Fritz inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs, for a moment he considered holding his breath, wondering how long it would be until he slipped into a state of blissful unconsciousness. Finally Fritz exhaled, watching the smoke spread out in front of him before a frigid wind tore it from the air, causing the spy to wrap his coat around him more tightly. Fritz spat the cigarette on the ground, crushing it beneath a heel.

He was here to visit with his family, though he hadn't worked up the courage to go yet, knowing the disappointment they'd feel upon viewing the twin runic S's emblazoned on his uniform. For his own safety, Fritz had neglected to tell his family any detail of his double, for all they knew he was a proud member of the SS, nationalist and antisemitic to boot. The spy spat again and looked above him, the bold words, "Juden Vorboten" glaring back at him.

"Fuck you." Fritz snarled at the building, a small, comfortable looking inn with a sign declaring it as the Hotel Weissmann. In a fit of rage the spy threw a wild punch at the wall, feeling the skin tear from his knuckles, warmth spreading across his hand as large crimson rivulets streamed between his fingers.

"Goddammit." Fritz swore loudly, drawing his hand against his body instinctively. An inviting light spilled from beneath the threshold of the hotel, and Fritz wondered if they had any alcohol he could drown his misery in. The spy looked upwards, though the stars gave no answer, and sighed deeply, drawing another cigarette from his pocket.

Business was slow at the hotel tonight -- snow was beginning to fall softly outside, and it was bitter enough to keep the regulars away for once. It was a welcome break for Emilie Weissmann -- she so rarely was able to rest since her mother's accident, it was beginning to wear her out. The tables were clean, the bar wiped down, all the work that Emilie had to do was done. She poured out a glass of Kirschwasser - a sort of cherry brandy - and sat on a stool in the bar, letting the liquid warm between her hands.

It was already December, only about two weeks left until Christmas. This was a blessing for Emilie. Christmas was one of the inn's slowest seasons. People went back home to stay with family rather than going to hotels. There were always a few drifters who needed a room, but there were few crowds, no big parties to hold and cater. If it weren't for the slow Decembers, Emilie would never make it to the New Year, by contrast their busiest time.

Looking out the window, Emilie was rather taken aback to see a man silhouetted there. She sighed and set down her glass -- the brandy would have to wait, if this man was a customer.

Opening the door, she saw him now with clarity. Not much taller than her, with poster boy features for the German Army -- and SS uniform. This man was a Nazi

Fear fought with happiness at the sight of him as Emilie cleared her throat.

"Can I help you, Herr Soldat?"

Fritz turned to examine the owner of the voice that called to him. A young woman not much younger, or shorter for that matter, met his gaze nervously, her grey eyes scanning his uniform. The spy let his own eyes size her up quickly, a cigarette still dangling unlit from his lips. After a time Fritz spoke.

"Alkohol?" he ventured simply, running a hand through his hair as he did. A few snowflakes settled on his shoulders, and Fritz shivered involuntarily, teeth saved from chattering only by the paper tube wedging them apart. The spy fished out his lighter, grateful for the meager warmth it provided his hands as he touched the tip of the cigarette with the sputtering flame.

"Strongest you got," Fritz said after another uncomfortable period of silence, "I have things I wanna forget, verstehst du mich?"

The spy coughed, a cloud issuing forth into the cold air, Fritz waved the smoke away, staring at the woman with hard eyes.

"Ja. Ja, selbstverständlich." she said, going around the bar, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Mixing a drink in silence, she glanced up at him. What has he done, she wondered to herself, that he needs to forget?

She set a glass of whiskey before him and stepped back. The man radiated anger and power. After a moment, she spoke again.

"Will you be needing a room tonight, Herr Soldat? We have several available -- at discount price."

That was something of a lie. There was no discount in effect on the rooms -- it was common courtesy though. Being an SS man, it was likely he would ask for it anyway, and whatever they asked for they got. A small number of SS men in the area demanded the best suites for cheap, drank her best alcohol and ate her best food for ridiculously low prices. Emilie did not complain. It brought it more clientel -- and more alcohol bought at low prices still gave her a profit.

Fritz followed her into the establishment, breathing a smoky sigh of relief as the warmth hit him. Wordlessly he set himself at the bar, accepting the whiskey as coldly as he had asked for it. He took a quick shot of the beverage, letting it spread its warmth to his extremities, and glanced at the woman as she offered him a room.

"Let me decide that later, I have family here, it all depends on if I want to see them."

Finishing off the whiskey he slammed the glass on the counter-top, "Keep them coming." Fritz ordered not a little morosely. He took a quick glance around the building, though his eyes kept coming back to the swastika hanging above the mantel. Such a violent symbol the thing had become, it made the spy want to drink all the more.

"What does that mean to you?" Fritz asked as he slipped off his coat, eyes fixed on the symbol.

Emilie paused, the bottle poised over his emptied glass.

"I'm... I'm not sure what you mean." she said, her free hand going unconsciously to the Hakenkreuz pinned on her shirt's collar.

Emilie had grown up with Nazi sentiment always there -- never actually addressed, but always known. Even before Hitler came to power in 1933, Emilie's mother and father had taught her the same sort of rules. That they -- as Aryan Germans -- were better on a fundamental level. Better than blacks, than Jews, than Gypsies. She never voiced it, but it was always there.

She had been a Nazi since the first appeared. She had worn her pin and flown her flag since the beginning. It have her a sense of pride, of security. Its very existence substantiated ideas she had always had of herself in relation to others.

What can he mean? she mused again. He seemed put off by its appearance there on the wall, for whatever reason.

"Oh my! Herr Soldat, your hand!" she said, suddenly concerned. She hadn't noticed the blood on his fingers before, when he came in.

Fritz laughed, holding up his bloodied hand.

"It's nothing but the reward for frustration, a flesh wound and nothing more, don't worry about it."

The spy took the bottle from her hand gently, tipping it over his glass and setting it on the bar top. He took a shot of the whiskey and sighed, feeling a mild concern about slipping secrets he shouldn't, at the same time feeling his inhibitions slipping away. Nearby the hooked arms of that vile symbol loomed over him, reminding the SS member of the sins he had committed.

"Ja, I'll need a room, I've always been a lightweight when it came to drinking, and I daresay my family won't be very happy to see me."

He downed his second glass of alcohol and shot an uncomfortable glance at the woman.

"Could you at least take the pin off? One need not be reminded of his perfection at every glance." Fritz grabbed the bottle again, "Charge me for the whole bottle."

He coughed and took a swig of whiskey.

"Hey, do you know the Amsels?" Fritz asked, forgetting that Köln was such a large city.

"It's nothing but the reward for frustration, a flesh wound and nothing more, don't worry about it."

Are you sure you won't be needing a bandage for it?" she asked, still worried.

"Hey, do you know the Amsels?"

"I'm afraid I don't, sir." said Emilie quietly, as she removed the small enamel pin.

"The suites are 175 RM for one night, sir." she said looking at the soldier curiously. There was something about him that seemed... off. Something that wasn't quite right.

She knew military men. From what she had seen of them, they fit the picture of the hard, greedy German soldier, taking at will, speaking rudely. Bigoted. Angry. While this man was certainly angry, she couldn't exactly see him as being a soldier, despite his uniform. He seemed uncomfortable and unusual in it. Like handing a Cellist a Clarinet and setting him before a crowd.