inside, the door chimed. Behind the counter, the clerk looked up and froze for a split second, eyes widening.
"Ah... Sir Jeager," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You are here for the tuxedos, I assume?"
"Of course, Friedrich. Can you show us your work?" Paul asked casually.
Friedrich brought forward two neatly wrapped tuxedos and led them to a small changing room in the back, where they quickly exchanged their uniforms for the elegant new attire.
Hans tugged at his bow tie, grumbling, "Feels like a noose."
"You’ll live," Paul replied, straightening his jacket.
In the mirror, the two of them looked transformed, no longer soldiers, but polished gentlemen. The outfits perfectly fit the flair of the 1930s. The tuxedos were impeccably tailored: single-breasted jackets, crisp white shirts pressed stiff as boards, and black bow ties knotted tightly at the throat. Polished shoes gleamed under the shop’s dim lights.
Paul then handed Friedrich a few extra notes, his gesture smooth but deliberate. "For your excellent work," he said, giving the clerk a meaningful look.
The clerk nodded.
As they stepped back onto the street, the late afternoon air felt cooler against their freshly pressed tuxedos. A few young ladies passing by couldn’t help but blush at the sight of the two polished gentlemen.
"It’s 8pm they should..."Paul began saying.
Then the low hum of an engine drew their attention, growing steadily louder.
A sleek black Mercedes 770 glided to a stop at the curb, its polished body reflecting the fading light. A chauffeur greeting them politely, cap and gloves immaculate, opened the rear doors with precise, practiced movements.
Hans hesitated, giving Paul a quick, uneasy glance. "Well... this is fancy."
Paul simply straightened his tie and gave a nod. "Stay calm. Just follow my lead."
The chauffeur closed the doors and the engine purred smoothly as they began to move, carrying Paul and Hans toward the evening ahead.
The Mercedes 770 rolled smoothly through the outskirts of Cologne, past big houses andfancy mansions, coming to a halt before a gate.
Stone lions flanked the entrance, and the wrought-iron gates blocked any unauthorized access. Uniformed SS soldiers stood at attention on either side, rifles slung across their shoulders, eyes scanning the approaching car.
Paul retrieved the envelope from his inner pocket and held it out as the chauffeur stopped.
One of the SS officers stepped forward. "Invitation, sir?"
Paul nodded calmly, handing over the envelope. The officer took it, examined the seal, and then gave a crisp nod. "Very well, sir. You may enter."
The gates swung open with a quiet groan, and the limousine continued onto the gravel drive. Lanterns cast pools of warm light along the paths, and the distant murmur of voices hinted at the gathering already in motion.
As the chauffeur pulled away and the heavy doors loomed before them, an attendand opend them and they stepped forward.
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