Winfred

107

Official Report

British Intelligence

Code: 3986

Kathleen Winfred

January and February passed with little to upset us here at the prison, other than the fact that we already felt as though our futures hung in the balance.

Then March came. The Allies bombed Berlin. In daylight.

It was all that anyone at the prison could talk about, although each had their different reasons for wanting to talk about it.

The prisoners celebrated, much to the frustration of the German guards.

The guards talked among each other, poured over newspapers, and spoke to one another in worried whispers.

To me, it only meant that I was growing closer and closer to having to leave.

I spent as much time with Freidrich as possible. If he was in his office, going over documents, or signing papers, I sat across from him at his desk and either helped him or read one of his books.

We both knew that the time when I would depart was looming nearer.

It seemed even more imminent when Freidrich began to teach me French. Andre came, and Freidrich instructed me, giving me feedback while I held a conversation with Andre. I stumbled over the words at first, but eventually began to get a bit better. Andre helped me establish a more authentic French accent. Freidrich made me read out of books written in French.

We established a routine. He sat at his desk and worked while I sat across from him and read (out loud) from a French book. Every once in a while, just when I thought he was more focused on his work than on my reading, he would correct a mistake I had made, or adjust my pronunciation.

March Eighteenth, 1944: the Allies dropped an estimated 3000 tons of bombs on Hamburg.

Freidrich was completely out of sorts, pacing the office nervously, not paying attention to my readings in French, not eating much, and seeming distracted. He seemed worried about something.

When I inquired as to what was bothering him, he told me that he was waiting for news.

Four days after the Hamburg bombing, a woman I did not recognize showed up at the prison and asked for an audience with Freidrich.

At the moment, Freidrich was out with the work details, which I helpfully told this woman.

She asked to wait.

While she did, I looked her over. She had brown hair, but it was graying. Her face seemed somewhat aged, and tired.

Aside from that, there was the unmistakable sight of grief in her eyes, a grief that was deep, and fresh.

I brought her a glass of water.

“Thank you,” she said. She looked at me in question.

I gave her a small smile. “I am Ilsa, Herr Von Steubon’s secretary.”

The smile she offered me was weak. “I am Katarina,” she said.

Her name took me by surprise. Katarina. Could this be Freidrich’s aunt?

A few minutes later, Freidrich returned. He looked surprised to see his aunt, and a look of dread entered his eyes as he quickly crossed the room to meet her where she stood.

“Aunt Katarina,” he said, his voice sounding worried, and his voice full of tension. “Is…”

His voice trailed off as she shook her head.

What little hope had been left in his expression immediately disappeared and his aunt’s face crumpled completely, tears beginning to make tracks down her cheeks.

Freidrich took her into his arms, and she wrapped her arms around him, her entire body shaking with sobs.

“Roderich…” she said, her voice sounding almost like a moan. “If he hadn’t been back home for a short break…If he hadn’t gone back out to try to help others find shelter…Roderich…What will I do? I have no home now; I have no place to stay.”

“Aunt Katarina,” said Freidrich, his own voice remaining steady, even in his own grief, evident in his eyes. “I was told that you’ve kept in contact with Maddalyn. You’ll stay here for a few days…enough time to write her a letter and ask to stay with her, at least temporarily.”

“Freidrich…” Katarina’s voice sounded small and weak. “Roderich…”

Freidrich closed his eyes and hugged her even more tightly.

That night, after Freidrich had seen that his aunt was situated and that a letter was on its way to Maddalyn, I watched as he reentered his office. I noticed that, whereas he had not worn his iron cross in the recent days, he wore it now, as a memory of his uncle.

When I left, he was still in his office. I knocked and, after his permission to enter, I came in to ask if he needed anything.

Documents lay scattered across the desk, pushed to the side. Freidrich’s head was in his hands.

I crossed the room and hugged him from behind.

“I’m sorry, Freidrich…” I said.

“I just want this war to be over,” he said, his voice hard. “I’m beginning to care little for what’s going to happen to me. I just want it to end, so no one else can be hurt.”

I knew that if there had been a way, within Freidrich’s power, to end the war, he would have already done it.

I simply sighed, and continued to hug him. He brought his hand up to where my hand rested on his shoulder, and covered mine with his own, not saying another word.

We remained like that for almost an hour.