Leni took a long drag of her cigarette. She exhaled, and then sniffed, feeling an imminent onslaught of tears. Another drag, and then another—the tobacco might not have lessened the guilt, but it made her calmer.

Hauptsturmführer Strasser and I proceeded to make love. After we had done so, we evacuated my room for the shelter on account of an air raid. It was at some point during this raid that Hauptsturmführer Strasser revealed to me that he was assembling “a corps of British SS men.” Furthermore, he added that it was “a complete waste of time.”

The cigarette was nearly exhausted, but pinching it gingerly between index finger and thumb, Leni managed to extract one more drag. She dropped the butt in the ashtray, letting it burn itself out.

Hauptsturmführer Strasser did not give me any more information regarding this unit, despite my probing. All I can add is that he seemed agitated and unhappy with this posting. I had noticed that he was in a similar state last month, although he was not so forthcoming at that time.

No, he certainly wasn’t, she thought. He had been a complete bastard, very much the SS officer all over.

At present, I am unaware of the whereabouts of Strasser. I am under the impression that the unit is not stationed in Berlin, but the specific location is unknown to me.

I have built up a good rapport with Strasser and I expect I shall see him again shortly. I shall attempt to make him reveal more information then.

Was there anything else? No, but no doubt she would find out more soon. She typed one final word:

Ends

She gently pulled the sheet from the typewriter, and read the text through. These few words should help save her parents back in Dresden, she thought; keep them alive, out of harm until permanent safety finally invaded. She hugged herself. God, it was cold.

Over the next few days, the unit settled into their quarters at Hildesheim. Lockhart began to feel curiously at home in the town. It had the same feel as Bath, albeit a Bath bedecked in snow and swastikas; a Bath occupied by SS men speaking every language from Serbo-Croat to Spanish; a Bath whose most beautiful buildings had been requisitioned by a regime intent on reeducating its people. The church of St. Michael, in whose cloister the BFC were housed, was, as his father had said, Hildesheim’s jewel. Flanked by six towers and sitting on top of a small hill, the church exuded a sense of Germanic power and austerity. Strasser had told him that its ceiling had been removed for safety, and Lockhart was therefore disappointed not to be able to see its 1,300 oak panels painted with depictions of trees in the Bible. Lockhart doubted Strasser’s reason for its absence. The imagery of the ceiling would have rested uneasily with the hundreds of items of Nazi regalia scattered around the building—the SS runes, the swastika flags, the spread eagles, the garish recruiting posters, the countless paintings of the Führer and Himmler. They were trying to create their own religion, their own monastic orders, thought Lockhart; far better for them to strip St. Michael of its Christianity, using the fear of bombs as an excuse.