"Heinrich... Heinrich, wake up."
A soft voice called out to Paul, who slowly opened his eyes.
He sighed in relief when he saw Elisabeth’s face, only centiters away from his.
"A bad dream?" she asked, concern lingering in her eyes.
"Indeed," Paul answered plainly. He kissed her cheek before gently pushing himself upright. He rose from the large bed, his upper body bare.
Elisabeth’s gaze lingered on the scars that covered his skin. The concern in her eyes had faded with ti, but it never truly disappeared.
Paul turned away and walked toward the balcony. He opened the sliding door and stepped into the morning sun. Below him stretched the vast garden surrounding the mansion. A new ho. Not bought out of luxury, but out of necessity.
His forr residence had been located in a normal neighborhood, too accessible, too exposed. Enemies could reach him far too easily. This villa lay on the outskirts of Berlin, surrounded by high tal fences that denied entry to anyone uninvited.
In the distance, partially concealed by a tree, Paul noticed a silhouette. He gave a brief nod. One of the Ghost Squad. His personal security force. Watching over him, and more importantly, over his wife, day and night. With the enemies he had made, anything less would have been foolish.
Paul leaned against the stone railing, a cigarette between his fingers, his gaze distant and unreadable.
Behind him, he heard the balcony door slide open, but he did not turn. Monts later, a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind.
"What are you thinking about so intensely this early, Heinrich?" Elisabeth asked softly.
"This and that," Paul replied. His eyes suddenly shifted toward the gate below.
A black car had stopped in front of it.
"For example, who would visit this early on a Saturday," he added, already turning away. He stepped back inside, pulled on a shirt, and made his way downstairs.
When he arrived, he saw a man in a Wehrmacht uniform speaking with one of Paul’s attendants.
"Sir!" the man called out, snapping to attention and saluting.
Paul nodded, studying him with expectant eyes.
"The Führer has called a general eting. You are requested to attend, Oberst Jäger," the ssenger reported.
So he has finally made up his mind, Paul thought, barely managing to suppress the excitent rising within him.
"What is it, Heinrich?" Elisabeth asked, having followed him downstairs.
"The Führer has called a eting. I have to go," Paul said, pulling her into a brief embrace. Her disappointnt was obvious.
Soon, the black limousine departed from the estate, carrying one passenger more. From the mansion’s windows, Elisabeth watched as the car disappeared down the road.
The car arrived at a large complex, its architecture beautiful, yet cold and uninviting. Paul stepped out and made his way up the broad stairs of the Ministry of Defense, the headquarters of the General Staff.
His footsteps echoed through the vast structure as he ascended. At the doorway, two soldiers imdiately straightened when they recognized him, saluting sharply before pulling the door open.
"Hey, wasn’t that...?" one of them whispered as the door closed, not quite fully.
The other rely nodded.
Inside, Paul moved through the corridors until he reached a half-open door. He stepped inside.
Warm air and a mixture of raised voices greeted him. A long wooden table dominated the room, surrounded by dozens of officers, most of them already seated. Only a few chairs remained empty.
Paul let his gaze wander. Authority radiated from those present, heavy and almost tangible. In truth, he was likely the lowest-ranking officer in the room, invited not by rank, but by proximity. His closeness to the Führer, and his quiet, unspoken influence within the Wehrmacht, had earned him a seat among n above him in title.
Paul shook hands with several familiar faces. Raeder, Dönitz, Sperrle, and the newly promoted Kesselring. Yes, Kesselring. A man he had first t through Richthofen, another Luftwaffe officer.
A man of great importance, Paul thought. His gaze wandered almost subconsciously to the corpulent figure clad in an overly brilliant ceremonial uniform, at the far end of the room. It bordered on the embarrassing. But his eyes quickly returned.
"General Kesselring, good to see you again," Paul said, shaking the man’s hand.
"Good to see you again as well, Oberst Jaeger," Kesselring replied with a nod.
Paul liked him. In stark contrast to Göring, Kesselring was a capable Luftwaffe general. Competent, disciplined, and possessed of a far steadier temperant.
"Is this seat already taken?" Paul asked, gesturing to the chair beside him.
"No, please feel free," Kesselring answered.
"Thank you," Paul said, taking his seat.
"So," Paul continued, attempting small talk, "has the Führer finally decided on the Czechoslovakian plan?"
"That is what I have heard as well," Kesselring replied quietly.
"Good day, fellow officers," a voice announced.
A man stepped forward. He was older, with a grey mustache, wearing the uniform of a general.
Keitel, Paul thought, studying him. The man who had taken Blomberg’s position as Chief of the General Staff. Paul’s eyes swept through the room, noting several officers whose expressions betrayed clear displeasure at the man standing before them.
"The Führer enters," Keitel announced, stepping aside.
"Like a loyal lapdog," Paul murmured, barely audible.
The doors opened, and the Führer stepped inside. Imdiately, the generals rose to their feet, all raising their right hands.
The Führer rely nodded and moved forward, taking Keitel’s place at the head of the table, leaving him standing off to the side.
Paul shook his head slightly. A small gesture, but not unnoticed by the man seated beside him.
"The Czechoslovakian plan will be implented," Hitler declared, pointing toward the large map depicting Europe. "Ribbentrop has made significant progress, and we expect a possible annexation."
He then turned toward Hess, who stood a short distance away, as always close at his side.
More a secretary than a Vice Führer, Paul thought, his gaze briefly resting on Hess. Hess noticed it.
"By tomorrow, my Führer," he replied, turning his attention back to Hitler.
"But of course, we must expect a reaction from the French," Hitler continued, spitting out the words. "And the British as well." His gaze swept across the long table. "How do you assess this situation, my generals?"
Paul studied the faces in turn, committing nas to mory.
Then a man he knew well rose from his seat.
"I do not believe the French or the British will react in any significant way, my Führer," Manstein said calmly. "They are not ready for war, and they have no desire for one."
He sat down again.
How right you are, as always, Paul thought, silently observing the room.
The discussion continued long into the evening, drifting from one topic to the next. Although the Führer had already left, the need for conversation remained. Decisions echoed, implications were weighed, and futures quietly asured. When the sun had fully sunk beyond the horizon, the first generals finally began to depart.
Paul left as well. By the ti his car reached the estate, darkness had already settled over the grounds.
"Hello, Elisabeth," he said, stepping inside and embracing the woman waiting at the entrance.
"Hello, Heinrich. I cooked sothing for you to eat," she replied, offering him a gentle smile.
"I will gladly take it," Paul said, returning the smile, though his expression looked noticeably tired.
They sat together at the table, the house quiet around them.
"It’s very tasty, thank you," Paul said, cutting off another piece of the schnitzel Elisabeth had prepared and bringing it to his mouth.
"I’m happy," she replied simply.
After dinner, Paul retreated into his study. He sat behind his desk, a sheet of paper spread out before him, his hand moving steadily as he sketched. Lines, curves, asurents.
Elisabeth entered quietly, carrying two cups of tea. She placed one beside him.
"Thank you," Paul said without looking up, his focus remaining on the drawing.
"What is it?" Elisabeth asked, stepping closer and studying the paper.
"You know my interest in technology," Paul replied, leaning back slightly. "I’m trying sothing out."
"Trying sothing out," she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Shouldn’t that involve actual technology, not paper?"
"Well, it’s... complicated," Paul answered, hesitating.
"It looks like an engine," Elisabeth murmured. "For a car?"
"For a plane," Paul replied calmly, taking another puff from his freshly lit cigar. One of many already reduced to ash.
"But it has no propellers?" she asked, tilting her head. "Have you forgotten them?"
Paul almost laughed at her comnt, nearly spilling his tea.
"What?" Elisabeth asked, crossing her arms, feigning offense.
"I did not forget them," Paul replied, setting his cup down. "This kind of plane does not need any."
He glanced at his watch, then at Elisabeth, before picking up the sheet of paper and sliding it into a drawer. The page drifted through the air, landing atop another sketch.
It depicted a tal structure, angular and unfamiliar, faintly resembling an electrical pylon.
Paul closed the drawer.
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