The order came not in writing, not with ceremony, but in Müller's low voice across the crackling line of a field telephone.
"Your comrade Jansen has grown weak," Müller said. "He questions the Reich in front of men. He hesitates when the Reich demands blood. A disease left untreated spreads. Do you understand?"
Christian's hand tightened on the receiver. He glanced across the barracks where Jansen sat alone, head bowed, whispering something to himself in the shadows. A prayer, maybe. A confession. "I understand," Christian said. Müller's reply was simple. "Make it clean. Make it quiet. Tonight."
The line went dead.
The night was heavy with silence. Warsaw smoldered in the distance, the air full of ash and smoke. Christian cleaned his pistol methodically, as though it were any other mission. Jansen hadn't spoken all day. He only stared out the window, watching the city burn, as if trying to memorize the faces in the flames.
At last, Jansen broke the silence. "They don't even fight fair anymore," he muttered. "If it weren't for the Soviets stabbing Poland in the back, we'd have bled for every inch of this ground. You know that, don't you?" Christian said nothing.
"They tell us its glory. They tell us its destiny." Jansen turned, his eyes hollow. "But all I see are graves. Children's graves. That boy a few nights before…" He choked, his hands trembling. "Christ, Christian, you didn't even flinch." Christian holstered the pistol at his side and met his gaze. "That is why I will survive."
Jansen stared at him, stricken. Then he laughed; bitter, broken. "No. That's why you're already dead." Jansen had taken to walking the ruins alone, as though searching for forgiveness in the rubble. The others were asleep when Christian followed Jansen out into the night. Tonight, Christian's boots crunched on the ash behind him.
"Can't sleep?" Jansen asked without turning. Christian said nothing.
They reached the skeletal remains of a church, its roof caved in, the crucifix shattered across the altar. Jansen stood among the ruins, the moonlight painting his face pale.
"I thought maybe… maybe God could still hear them here," he whispered.
"The ones we burned. The ones you killed." He turned, his eyes glistening with grief and fury. "Do you ever hear them, Christian? Their screams? Do they haunt you at all?" Christian's jaw tightened. "When a man dies, he dies and I bury them."
"So, when will you bury me?" Jansen said. His hand hovered near his rifle, though it shook violently.
Christian stepped closer. "I think you already know the answer to that."
The silence shattered. Jansen lunged, his rifle rising. Christian was faster. His pistol barked once, the bullet tearing through Jansen's chest. Jansen stumbled back against the altar, coughing blood, eyes wide with disbelief. He dropped to his knees, clutching at the wound, staring up at Christian as though seeing him for the first time.
"You…" he rasped. "Are my brother. Thank you for setting me free."
Christian's voice was ice. "No, freedom belongs only to the living"
He raised the pistol again, pressed it to Jansen's forehead, and pulled the trigger.
The church echoed with the shot. Then silence. Only the distant rumble of artillery remained.
Christian stood over the body, breathing slow and steady, as though a weight had been lifted. There was no hesitation now, no shred of doubt. He had silenced the last voice that reminded him of what he once was.
He dug a grave and put Jansen's corpse into it. Beneath the broken crucifix, Jansen's blood soaked into the ashes. A warning. A sacrifice.
When he returned to the barracks, Müller was waiting in the shadows, his thin lips curling into something between satisfaction and pride.
"You've proven yourself," Müller said. "Poland is ours. France is next. And in France…" He paused, watching Christian carefully. "…you may find your Kristina again."
The name hit like a blade. How did he know? And yet he knew the answer to that. "We have eyes and ears everywhere. Nothing goes unnoticed." But Christian did not flinch. He only nodded once.
"I'll be ready." That night, as Warsaw burned, Christian slept without dreams.
Jansen's did not come and neither did the others. Christian no longer heard them.