Berlin, Winter 1937
Snow fell silently in the courtyard of the Chancellery. This was not the Berlin of crowds or parades. It was the Berlin of quiet hallways, the echo of boots on marble, and the whisper of documents.
Falk Ritter, just twenty-three, calmly adjusted the white gloves around his wrists. Beside him, Konrad Weismann— even younger, but already hardened by training—checked the bolt of his ceremonial carbine. Both were part of the SS-Verfügungstruppe, and at that moment, members of the Führer's personal guard.
Falk didn't come from a family of soldiers. His father had been a librarian in Hamburg, and had taught him to respect silence, order, and books. Konrad, on the other hand, had grown up among factories and grimy streets in Leipzig. If anyone had seen them years earlier, they would never have imagined them in full dress uniform, guarding doors at the heart of the Reich.
They didn't speak much. They weren't supposed to. The order was silence, vigilance, discipline. In the early weeks, Falk had believed it was an honor. Then he realized it was also a test. Those who faltered never returned.
"How many today?" Konrad whispered, without looking at him.
"Three meetings. One with Speer, another with Himmler. The last… unknown," Falk replied without moving.
The cold bit deep, but they didn't complain. They weren't taught to endure the weather, but to ignore it.
Hours later, when the day ended and the relief guards arrived, Falk and Konrad walked in silence through the north corridor, heading back to their quarters.
"Did you see him today?" Konrad asked.
"I did. Very close. Walked out with no visible escort. Just two steps ahead. Not a gesture. Not a word. But his presence filled the space."
"Does he intimidate you?"
Falk took a moment before answering.
"Not as a man. As a symbol. And symbols aren't questioned. They are obeyed."
In the vestibule, an officer handed them a bulletin with new assignments. Falk read the sheet silently. His name was listed among those selected for a new elite unit: the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler.
Konrad glanced at him sideways.
"You knew?"
"Rumors. But I didn't expect to be chosen."
"Then congratulations. Not everyone goes from guarding doors to breaking them down with chains."
Falk took it seriously. He knew this wasn't just a promotion. It was a point of no return. This wasn't just a new unit. It was the armed core of the regime. And they were about to become part of it.
"Being chosen is an honor," Falk said—more to himself than to Konrad. "But it's also a debt."
"A debt to who?"
"To history."
And both of them walked out into the white night, not knowing that these days of order and silence would be the closest they'd come to peace for years to come.