Berlin, SS Headquarters. 1942.

Facts, in Adler Strauss’ opinion, were misleading. Rumors, on the other hand – be they true or false – were often revealing.

He’d wanted to make the most of his time back in Berlin; a night out, perhaps, or staying in and relaxing for the first time in what had to be years – but while walking through the narrow and bustling corridors of SS Headquarters, it was difficult not to overhear snippets of conversations that caught his unfortunate interest. Rumors abounded in a place like Berlin; and spread quickly among men who had long since run out of anything else to gossip about.

Something about Colonel Richter, the Nighthawk. The name itself snagged Strauss’ interest immediately, as despite Richter’s renown as one of the best pilots Germany had ever seen, there had always been something off about him. Something suspicious. As for what Strauss suspected Richter of, he’d never been quite sure, but the latest rumors to reach him did spark the flame.

“Do you have access to Richter’s file?” Strauss inquired of Hilda, his secretary, once curiosity had gotten the best of him.

“Yes, Herr Colonel. I can procure it for you.”

“Do so.”

Strauss perused the most recent Gestapo file, filled in with details from four enlisted Wehrmacht men. The Nighthawk had accompanied them on a routine check of the buildings in and around camp, though he’d quickly disappeared. Finding this odd, they had tailed him. The Nighthawk, wandering the empty streets of Warsaw after hours. Witnessed by multiple men going into a building twice, bringing a bag and a pistol with him the second time. A second man, unrecognized yet dressed like a Wehrmacht captain and presumably having been in the building for the duration, had accompanied Richter to the train station in the morning.

It was certainly strange, but not enough for anyone to declare an investigation. Strauss would need more than this if he wanted to pin something on Richter once and for all.

“Hilda,” he called, “bring me the records of all Jews in the area Richter was in.”

-

Stalag 5, Ludwigsburg. 1942.

One exceedingly long train ride later, Erik and Richter arrived in Ludwigsburg. Erik didn’t so much as have time to protest before Richter quickly shoved him into the trunk of his staff car; and Richter could only hope he realized how suspicious it’d be if two officers from separate branches of the military arrived at Stalag 5 together.

“Colonel Graham Pearson, senior POW officer,” was the first introduction Richter received. Everyone in the Underground had heard of this man – Pearson based his sabotage and intelligence operation here, from Stalag 5. He’d been shot down over a year ago, had quickly set up a network of tunnels and contacts with every Underground ring in the area and had never been caught once. An impressive, reliable record.

They shook hands and Pearson leaned closer, whispering, “Have you ever been on a double decker bus?”

“No, I prefer to walk,” Richter replied, recognizing the security code his Allied contact had given him.

Relief swept over Pearson’s face, though it vanished when Richter added, abruptly, “There’s a Jew in the trunk of my staff car.”

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Pearson looked at him quizzically, totally clueless. “That’s not code for something, is it?”

“No,” Richter laughed. “I found him in Warsaw, and I couldn’t leave him there –”

“So you brought him to a POW camp? I mean, they told me you were crazy, but I didn’t think it was like this –”

“In any case,” Richter interrupted, tone stern now, “get him out of there and disguise him as one of you, before someone notices.”

-

“Christ, he wasn’t kidding!”

Two men lifted Erik out of the car, helping him stand and brushing him off.

“What’s your name?”

“Erik Kehlmann. Who are you?”

“Colonel Graham Pearson,” came the reply. “Don’t worry, I already talked to the commandant. Let’s get you to the barracks before someone sees.”

-

One week later.

Stalag 5 was a surprisingly pleasant place, charming in its innocuousness and a kinder plot of land than Erik had stepped foot on in months. He quickly learned that the men, all of them Allied air force and resistance, were generally agreeable despite the propagated disillusion. And despite Erik’s strange circumstances, they accepted him and treated him just as they would anyone else dragged into this camp – with brotherhood and roughness around the edges.

Pearson provided him with a fake name, fake rank, and a fake serial number. It was, essentially, another false identity that Erik had no trouble taking on, if it meant an easier time assimilating.

Erik also discovered within a matter of a few hours that Pearson, much like Richter, ran a very slick Underground unit. They were saboteurs, blowing up trains and factories, halting supply trucks and the like. They’d clearly been in business for some time, as they had a network of tunnels underneath Stalag 5 and a number of hidden radios. London sent information and jobs, and Pearson and his men did them.

Richter was strict, keeping with the reputation of commandants at the camp but also making an image for himself. It wouldn’t do to have Berlin writing off one of Germany’s ace pilots as incapable and bumbling, especially when he’d made so bold a decision in saving Erik’s life. That was, for now, a secret; but the last thing they wanted was for someone to let slip that Erik wasn’t actually an American sergeant, though he was dressed as one.

That was something Erik still, no matter how often or how deeply he mulled over it, didn’t understand. Richter had had every opportunity to kill him. One bullet between his eyes certainly would’ve been easier than going through all the trouble from bring him to Ludwigsburg. Erik knew Richter worked for the Underground, knew he had flown other Jews out of Germany and Poland, but he had taken an immense personal risk this time.

Finding what he thought – or, at least, hoped – was a kindred spirit, Erik spent most of his time with Richter, trying to make sense of all this. Erik only wanted to know more about him, as his motivations, certainly, were strange. Nor had Erik ever met someone more genuine about his identity.

“I’m more than just a uniform,” Richter told him one afternoon. “The last thing I’m going to do is kill you, especially after I went to all the trouble of saving your life.”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” Erik said, making Richter pause before returning to his stack of paperwork. He repeated his earlier thoughts. “You had every opportunity to kill me. It would’ve been much easier than… all of this. Sneaking me into a stalag and disguising me as an American.”

Richter sighed, leaning back in his chair, and for a moment Erik feared he’d crossed a line. He had definitely stepped into uncharted territory as of late. “I couldn’t let you die there,” he explained, speaking as though it were an obvious truth, “or kill you, or let you be discovered by someone – else.” He shook his head. “No. I took this risk because –” The words came quickly now. He hurried through them as though embarrassed. “I guess I thought it was the right thing to do.” He sighed again, rubbing at his eyes. “We’ll see how that turns out. You know, it’s a strange human instinct – that desire to do something good as some sort of repentance for all the bad you’ve done.”

Of course he had his doubts, Erik realized. Richter was in a sort of limbo: all the good he did for the Underground was canceled out by the missions the Luftwaffe had, until recently, sent him on. He had his own necessarily selfish desires to remain alive, just as anyone else did.

“I’m sorry,” Erik said, uncertain for what he was apologizing.

Richter waved him off. “It’s not your fault.”

“I – well. I want you to know that I trust you.”

“We hardly know each other,” Richter laughed.

“There’s plenty enough time for that.”