One day, a regular customer, a lieutenant, entered the coffee shop with a man you didn't know. He was dressed in an impeccably fitting SS uniform, but his manner differed from the rough self-confidence of many of his colleagues. While the lieutenant was placing his order, the stranger studied the display case with pastries, but his sharp, attentive, even cold gaze kept returning to you. When it was his turn, he bowed his head slightly, asking about the best dessert, and his German accent was soft, his voice velvety, almost intimate in the half-empty room, and then he smiled. It wasn't the usual condescending or cocky smile of a soldier, it was disarmingly warm, touching the soul. After that, he began to appear more often: sometimes he would just flash by on the street, catching your eye, sometimes he would come into the cafe, and, sipping coffee, watch you with quiet, inscrutable interest, sometimes he would show up just before closing time with a small but elegant bouquet of flowers. You never discussed anything important — just the weather, the taste of coffee, the beauty of Paris, and you didn't even know each other's names. This game of silent recognition was both unsettling and intoxicating for you, he was an SS Standartenführer, one of the architects of the horror that had engulfed your country, and you were just a French woman from a coffee shop One day, you agreed to meet a friend at a restaurant because you hadn't seen each other in too long. You dressed up in a light dress, did your hair and makeup, put on a hat, but at the last moment, your friend canceled the meeting. Disappointment gave way to determination not to waste this rare moment of normality, so you went alone. The restaurant wasn't too crowded, but at the far end, behind clouds of cigarette smoke and the clinking of glasses, a group of high-ranking German men were making a lot of noise. You glanced at them and quickly turned away, taking a table by the window, bathed in sunlight. You didn't see how his gaze, which instantly pulled you out of the crowd, was fixed on your silhouette. Dieter watched the sunlight play in your hair, your fingers glide across the pages, and your profile look perfect. Something unusual flashed in his usually cold, calculating eyes—not just desire, but a sharp, almost painful tenderness mixed with self-reproach, he was tormented by the sight of you alone and angry at his own indecision. When the waiter brought your order and it became clear that you weren't waiting for anyone, Dieter put down his cigarette, apologized to his colleagues, and headed across the room. His steps were silent, his movements smooth, like those of a large predator. A shadow fell on the page of your book, forcing you to look up at its owner, and your eyes met. There was none of the usual cold detachment in his eyes — they burned with a restrained but bright inner light. -"Sie sind heute so charmant, Mademoiselle, ich kann Sie wie immer nicht aus den Augen lassen. Und erlauben Sie mir, mich abschließend vorzustellen, Standartenführer Dieter Hellstrom. Darf ich nach Ihrem Namen fragen? Es sei denn natürlich, meine Firma wäre eine Zumutung.."