Echoes in the Shadows

6

Faced with the prospect of returning and enduring further mockery from the Wehrmacht soldiers, Iser decided it was out of the question. Walking back the ten-kilometer distance didn't seem too daunting, but he knew that this would only give them another reason to laugh.

Just then, a rumbling "put-put" sound approached from behind. Iser turned to see a Wehrmacht motorcyclist, dressed in a motorcyclist's coat and heavy goggles, pulling up beside him on a military motorcycle with a sidecar.

"Captain, you left in such a hurry, I finally caught up with you! I waited for you outside the office building, but they told me you'd left quite a while ago!"

The voice, thick with an East Prussian accent, conveyed a sincere sense of urgency.

"Is it... Major Klauberger who sent you?"

Iser squinted, eyeing the motorcyclist and his sidecar motorcycle with suspicion. The annoying Major had promised to send a car, and now here was a motorcycle with a sidecar. He couldn't be sure if this was a new form of humiliation from the Major.

"Sorry, all our cars were dispatched to take General Steiner to the airport; he's returning to Berlin today. There were quite a few officers accompanying him..."

The East Prussian soldier replied timidly, yet the information matched up with what Iser knew about Wehrmacht movements. He glanced at his watch, and the timing aligned with the motorcyclist's report.

"Alright then! You know the way, I assume." Iser nodded, deciding to settle for the sidecar motorcycle. After all, it was certainly better than walking back.

"Of course!" the motorcyclist replied confidently.

Iser climbed into the sidecar with a stern face and gave a slight nod and a 'let's go' gesture to the motorcyclist.

Five seconds later, Iser experienced what could only be described as the most disillusioning moment since joining the Gestapo. He prided himself on having witnessed a wide array of torturous methods, but none of those tortures could compare to the riding skills of this East Prussian motorcyclist. After all, no matter how cruel a torture, there's always the option of confession to end it. But this ride was an unrelenting physical and mental ordeal, one that left his mind blank but certainly didn't do the same for his stomach.

Iser staggered into the Gestapo office building under the astonished gaze of the guards. The tumultuous feeling in his insides made him lurch like a drunken man all the way to the restroom. His unsteady entrance, complete with a bump into the door frame, didn't go unnoticed by everyone in the lobby. It took nearly ten minutes before a pale-faced Captain Iser emerged from the restroom, shuffling out as if walking on cotton.

Meanwhile, the motorcyclist who had brought Captain Iser quietly hid in the office building's reception area, covertly joining the onlookers. Finally, the heavy goggles were lifted to reveal the black eyes beneath, contentedly watching the chaos he had orchestrated.

Watching the hapless Captain Iser stumble towards the stairs, the instigator of the drama finally removed his heavy helmet and casually picked up a copy of the Wehrmacht's "Signal" magazine from a table. As he flipped through the pages nonchalantly, his mouth turned down in displeasure at what he saw. The page he was looking at prominently featured a photo of Colonel Dietrich von Lausen, a celebrated war hero on the Eastern Front. The newly promoted Wehrmacht Colonel not only had the typical Aryan appearance favored by the Reich Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda and Himmler but also sported a series of tank destruction badges on his arm and a Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves around his neck, so dazzling that even the motorcyclist, despite his thick goggles, felt he couldn't escape the medal's piercing brilliance.

The motorcyclist tossed the magazine aside, perhaps feeling stiff in his rigid waterproof coat. He got up restlessly, paced a few steps, and then approached a sergeant who was working at a desk.

"I need to make a phone call to your Major!"

The sergeant glanced up at the motorcyclist and asked in a detached, professional tone, "Your identification, please."

Upon hearing this, the motorcyclist unfastened his coat to reach for his ID inside his uniform. As he opened his collar, a glaring Knight's Iron Cross medal emerged, making the Gestapo sergeant's eyelids twitch. Then, the visible rank insignia on his open coat's collar and shoulder boards made the seated sergeant jump to his feet and snap his boot heels together.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant Colonel Sir! I didn't realize your rank."

The Lieutenant Colonel softly hummed in acknowledgment and, out of habit, took out his ID from his breast pocket and handed it to the sergeant. The sergeant briefly examined the ID before returning it and stood at attention outside the desk.

Meanwhile, Major Gisk was in his office, observing his haggard subordinate. To an outsider unaware of the situation, it might seem like the man sitting across him was a recently tortured resistance fighter, not a newly commended Gestapo officer.