Echoes in the Shadows

9

Von Benedek — a name almost forgotten by many, as everyone preferred the more affable moniker 'Bolman.' It seemed as if Lieutenant Bolman himself had intentionally let his nobility-tinged surname fade into the background, perhaps confirming the salons' rumors about his complex heritage. People didn't just like calling him 'Bolman'; they also cherished the sense of 'everything' this mild-mannered, polite lieutenant brought to them. Their fondness, though laced with the sweetness of self-interest, also contained genuine sincerity. Bolman's character, demeanor, and way of handling situations always conveyed just the right amount of warmth and an unspoken understanding. This subtle, appropriate warmth became more pronounced against the backdrop of the often astonishing antics of Major Klauberger. It was like walking along cliffs and tightropes for a long time and suddenly finding solid ground underfoot — a deeply comforting and pleasant feeling.

General Lütkenz watched Bolman with a cryptic intensity for a long while, then discreetly flicked his finger, quietly summoning his adjutant.

Captain Iser encountered Major Klauberger again just 10 minutes after leaving his superior's office. As he emerged with disheveled steps, the black-haired motorcyclist speaking in an East Prussian dialect was already waiting for him at the office door. The morning sun at 10 o'clock shone through the corridor windows, casting light on the man's shiny, black, motorcycle raincoat. The stark white collar and the cold Knight's Iron Cross medal stood out conspicuously against the dark coat.

"You're the first person to ride my motorcycle for more than 10 minutes."

The motorcyclist's East Prussian accent sounded particularly venomous. He walked past with a taunting smile, the sound of his boot nails on the floor felt like ice picks stabbing into Iser's heart.

Iser bit his lip and remained silent. It was an extremely rational decision; if he spoke, he wasn't sure what sort of unbridled words might burst forth.

Major Klauberger, disguised as a motorcyclist, approached Iser, scrutinizing his black SS uniform with great detail. Iser instantly felt as if his entire body was being pricked with needles of searing pain.

"If I'm not mistaken, your uniform is one of those standard-issue ones provided by logistics, not worth more than 150 Reichsmarks."

The icy dagger that had stabbed into Iser's heart seemed to be twisted deeper with each word spoken by this devilish figure.

Iser mustered the last bit of his strength to step back and distance himself from this tormentor. He glared angrily at the Major and turned to leave in a huff. Unfortunately, his still unsteady, uneven gait made this dramatic exit seem rather comical.

"Captain Iser, this is for you. It's just been decoded."

A baby-faced lieutenant suddenly appeared, handing Iser a folder stamped with the Nazi eagle, deftly rescuing the beleaguered captain from his awkward situation.

Seeing his work, Iser's mood instantly improved. The distress caused by the encounter with the 'demon' was swiftly banished, and he was once again engrossed in the solace of his duties. For Iser, immersing himself in work was a cure-all, a way to escape and recover from any ordeal.

Klauberger stood quietly to the side, finding Iser's ability to switch so rapidly between emotional states quite intriguing. He watched with interest as the young officer in his inexpensive SS uniform became deeply absorbed in his work. Klauberger also noted how these two Gestapo junior officers effectively used the official intelligence report as a shield to block him out.

The freshly decoded intelligence in Iser's hands had just been intercepted from a secret British radio transmission. The paper detailed the next airdrop of supplies from the Royal Air Force to the Dutch resistance. Captain Iser scrutinized the information on the document intently, using his focused work ethic as a silent barrier against the unwelcome presence of the Major.

Iser was acutely aware of Klauberger's gaze upon him, so he deliberately lowered his head and ignored the Major, resolute in his silent expulsion. After several minutes of this standoff, Klauberger, looking somewhat embarrassed, finally turned and walked towards the stairs. His heavy motorcyclist's raincoat made his steps seem ponderous. The baby-faced lieutenant who had helped Iser earlier appeared indifferent to the Major's departure – confrontations with the Wehrmacht in this office building were commonplace, after all.

"My dear Sturmbannführer!"

Before Iser could react to this chilling voice, he felt his arm gripped by something as hard as a pair of engineer's pliers. Then, in a burst of sharp pain, he found himself unexpectedly being dragged away by the man in the stiff coat.

The baby-faced lieutenant stared, agape, as Captain Iser was abducted in full view of everyone, like a ferocious black cat pouncing on an unsuspecting sparrow. People along the way watched this kidnapping at the Gestapo headquarters with shock and disbelief, but no one stepped in to intervene. Finally, Major Klauberger, with his 'prize,' made a swift exit.