Graeber volunteers.

“I’ll go,” Graeber says to Heinrich. “I’ll go.”

Heinrich only looks surprised for a moment. He tilts his head at the exit. “They’re waiting for you. I wouldn’t keep them waiting; the officers will want a chauffeur before noon.”

…

…

Graeber enters through the front doors. All the men inside are clean, adorned with pristine uniforms and reflective jackboots, their belts perfectly aligned and joined by leather holsters.

The men were young, clean-shaved, and had closely trimmed haircuts. They had a few ribbons on their breasts, a medal on one, and nothing on the other. Their tunics were all fixed with the lightning bolts of the SS, however. Despite that, they didn’t seem any different.

A man spotted him as he was going by. His captain hat was gray, but his eyes were the same cold blue color as they had been back in France at the Petite Tavern. “Graeber?” The man smiles, his teeth not so white anymore.

Graeber saluted his hand flat and extended out. The captain did the same, but much more lazily. He didn’t recognize the face that called him by name. Like the others, he was clean-shaven. But something about him was sharper… He was almost short, perhaps an inch or two below Graeber’s eyeline.

“Friedrich,” the man said. “Zimmerman. We spoke in Petite Tavern with your sweetheart Isabelle Garnier.”

Graeber swallowed and then coughed. “You’re here, too?” He didn’t want the subject to linger on his “sweetheart,” “Isabella.”

He frowned and looked around. “It would seem that I am. Called upon the Reich to serve for the Fürher himself in this damned country. Since Blau,” he rolled his eyes as if the subject was one he didn’t particularly like.

Graeber understood and chose not to go deep into it. “I’m from the front, and I’ve volunteered to watch over the Russians.”

“Oh,” he sighs. “You’re the dog watcher, eh? Where did that Felix fellow go? Don’t tell me he’s dead.”

“Nein,” Graeber said, not caring if Felix had died or not since he left for his transport. "Felix has decided that he wants to be in the mist today."

Friedrich smiled, nodded, and then removed his cap. As Graeber suspected, his hair was slick back to one side, clean and almost glossy. However, he did not hesitate to shake the hand extended to him. “How long have you been here?”

“Since Fall Blau,” Graeber explained.

“Ah,” the mention of the name seemed to dull both life and eagerness to linger. “Same as me then... Were you there?"

Friedrich didn’t need to explain where there was. Stalingrad.

Graeber nodded precisely once.

Friedrichs back stiffen. His tongue peeked out to moisten his lips, which had suddenly gone dry. “So, you know how utterly pointless this whole war is.”

He did not answer. His silence prompted the officer to continue. “Very well, then. Stay with me, Herr Graeber. I’ll have you drive me and some of the others around. You can relax here, unwind even. It’s quiet here.”

Friedrich takes Graeber to a few different places. He is surprised that the town is in good shape despite the war and chaos. It took about an hour or so to get everything looked over, and Graeber knew that unless his life counted on it.

Of course, Graeber is driving for his own tour. With Friedrich in the passenger seat, though. He’s given the quick rundown on everything. The bakery. The bookstore. The traveler’s stop. Even a bar that is apparently popular with all the officers and staff.

When the two are back where they met (a courthouse of sorts), they filter back into the lobby and sit on a couch with a coffee table full of food. Graeber sees sweetbreads and cutlery meats with crackers. Friedrich takes some meat and idly chews it. “Tell me,” he says with a mouth full of food. “How’s the girl?”

Suddenly, the letters from Katarzyna feel hot against his breast. The letters are not marked by an Isabella but a Polish maiden’s name. What would this SS Officer think of it? Though, he cannot afford to linger in silence, so he humors him with small talk. “She’s fine. Still in France, so she’s far from all of this gore.”

Friedrich eyes light up. “You know, the allies have started to bomb all over mainland Europe. Pesky little operations in an attempt to hinder our ability to–”

“Even France?”

Friedrich waves his hand away. “Wherever they think is the best. There's nothing to worry about so far, I think. But, I think those–”

“How’s Germany?” Graeber remembered the last time he got a letter from his mother or father. What about Emil’s family? “How is the bombing there.”

“Shut up,” Friedrich stuffs another cracker and cut sausage into his mouth. “I told you to relax, and now you’re worried about a matter you cannot fix. There’s enough for a man in your position to become sick over. What matters right now are the communist fuckers 30 minutes from here where all of your friends are.”

Graeber didn’t notice how fast his heartbeat was, but when he realized it was, he took a deep breath. “It’s easy to think of everyone safe at home. Regular people shouldn’t have to see any of this shit we’ve seen–”

“Stop,” Friedrich stands up. “I have a meeting to attend. Get yourself cleaned up and back here in an hour. Understood?”

“Ja, Kommandant.”

“Du riechst nach Hundescheisse,” Friedrich grimaces. “Don’t meet me again until you’re as clean as a soldier fresh out of training.”