Malte Heissler

November 3rd, 1943

Occupied Veste Noir Gentleman’s Club, Paris, France

---

The office didn’t seem to have changed as I walked in, the evening sun casting long shadows through the shades and spilling out onto the room.

Von Grünfeld sat behind his desk, gloved hands clasping a clipboard as he glanced up at me, “Greetings, Herr Heissler.”

“Sir,” I greeted with a salute.

The man gave a wicked smile, “At ease. You may sit if you wish.”

I nodded, taking a seat at the desk as he pulled out a small box from underneath. I stared at it curiously until Grünfeld tapped it open, revealing a chessboard and the pieces in small trenches on either side.

“Shall we play as we talk?”

I winced, “Sorry, sir, but I don’t remember how to properly play chess. I stopped when I discovered that the teacher who introduced me to it was Jewish, so the game has been tainted for me ever since.”

Grünfeld gave a thoughtful hum, “Understandable. It’s only logical that you’d be hesitant after being cheated out of a fair game, like Jews so often do. One of the things I take most pride of in the Reich is how Jews are no longer allowed to cheat and lie their way to positions. Instead, they’re given to the Germans of befitting stature.”

He began setting up the pieces, “Imagine this as a… redemption, if you will. Being brought into it once more by an Aryan. And you not remembering fully is of little importance, it’s simply something to ease the mood.”

Well… that did sound fine. After all, it’s not like I was against a traitorous Jew to rob me of a well-deserved victory.

“Alright, sir; I’ll try,” I started setting up the white pieces in as best a position as I could remember.

Grünfeld made the first move, pushing a black pawn forward, “So, did your…mission result in success?”

I winced again, moving a white pawn on my left forward to meet Grünfeld’s, “In the parts that mattered, yes.”

I saw the man quirk an eyebrow, prompting me to go on as he moved a knight.

“Most of the partisan group got away, though we did heavily injure or kill one.”

I pushed forward another pawn, Grünfeld’s knight taking the pawn out quickly afterwards as he spoke, “Yet you said you succeeded.”

“I did,” I moved a bishop forward, “We managed to capture Erhardt Stettin, a major figure in the Judeo-Bolshevik network and possibly the leader of a cell, alongside the information he had gotten from the double agent.”

Grünfeld’s mouth twisted into another smile, pushing forward another knight to take out one of my pawns, “Excellent.”

“He refused to give up any information on his cell during field questioning, so I’m hoping you could call in a specialized interrogator to wring it out of him.”

The man chuckled as I moved a pawn to cover another, his voice jovial but with a sinister edge, “How could I not? It’d be a failure on my part to overlook such a… valuable source of information. I have experience in interrogation, so I’ll do it.”

Grünfeld pushed his queen forward, creating an opening for one of my pieces, “Thought if it moves to torture, I have some… specialists on hand.”

“If all goes well,” the man spoke, “We might even be able to rid ourselves of this thorn in our sides.”

I narrowed my eyes as I put forward my queen, aiming for his, “And I’ll get to kill Konrad.”

“Sure,” Grünfeld added as his pawn effortlessly kicked my queen out of the game, leaving the man an open path to my king, “Checkmate.”

X-X-X

We descended down the stairs to the basement of the club alongside two armed soldiers and an officer. Grünfeld’s face was neutral enough yet hinted at a serpent smile, the glint in his eyes feeling particularly dangerous behind the glasses he now donned. In his hands was a file with all the information he’d managed to scrounge up in the past 12 hours on Erhardt.

For one thing, it was dark. No light shined in from the ground floor that’d been appropriated for military use, leaving it pitch black. Despite it, I could hear some slight noises emanating from the abyss underground.

Grünfeld nonchalantly flicked on the lights, the abrupt change in brightness burning my eyes for a moment.

Once I blinked the burn out of my eyes, I could clearly make out a table with a chair on either side. On one side sat a man with a bag over his head; Erhardt. Grünfeld sat in the opposite chair, leaning into the backrest as he flipped through the folder in front of him.

“Take the sack off his head,” he stated.

One of the soldiers nodded, walking over and roughly yanking it off. The man underneath it was not a pretty sight.

His hair was disheveled, the fringe uncombed with strands sticking to his forehead, slick with sweat. Black bags sat underneath hardened eyes, emphasizing the few wrinkles the man had.

All in all, he didn’t seem the leader of a cell. He seemed more a drug addict dragged out of his home.

I heard the officer behind me stifle a snigger.

“Good morning, Herr… Stettin, was it?” Grünfeld glanced at the file in his hand.

Erhardt didn’t respond, his eyes simply narrowing.

Grünfeld continued, his relatively good mood unperturbed, “We know you’re associated with a partisan cell. Care to explain your position within it?”

The man only spit on the floor in response.

After a minute, Grünfeld raised an eyebrow. The dangerous glint in his eye became a lethal inferno in the span of a mere second, “You seem rather tired, Herr Stettin. It doesn’t seem to be a momentary thing, either. All of your photos post-1937 show the same exhausted expression.”

He quickly flicked out four or so photos, all of them showing Erhardt posing in different booths over the course of a few years. While his face outwardly was a smile or something of the sort, Grünfeld was right; everything besides the mouth seemed to exude an aura of pure exhaustion.

I could see Erhardt’s eyes narrowing Grünfeld continued.

“Strangely enough, we don’t have any photos correlated with Erhardt Stettin pre-1937, nor do we have any mention of an Erhardt Stettin in our records matching your exact specifications before that year. Could be a mere bureaucratic issue,” Grünfeld casually shrugged.

Erhardt remained silent, but there was definitely some sort of emotion beginning to crack through his eyes. I couldn’t exactly place what.

“However,” Grünfeld’s mouth turned into that twisted serpentine smile he’d seemed to perfect, “We do have a rather… suspicious case of a man remarkably similar-looking to you allegedly dying in a crash atop a bridge in Hanover back in 1937. Tragically, the car was thrown into the river, with the body never being recovered. It just so happens that he met his untimely end while being investigated for several crimes...”

The interrogee seemed to freeze at his words.

“…not limited to arson, theft, and even murder. This all sounds oddly coincidental, hmm?” Grünfeld prompted as he partially slid a few more photos out of the file, obscuring their contents, “What do you think, Herr Stettin?”

He then promptly slid seven pictures onto the table on top of the old ones. They all seemed to complete Erhardt’s set of adult photos, showing him in the various stages of life. The most recent one, dated 1936, definitely did back up Grünfeld’s claim.

The young man’s face didn’t radiate the exhaustion that Erhardt’s newer photos did.

Grünfeld gave a mock sigh of sadness, “Such a tragic end for poor Johan Schulz. Left his family in tears while dodging the Führer’s righteous wrath.”

“What are you trying to do here?” Erhardt’s voice was steady, eyes steeled over.

The snake-like man held the folder out for me to take without looking back. I obediently grabbed the papers, Grünfeld moving to lean on the table and clasp his hands.

“I am a man with many… friends in high places,” his serpentine smile returned, “I’ll make you a deal. You give us all the information we want, and I shall consider all your previous crimes, even your orchestration of a resistance cell, null. You’ll be free to return to Germany, reunite with family, and take part in Germany’s inevitable victory.”

Erhardt simply stared at Grünfeld with narrowed eyes. He stayed completely silent for a minute before finally replying, “No.”

Grünfeld merely sighed as he glanced at the officer, “Looks like we’ll have to move on to torture. Fabian?”

I saw Erhardt tense up at the name as the officer replied, “Yes, sir?”

Grünfeld seemed to catch on too, “Would you kindly… persuade our friend to divulge what he knows, Herr Heinsohn?”

A sadistic grin made its way onto Fabian’s face, “Gladly.”

Konrad Feldpetzer

November 4th, 1943

Partisan Base, Paris, France

---

To say the partisans were tense would’ve been an understatement. Erhardt still hadn’t returned, and we were beginning to fear the worst.

Covert search parties of 3 or 4 people had been sent out to cover the distance between where we split up and where we entered the base, alongside a few safehouses. Achilles was the de-facto leader for now but even a blind man could see that he didn’t want the position.

With my mind already buckling from the death of Maxime, the added stress of Erhardt’s disappearance only made my condition worse. I couldn’t help but feel like I was partially responsible for the state of things.

If I hadn’t gotten injured, then maybe we wouldn’t have had to split up. Maybe whatever happened to Erhard wouldn’t have if he had three competent combatants backing him up.

I couldn’t even do anything to help since my dominant arm had been swathed in several stiff bandages after having the bullets removed; movement was just too much trouble on any sort of regular basis. All I could do was lay in my cot, staring at the peeling ceiling of my shared room with Annette.

The last thing I needed was time to sit and think about how I messed up. I so desperately wanted to just go into autopilot and help around as I had been doing before, lifting crates around and not having to worry.

I frowned to myself. Even with my dominant arm harder to move, I was sure I could still find ways to help out. I kicked off the covers of my cot, standing up.

Of course, this sudden movement attracted Annette’s gaze from a book she’d been reading.

“What are you doing?” she placed the open book face-down on the covers, giving me a suspicious stare

I met her eyes, finding myself unable to lie. Before my face could go red, I avoided glanced back at the floor, mumbling, “Going to go help around.”

“You’re not going to. You’ve already messed up your right arm, we don’t need it falling off. Get back in your cot,” Annette used the same tone of voice she did when we were in the field, making me involuntarily flinch.

How did she make it sound life or death like this?

“I messed up,” I replied, “so I could at the very least help around.”

Annette levelled me with a firm stare, “Cut the shit and get back in bed. You’ll be more useful when you’re fully healed.”

“But-“

“Think about it,” Annette cut me off, “Will you be more helpful if you go out there right now with your fucked up arm, only delaying your recovery and unable to fully help, or will you be more helpful fully healed?”

“There’s still lots of work that doesn’t need heavy lifting-”

“Then let someone else take care of it; preferably someone with two functional arms,” Annette pointed at my cot, “I wasn’t kidding. Get back in your bed.”

I frowned, “You’re, what, 2 years older than me? You don’t have any authority over me.”

She breathed, calmly getting out of her cot and slowly walking up to me. In the blink of an eye, her whole demeanor changed. Her hand latched onto the front of my collar, bringing me down to her level.

“If you don’t want a bullet in your other arm, you will get in your cot right fucking now,” I had to suppress a shiver at her words. Seeing no other option with to her lethal tone, I wrenched myself free of her grip and slid back into my bed.

A few minutes went by as she got back in hers, her eyes returning to the pages. I simple lay there, staring at the ceiling. I hated how useless I felt.

Annete slowly sighed after the lull, “Sorry for being so intense. You’re not the only one who’s been affected by Erhardt’s disappearance and Maxime’s death.”

I could only blink at her.

“Who are you and what have you done with Annette?”

She frowned in response, “I’m not that aggressive.”

I bit my tongue, unsure of how to truthfully respond to that. Whenever I recalled Annette, she was either in mission mode or simply not that sociable. I’d only ever seen her vulnerable once. Maybe twice.

I paused. Why did I even like Annette despite not even knowing her that well? The attraction was completely one-sided, and we didn’t even really have a solid friendship. Most of the events we had to go through together were mere happenstance.

Was it just teenage hormones latching onto fond memories, giving the illusion of attraction? I winced at the thought, filing it away for later. When I actually had the energy to think critically.

“Hello?” Annette’s voiced dragged me back to the waking world.

I blinked, “Yes?”

“You blanked out.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, “Sorry.”

Annette gave me a curious glance.

“I’m fine, just hungry,” I answered the unspoken question, coming up with a lie on the spot. I paused for another moment, quickly seeing an opportunity to leave the bed, “I’m going to go grab something to eat.”

“When’s the last time you ate?” she asked, cocking her head.

I hummed, keeping my gaze to the floor as I thought, “I think… before the mission? So I’m going to go eat now.”

She gave me a suspicious stare, and for a moment I thought she saw right through the excuse. Thankfully, she merely nodded and returned her attention to her book. I hid a smile as I stood up, quickly shuffling out of the room.

I headed for the cafeteria, wincing in discomfort at the aching of my arm and collarbone with the movements. I wasn’t planning on eating a full meal; I wasn’t feeling that hungry. I merely took some canned peas in a small, salvaged bowl and ate as I walked to the armory.

As I made my way through the hallways, my mind began drifting back to that newfound insecurity. I internally cringed, really not wanting to have to deal with it at the moment

I was dragged out of the clouds when I bumped into Niko and Wolfram in the hallways. Oddly enough, the former looked rather winded.

“Oh dear,” Wolfram stared at my arm, “You’re turning into a mummy.”

I snorted, thankful for the alleviating distraction, “Yeah. Give me a few more weeks and I’ll be a walking mess of cloth.”

Niko only whistled, “Thank God my outings are just sabotage. Doesn’t usually include getting shot at.”

I quirked an eyebrow, “Is that why you look like you just ran a race? You just went on a mission.”

“Yes,” he nodded, “A fairly quick one, just poking a few pipes and snapping wires to light the thing on fire after too much use. Got back an hour or so ago, still resting.”

“Sounds way more enjoyable than my missions,” I commented, then quickly remembered where I’d been heading, “I’m going to the armory for my new rifle; Rueben said it’d be done by now. Want to come with?”

Niko shrugged, “Why not? Would be nice to get some target practice in.”

Wolfram nodded, a grin appearing on his face, “I was thinking of going later today, so this is pretty convenient.”

With that, we all walked over to the armory. I had to be honest; being with Wolfram and Niko, two of the more detached partisans, definitely helped a bit. It felt like I had a break from the anxiety surrounding Erhardt’s disappearance or Maxime’s death.

The three of us walked into the armory to see Reuben tinkering with a captured MG-42. I whistled at the sight, alerting him to our presence.

“Good evening, gentlemen!” he smiled over his shoulder, eyes obscured by a pair of goggles before he turned back to his work.

“Where’d you get that from?” I asked as I walked over, seeing Niko wander off towards the wall of gun racks.

Reuben glanced at the MG, “This? One of the partisans brought it in after an unsuccessful search. Apparently they got into CQC with a German machine gunner and knifed him in the chest, so they took the opportunity to take the gun too.”

I took in the machine of war. It was dented in several areas, but apart from that, it seemed well-kept. The barrel was out of its position, instead laying next to it on the table.

“What’d the machine gunner do? Deflect the knife with the gun?” Wolfram asked from behind me, obviously noticing the dents.

Rueben hummed, “Probably. Either that or the partisan dropped it hard several times.”

“Anyways, I’m here for the FG42,” I stated.

Reuben stared at me for a moment, his goggles giving his face a blank expression before he stuck a finger in the air, “Oh, right! I’d completely forgotten.”

“…you do have the gun ready, right?”

“Of course I do,” Reuben waved his hand dismissively, leading Wolfram and I to one of the gun racks.

Wolfram muttered in German, “How are you getting a gun so rare, comrade?”

“Reuben had a few models, and since ammo for it was hard to come by, he’s converting it to fire .308 rounds,” I replied back in the same language.

“You lucky man,” Wolfram snorted.

Reuben fished it out of a drawer. Its appearance hadn’t changed much since a few days ago, but I definitely noticed one big difference; the port. The duct tape had been removed for the most part, letting it look more like a proper weapon than a jury rigged mess. The magazine was notably gone though.

I heard Wolfram wolf whistle next to me, “Now that is a rifle.”

“Wait, should you really be doing this?” Reuben paused, eyes glancing over to my arm.

“I’ll be fine. It may be a bit stiff but I can still move it when I want to.”

“If you say so,” Reuben grimaced, holding it out for me to take. I quickly did so, testing the sights with a random crate of scrap metal. I’d been right, thankfully. My bandaged right arm definitely wouldn’t be the best with dealing with the recoil, so I opted to use my left to pull the trigger.

It wasn’t too much of a hassle. I let a small smile form on my face. This would definitely be satisfying to use, “Can I get a magazine?”

“Yeah, try firing it. Magazines are over on the table, though you may have to search a bit,” Reuben smiled sheepishly, gesturing over to a hastily-made table that had a pile of rifle magazines atop, “Sorry; haven’t had the time to organize them yet.”

“Christ,” I winced at the pile, “Might be looking for a while.”

Wolfram scoffed, “Leave it to me. I have eyes better than an eagle’s. It’s chambered in .308s, right?”

“Yes.”

I quirked an eyebrow as he walked over to the table, seemingly scanning it. In the span of a second, his arms shot forward and snatched several magazines as if they were prey that’d dart away any second. He turned to me, holding them up triumphantly.

It was the exact magazine for my modified FG42.

“How the fuck did you-”

Wolfram grinned, walking over, “Don’t question the magic, comrade.”

“…alright then,” I took one of the magazines and walked over to the ammo crates, filling it up.

“Jesus Christ, Konrad,” I heard Niko walk up to me, a rifle in his hands that I didn’t recognize, “That’s some serious firepower.”

“Reuben made it for me. I’m about to test it out.”

He nodded, “I’d like to see it in action. Looks makeshift, so I’m hoping it doesn’t explode in your face.”

I gulped at the comment, but moved forward regardless. I slid the magazine into the port and cocked the bolt, feeling it slide forward.

I walked over to the firing range, Wolfram and Niko in tow to watch.

I aimed the sights of the rifle at one of the targets. Taking a deep breath, I squeezed the trigger with my hand.

Three shots rang out, spaced out by about maybe half a second. I’d been unprepared for the recoil on my left side, so the shots went long. The first hit the target on the edge, splintering some of the wood. The other two plugged the concrete and brick wall behind them.

I winced at my aim, “Might need a bit more getting used to with my left.”

“Looks like getting hit by a pen,” Wolfram snorted.

“Either way, that thing hits hard,” Niko added, “One shot and you’re dead. Speaking of, mind if I test this rifle out?”

I glanced at his firearm. It was a slightly odd-looking rifle, like a shotgun-rifle chimera. It had an angular, wooden stock encasing a straight metal barrel, with a somewhat cylindrical receiver.

I shuffled to the side, letting the man take aim at one of the targets. When he pressed the trigger, I wouldn’t have blamed a person for thinking a stone shot out of the barrel. The rifle slammed against his shoulder, making the man grunt in effort.

The bullet, whatever caliber it was, absolutely decimated the target. It punched through the upper right corner, making it look like someone had taken a bite out of the wooden disc.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathed, staring at the damage, “What the hell does that thing fire? Rocks?”

“Infants?” Wolfram piped up.

“Good question,” Niko hummed, ignoring the other man’s comment, “Hey Reuben! What caliber is this in!”

The goggle-wearing man walked over from his tinkering, curious. He examined the gun for a moment, “I wasn’t even aware we had Remingtons here. Where’d you find this?”

“It was on the gun racks,” Niko shrugged, “Had some magazines next to it.”

Reuben held out his hands, with the German hand placing the rifle in them. He took out the magazine, inspecting it, “Holy smokes! This is .300 Savage! I didn’t even know we had that caliber!”

The three of us only blinked at him, never having heard of it. At least the name fit.

“Wait, but aren’t you the armorer here? How couldn’t you know?” I asked, confused.

Reuben scoffed, “I’m on autopilot when I sort supplies, plus Achilles was in charge of inventory before… all this rubbish. Chances are he knew about it and I had just never even noticed.”

“So… can I keep it?” Niko asked, his gruff voice hopeful.

The British man hummed, “Well, seeing as I don’t think most of our partisans could reliably lug this monster around on their missions, I don’t see why not.”

Niko grinned as Reuben handed the rifle back.

“I was thinking of getting a gun myself as well,” Wolfram pondered, “Marx did say that the workers must be armed.”

I heard Niko snort, “First time I agree with that trashpile of a man.”

Wolfram neatly ignored that comment, turning to Reuben, “Any ideas on good guns?”

“Well, it depends on what you’re looking for. But for your build, I’d suggest an SMG. I have a whole ton of STEN guns since good ol’ King George seems to be fond of giving us discreet care packages,” Reuben grinned.

The man gave an undetermined expression, “Do you have anything from the Soviet Union? I’d rather handle the noble weapon of the proletariat.”

Reuben slowed down a bit, “Uh… not that I know of. We only have a few TT33 pistols and even then they’re pretty banged up. All the Soviet arms are on the eastern front, and we have a metric fascist fuckload between Paris and there.”

Wolfram gave a melodramatic sigh, “I will settle for the STEN then. May I try one?”

The British man nodded, quickly walking off, “Hold on, I’ll get one.”

“Can’t lie, I thought you’d opt for the communard pistol,” Niko snorted.

Wolfram hummed, “I thought of it but ideological vigor means nothing if you’re dead.”

The mechanic gave a small smile, “I can agree with you on that one.”

Reuben came back with a STEN gun.

Despite that, Wolfram wouldn’t get to try the SMG at the moment as gunfire began to sound out from across the base.