The train screeched into Berlin under a low ceiling of smoke. From the window Christian saw chimneys coughing black plumes, saw the scarred bones of buildings where bombs had hollowed out entire streets, saw people moving like ghosts through rubble. The capital still lived, but not as he remembered it. Berlin wore its pride like a mask, and beneath it Christian smelled the rot of fear.
He stepped down onto the platform in full uniform, his boots polished but his soul hollow. Around him soldiers returned from the East, limping, bandaged, their eyes glazed like men who had stared too long into the abyss. Their families waited on the platform, women clutching flowers, children holding paper flags. The reunions were desperate, voices breaking, tears streaming unchecked. But Christian walked alone.
His heart beat in his throat as he left the station, carrying no bag but the weight of years. He knew where he had to go. His boots carried him along familiar streets, though they were half-gone now — walls shattered, windows blown, whole corners reduced to piles of brick. Still, his feet knew the path: down Lindenstraße, past the church with its shattered steeple, past the bakery with boarded-up windows.
And then there it was: his parents' house. Smaller than memory, its roof patched with tar, its windows taped in an X against bomb blasts. His chest tightened as he stepped through the iron gate.
He raised a hand, hesitated. For a moment he was a boy again, not a soldier, not an operative, just Christian Wolfe, son of Hans and Karina. He knocked.
The door opened.
His mother stood there, gray threading her hair, lines of worry carved into her face. For a heartbeat she only stared at him. Then her hand rose to her mouth, and she sobbed.
"Christian…"
Her arms wrapped around him with a force that nearly broke him. He pressed his face into her shoulder, inhaling the scent of soap and wood smoke. He had not cried in Stalingrad, not when his men froze to death, not when Antonov bled out in his arms. But now, in Karina's embrace, tears stung his eyes.
"My boy," she whispered, her voice shaking. "My boy, you've come home."
Footsteps thundered down the hallway. His sister burst into view. Katia, grown taller since he'd last seen her, but with the same wide, earnest eyes. She froze when she saw him, her hand clutching the doorframe.
"Chris?"
And then she ran. She threw herself at him, nearly knocking him backward, her arms wrapped tight around his waist. He staggered, laughing through tears, holding her close.
"You came back!" Katia's voice broke. "They said…you…oh God, I thought…"
He kissed the top of her head, trembling. "I'm here. I'm here."
For a long moment the three of them clung together in the doorway, weeping, laughing, unable to let go. The war, the hunger, the fear, it all receded in that moment. There was only family.
Inside, the house smelled of bread and coal dust. The living room was just as he remembered: the worn sofa, the grandfather clock ticking steadily, the lace curtains. But at the table in the corner, one chair stood empty.
"Where is Father?" Christian asked softly. Karina's face fell. Katia looked down. "He's been sent west," Karina said at last, her voice trembling. "Normandy. The Wehrmacht needs commanders there. He writes when he can… but the letters are fewer now."
Normandy. Christian's stomach tightened. He had heard whispers of the Allies preparing there, rumors of an invasion. He imagined his father; not a desk man, not a laborer, but a commander of men, walking trenches, rallying troops, staring across the Channel toward a storm that had not yet broken.
"He should be here," Christian whispered. Katia's eyes filled. "Chris… there's more."
He turned to her, gently lifting her chin. "We haven't seen Kristina in a long time."
The name struck him like a knife. Kristina. His secret, his love, the reason he still drew breath.
Katia continued, voice quivering. "She vanished. No letters. No visits. No one says anything. Some whisper she's in trouble, others that she fled. I don't know. I don't know what to believe."
Christian's hand moved unconsciously to his chest, where beneath the wool of his uniform, the small ring pressed against his skin. He touched it through the fabric, feeling its shape, its promise.
"I know," he whispered. Katia's brows furrowed. "You know?" He shook his head quickly, covering the slip. "I mean… I know she's strong. She'll be all right." But inside, the ache burned hotter than ever.
They sat together until dusk. The candlelight trembled over their faces. Karina busied herself with a pot of soup, the thin broth a rare treasure in these times, and ladled it with shaking hands.
Katia would not let go of his hand. At last, she spoke again, voice cracking.
"I'm scared, Chris. Every night the bombs fall. Every night I hear them, and I think—this is it, this is the night we'll be buried. I see the Gestapo dragging neighbors away for saying one wrong thing. Even the pastors whisper only in shadows now. And now Father… he's on those beaches. And you…"
She broke, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. "I can't lose you too."
Christian held her close, stroking her hair, his throat tight. "You won't," he whispered. "As long as I breathe, I will protect you."
But even as he said it, the lie burned bitter in his mouth.
They sat in silence after supper, Karina watching him with the haunted eyes of a mother who knew she could not hold onto her son forever.
Then came the knock. A sharp, deliberate rap on the door.
The air froze. Karina's face went pale. Katia's grip on his hand tightened like a vice.
Christian rose slowly. His heart thudded. He knew that knock. It was not a neighbor's knock.
When he opened the door, a man in a dark overcoat stood waiting. His eyes were flat, professional, his hat pulled low. "Christian Wolfe," the man said softly. "You are requested." Not invited. Requested. "By whom?" Christian asked, though he already knew.
"The Admiral."
Christian glanced back into the house. Karina's lips trembled. Katia's eyes pleaded.
He forced a smile for them both. "I'll return soon." But as he stepped into the street beside the agent, he knew nothing about that promise was certain.
The Abwehr offices were cloaked in shadows, their walls heavy with silence. The agent led Christian through hallways where typewriters clattered faintly, where doors were shut too quickly, where footsteps echoed like whispers of conspiracy.
Finally, he entered Canaris's office.
The Admiral stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the blacked-out city. He did not turn at once. "You found your family," Canaris said at last, as though he had been watching through the walls.
Christian stiffened. "Yes, Herr Admiral." "They still live," Canaris murmured. "That is something."
He turned then, his eyes sharp, his face carved with lines of care. He gestured to a chair.
"Sit."
Christian sat, his spine rigid. The room seemed smaller than before, the shadows thicker.
For a long moment, Canaris said nothing. He studied Christian with a gaze that seemed to weigh his very soul. Then, at last: "I trust you."
Christian blinked. Of all the things he had expected, that was not it.
"Sir?"
"I trust you," Canaris repeated. "Because you have seen the truth. You have seen the madness at Stalingrad. You have seen the atrocities the Gestapo commit. You have seen what becomes of men who surrender their humanity."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Christian… we are going to overthrow the Führer."