Sebastian sat alone in the claw-footed tub, the water so cold it felt like needles against his skin. He had drawn it himself before dawn, refusing even the small luxury of a kettle. The chill was deliberate — a penance and a wall.
He closed his eyes and recited the words he had memorized years ago, the official doctrine printed in every Party handbook and SS training manual:
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“The purity of German blood is the essential condition for the survival of the German people. Any mixing with foreign blood, especially non-Aryan blood, leads inevitably to the degeneration of the race and the downfall of the Volk. The duty of every true German is to guard the sacred bloodline with iron discipline.”
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He repeated the passage twice, voice low and steady, letting each syllable cut deeper than the cold. The growing storm Aiko had awakened in him — that quiet, insistent warmth that refused to die no matter how many icy baths he took — must be crushed. She was not even Caucasian. She stood farther from the ideal than the very groups the regime condemned. Doctrine was clear. Purity was not negotiable.
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Yet the memory of his fingertips brushing hers the night before lingered anyway, stubborn as the first thaw on the Isar.
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He stayed under the water until his lungs burned, then rose dripping and silent.
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Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of fresh coffee and dark rye. Aiko sat at the small table in her navy Dirndl-style dress, the warm cardigan draped over her shoulders. She had prepared a simple breakfast: two slices of rye spread thinly with butter and a few precious pieces of preserved Krabben — tiny canned shrimp Sebastian had found yesterday at the market. She ate slowly, eyes on the folded newspaper beside her plate.
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The date at the top of the page made her pause mid-bite.
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16 November 1943.
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It was a late realization, but not too late. Only five months left. In April 1944 the first major Allied air raid would strike Munich. She had read the casualty figures in her own century: hundreds dead, thousands injured, entire blocks of the old city reduced to rubble. The beautiful, ordered Munich she was beginning to love would bleed.
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Aiko set the sandwich down.
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Later that morning, while Sebastian reviewed dispatches at the desk, she spoke quietly.
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“I would really like to learn more about Bavarian life,” she said. “Not just the work and the blackouts. Something that belongs to this place.”
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Sebastian considered her for a long moment. Then he nodded once.
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“Tomorrow is the feast of St. Munditia at St. Peter’s. We will go. Low profile. Wear a headscarf, the way the older women do.”
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The next morning, before the city fully woke, they walked the short distance to Alter Peter — St. Peter’s Church — the oldest parish in Munich. The streets of Schwabing were already alive with a solemn and joyful procession. Timber-framed houses with steep, snow-dusted roofs lined the narrow cobblestone lanes; their painted shutters and window boxes, now empty for winter, still spoke of centuries of careful, loving order. Lanterns hung from iron brackets, casting soft gold against the pale November light. People streamed toward the church from every direction — families in their Sunday best, old women in dark wool shawls, young men in simple suits, children clutching small candles. Almost the entire quarter seemed to have come out, turning the narrow streets into a river of quiet humanity.
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Aiko had tied a simple dark headscarf over her pinned hair, the way Bavarian women had done for generations. Sebastian wore his plain civilian suit again, hat low. They looked like any ordinary Bavarian couple on their way to early Mass.
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Inside the ancient church the air was thick with incense and candlelight. The high Gothic vault soared above them, frescoes glowing in the flickering glow. The choir sang in soaring, perfect Latin, voices rising and falling like a single living breath. The procession moved with solemn joy — banners swaying, candles burning steady, the priest’s vestments gleaming gold and white. Every gesture, every note, carried the weight of centuries: reverence, dignity, and an unshakeable sense of order that felt older than any war.
What... What was this?
Aiko stood beside Sebastian, head bowed, and felt something she had never known in the sterile, digital world she had left behind.
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Churches, back home in 21st century, to an average girl like her were merely nice background for Instagram selfies; Religion, she learnt from textbook that old Bavaria was Catholic, but that was it.
This is the first time she sees and feels it herself with her own eyes and ears. Not just an outdated ritual her textbooks had barely even mentioned, but ancient beauty given form. Holiness made visible.
After Mass, Sebastian leaned close enough that only she could hear. “This is the heart of Bavarian life,” he murmured. “It gives us strength to stay alive. At least for a day, we can forget about the wars.”
In textbooks, Germany during WW2 was almost described as war machine, monsters filled with rage and hatred. But here, right in the center of Nazi's ideologies birthplace, people just wanted to forget about the wars as much as they could, and live a peaceful life with their loved ones.
After the Mass they lingered at the edge of the large feast-day gathering that filled the church square and spilled into the surrounding streets. Almost everyone in the quarter had come. Long tables had been set out with whatever the wartime rations allowed — baskets of apples, small loaves of bread, jugs of lagers and ciders. Families laughed and talked in the crisp air. An old woman pressed a small apple into a child’s hand with a gentle smile. A man tipped his hat to a neighbor with a warm “Grüß Gott.” Children darted between legs, and even the soldiers on leave carried themselves with quiet courtesy. The warmth was genuine, unforced — the kind of human connection her own century had almost forgotten.
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On the walk home through the same narrow, timber-framed streets, her determination hardened into iron resolve. Five months. That was time enough. She would begin preparing now — quietly, carefully — forging the intelligence, planting the warnings, giving the Reich every chance to ready its fighters and its pilots. The bombers would not catch this Munich unprepared. Not if she could help it.
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Sebastian glanced at her as they turned into their own quiet lane. He saw the new steadiness in her posture, the quiet fire behind her dark eyes, and felt the storm inside him shift again — not weaker, but deeper, as though it had finally found something worth guarding with his whole life.
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Neither of them spoke. But both of them, in their separate silences, had already begun to choose a different future.
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and then Add to home screen.