Sergeant Bayer sat in a café near Gestapo headquarters, enjoying coffee and a croissant. He reached in his shirt and withdrew a photograph he always carried in his breast pocket—a picture of his family. His wife Greta and three daughters, now grown, standing outside their home in a village outside of Stuttgart. He wished above all else he could be there, teaching history in the secondary school, but the war was just beginning. France would fall, but England survived. And unless a negotiated peace was reached, he would be denied his family’s company, except for a few precious days each year when granted leave.
He fingered the family photograph, smiling. Two of his daughters resembled his wife, tall and slender. The third was like him, short and stocky. He wondered if Major Ziegler thought
