My name is Klaus Wagner. I am a captain in the Bundeswehr, the German Army, and I am 38 years old. I serve in a mechanized infantry unit in Bavaria, a region I have come to consider both my home and my battlefield. The military life is all I have known since I enlisted at eighteen, searching for a purpose I'm not sure I've found yet.
Today is my first day off in two years. For us, German soldiers, vacation is a carefully structured privilege. Depending on seniority, we are entitled to around 30 days a year, but operational demands often change those plans. My accumulated days allowed me to take a full two weeks, something I haven't done in far too long.
The idea of disconnecting from the shouting of orders, the deafening noise of armored vehicles, and the constant state of alert should be comforting, but it isn't. Silence confronts me with memories I've tried to bury.
My wife, Anneliese, and our unborn daughter died five years ago in a car accident. It was a rainy afternoon, and the driver of a truck, tired and distracted, slid off a sharp curve. They were on their way to a medical appointment to check on the pregnancy's progress. I was on a mission abroad, thousands of kilometers away, unable to do anything. Since then, my heart has hardened, and although I fulfill my duties with discipline and dedication, I can't help but feel like a ghost walking among the living.
The few times I've tried to open up, the words don't come out. My serious expression and short answers often push people away. At the barracks, my comrades respect me, but there is an invisible wall they recognize as well. I suppose it's my way of protecting myself because any human connection reminds me of what I've lost. I prefer to carry this weight rather than risk feeling that pain again.
These vacations are taking me to a place I haven't returned to in many years: my hometown, a small corner of Germany where time seems to move slower. I'm not seeking solace or reconciliation with my past. I just want to walk through the fields I used to roam as a child, smell the scent of winter forests, and listen to the whisper of the wind over the hills. Perhaps there, in the stillness, I might find something resembling peace, even if only for a moment.
Upon arriving in the village, I decided to stroll through its narrow cobblestone streets. Small shops with illuminated displays showcased local products: freshly baked bread, handcrafted candles, and hand-painted ceramic vases. I bought a loaf of rustic bread, remembering the taste that accompanied my childhood, and a bottle of locally made cider. People greeted me discreetly, some recognizing me from years past. Slowly, the sun began to set behind the hills, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
The first drops of rain began to fall, fresh and soft. I watched as people hurried to their homes, shielding themselves under umbrellas or improvising with coats. But I didn't join them. I stayed, walking through the deserted streets, letting the rain surround me. I've always loved the rain. It feels as though each drop has the power to cleanse the soul, to wash away the scars that time and wounds have left. It reminds me of Anneliese, of the afternoons we spent under the same umbrella, laughing while the world stopped around us. To me, rain is a reminder that even in moments of darkness, there is beauty and redemption.
The sound of muffled cries pulled me out of my thoughts. They came from a nearby alley, hidden in the shadows. Cautiously, I approached and saw several men cornering a woman and her small daughter. The mother was trying to protect the girl, placing her behind her, while the men spoke among themselves in a foreign language. I recognized it as Russian; I had learned a few words during a previous mission. I caught phrases like "quick" and "silence." They were clearly planning something, and it wasn't good.
I stepped forward, allowing the light of a nearby streetlamp to illuminate my face. My voice resonated firmly as I said, in broken but understandable Russian: "Leave the women. I am a soldier. I have the right to use force."
The men stopped and looked at me with distrust. The tension in the air was palpable, but I didn't back down. My stance and tone made it clear that I wouldn't hesitate to act if necessary.
The rain continued to fall, soaking me completely as I kept my gaze fixed on the men. My warning didn't seem to intimidate them. Instead, their faces twisted into sneers of contempt, and they began hurling insults at me in Russian, their words filled with ferocity and mockery. I could pick out fragments: "coward," "paper soldier."
The woman used the confusion to back away, pushing her daughter closer to the alley's exit. However, the men didn't seem willing to let them go so easily. One of them, tall and burly, stepped forward toward me. His eyes burned with rage, and a twisted smile spread across his face. Without warning, he spat in my face.
I felt humiliation and anger flare inside me like an uncontrollable fire. I am not a man who loses control easily, but this crossed a line. In a quick, decisive movement, I raised my fist and delivered a direct blow to his jaw. The impact echoed in the alley, and the man staggered back before collapsing to the ground, dazed.
I immediately assumed a combat stance, fists raised, legs firmly planted. My military training had prepared me for situations like this, even if the context was different. The other men paused for a moment, reassessing the situation. One of them, a thin man with scars on his hands, pulled out a knife. The blade glinted under the streetlamp, and his malicious smile made it clear he wouldn't hesitate to use it.
"Вы уверены?" (Are you sure?) I asked in Russian, my voice low but filled with menace. I knew I had to stay calm, even as adrenaline coursed through my veins. I took a step back to maintain distance, analyzing the men's movements.
The man with the knife lunged, making a horizontal slash that I barely dodged by twisting my body to the side. In a swift motion, I grabbed his arm and twisted it, forcing him to drop the weapon. The knife fell to the ground with a dull clatter, and without hesitation, I kicked it out of reach.
Before I could react, another man attempted to strike me from the side. I blocked his attack with my forearm and countered with a direct blow to his stomach, leaving him breathless. The rain continued to fall, making the pavement slippery, but every move I made was calculated and firm. My training had not abandoned me.
The mother and her daughter were now at a safe distance, but their faces reflected fear and uncertainty. "Run!", I shouted at them, not taking my eyes off the remaining men. One of them hesitated for a moment, but the mother grabbed her daughter's hand, and they ran off, disappearing into the darkness of the night.
I now faced the two remaining men. They exchanged glances, clearly less confident after seeing how I had dealt with their companions. Finally, they began to retreat, casting hateful looks at me before disappearing into the shadows of the alley.
The rain kept pouring as I stood there, breathing deeply and letting the water wash the sweat and blood from my face. I knew I wouldn't forget those screams or the terrified look on the child's face that night. But I also knew I had done the right thing. In a world full of darkness, sometimes all it takes is stepping forward and confronting it.
Still standing in the rain, I pulled out my phone with trembling hands, quickly dialing the local police number. On the other end of the line, a firm yet kind voice responded.
—Police, what's your emergency?
—This is Captain Klaus Wagner, from the Bundeswehr. I'm in an alley near the main square. A group of men attempted to attack a woman and her daughter. I need immediate assistance. Two of them are incapacitated, but the danger hasn't passed.
The officer responded quickly, requesting more details.
—Are you injured?
—Negative, but the situation is volatile. One of the men may be armed. Send reinforcements. I'll repeat my location...
As I spoke, my attention was caught by movement on the ground. One of the men I had knocked out began to rise slowly. His hand moved toward his waist, and with horror, I saw him draw a firearm. My words froze, and the officer's voice on the line was drowned out by the sound of the rain.
The man aimed directly at my chest, his gaze filled with hatred, his teeth clenched as he raised the weapon with chilling determination. I stood motionless, the phone still pressed to my ear. I could hear the officer trying to get my attention, but my focus was entirely on the cold barrel pointed at me.
The gunshot thundered through the night. I felt the impact before I processed it. A wave of heat and pain radiated from my chest, followed by a burning sensation that made me stagger. I looked down and saw blood beginning to soak my uniform, mixing with the rain. The pain was unbearable, a mix of fire and pressure that stole my breath. Each heartbeat sent another wave of agony through my body.
I leaned against the alley wall, trying to stay on my feet. The rain continued to fall, washing away the blood that now dripped onto the ground. My vision began to blur, but then I saw something unexpected: the mother and her daughter had returned, this time with a police officer.
The injured man saw them too. In a desperate effort, he raised his weapon again, this time aiming at the child. In that instant, my body reacted before my mind could. Ignoring the consuming pain, I lunged forward with every ounce of strength I had left.
The second gunshot came almost simultaneously with my movement. I felt the second impact, this time in my side, a sharp and deep pain that took my breath away. Despite this, I managed to reach the man, striking his arm with the last of my energy. The weapon fell from his hand, skidding across the wet pavement.
I collapsed to the ground with him, my body finally succumbing to the pain and exhaustion. I could hear the shouts of the officer and the mother, but their voices seemed distant, as if coming from the end of a tunnel. My vision began to darken, and the cold rain mixed with the warmth of my blood.
Before losing consciousness, my mind clung to one final image: the child safe, held tightly by her mother as the officer cuffed the attacker. I had fulfilled my duty, and with that thought, I surrendered to the darkness.
Year: 1789
At first, there was only darkness and an overwhelming weight, as if the entire world enveloped me in a cocoon of silence and warmth. But then, something changed. A pull, an impulse, and suddenly I felt pushed toward the light.
The first thing I perceived were voices. One feminine, soft yet weary, and another masculine, deep and concerned. I couldn't understand their words, but their tones filled me with a sense of urgency and care. I felt my tiny lungs struggle to breathe, a sudden gasp that filled me with a mixture of cold and life.
I opened my eyes and blinked at the blinding light of the room. At first, everything was a swirl of shapes and blurry colors, but slowly the details became clearer. I realized I was in the body of a baby—so small, so helpless, yet filled with a consciousness that didn't belong there.
The room was splendid, adorned with a luxury that could only belong to someone of high status. The walls were paneled in dark wood with intricate carvings depicting hunting scenes and pastoral landscapes. A golden chandelier hung from the high ceiling, its flickering candles casting a warm, dancing light. Rich burgundy velvet curtains framed tall windows, letting in the last rays of daylight.
Beside me, an enormous canopy bed dominated the room. Its wooden frame was adorned with delicate gold details, and the linens were immaculate white. On that bed lay my mother, a woman with hair so blonde it was almost golden, damp with sweat but radiant. Her blue eyes, though tired, shone with love and warmth that overwhelmed me. Her delicate face was flushed from the effort of childbirth, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Beside her stood my father, a tall man with an imposing presence. His dark hair was perfectly combed back, though his expression betrayed a concern that broke through his usual composed demeanor. His gray eyes watched my mother with a mix of relief and admiration as he held her hand. He wore a black velvet jacket with golden embroidery on the lapels, a clear sign of his high rank.
Around me, several people tended to my mother. A midwife, a middle-aged woman with her hair tightly bound in a bun and a spotless apron, worked skillfully, cleaning up the remnants of the birth. Another young woman, likely a maid, leaned in to offer my mother a damp cloth to refresh herself.
Everything still felt surreal. My tiny body could barely move, but my senses were fully alert. I could feel the softness of the fabric I was wrapped in, smell the mixture of candle wax and medicinal herbs hanging in bunches near the bed. I had been born into a world I had only known through books and dreams, and now, here I was, cradled in gentle hands that brought me close to my mother's face.
—Look at her, —she whispered, her voice filled with emotion. —She's perfect.
My father leaned in toward me, and together they gazed at me as if I were a miracle. I, with my strange blend of adult consciousness and infant body, simply observed, marveling at the intensity of the moment.
It was the beginning of a new life, in a new world, surrounded by luxury and love.