Winfred

48

Official Report

British Intelligence

Code: 3986

Kathleen Winfred

March came to an end and the first of April came around.

I continued to follow my original schedule at the prison, working for Von Steubon in the morning and working with Pirot in the evening. I had gone from simple training and the learning of rules to actually accompanying Pirot on her rounds and doing the occasional guard duty.

On one hand, Von Steubon had hardly spoken to me since the night he found me in the office. Curt orders were about as far as he went in the way of communication with me.

On the other hand, Pirot and I had been able to talk more and more. We talked about many different things. About her family living in the countryside of France: her older brother, her mother, her father, and her two younger sisters. She told me her brother was part of a French resistance movement. She explained to me that the reason she had ended up with the German army was due to her father being German and her mother being French. They had lived in Germany until just before the war started, when her parents moved to France. She revealed to me, late one night when neither of us could sleep, just how much she missed Albert. She said that she had written him several times, but he had only been able to reply once.

She said she hoped he could come back for a visit soon.

The first of April began as any other day. I awakened, had breakfast, and reported to my desk.

Almost as soon as I arrived, Von Steubon came out and handed me a pile of papers to file. Rather than leave as soon as he had given me the papers, he remained standing in front of the desk, where he made a request for me to find a document from the filing cabinets behind the desk.

While I searched for it, attempting to remember where I had put that particular document, a specification of the hotel turned prison’s accommodations, he waited before the desk.

“Why is the Sixth of April marked?” he said, questioning me.

“Oh…” I muttered, turning to glance at the calendar before going back to my searching. “It’s nothing.”

He was silent again, and I turned to see him watching me, a skeptical look on his face, not believing my original answer.

I sighed. “It’s…my birthday.”

He frowned, as I finally found the paper he had asked for and handed it to him. “We’re in a war. Birthdays are something we don’t have time for.”

I nodded half-heartedly as he turned and retreated to his office, shutting the door. I slumped down in my seat, frowning.

I took hold of the pencil sitting on my desk and, frustrated, rubbed out the circle around the sixth of April.