Prague, March 20, 1939
The neighborhood was old. Narrow streets, peeling walls, clothes hanging from low windows. The kind of place where footsteps echoed like someone was walking behind you. Falk had received the order: visible patrol. Show presence. Intimidate without provocation.
The crew was on foot, armed only with pistols. The Panzer was left behind, hidden at an intersection. They wanted to avoid "excesses." But it was already too late for that.
Helmut noticed the silence before anyone else.
—"No children. No dogs. And the shops are open, but empty," he whispered.
—"They're waiting for us," said Konrad, hand on his belt.
At the next corner, they saw it: an improvised barricade made of crates, old furniture, and a flipped car. Behind it, twenty men. Some armed. Others with stones. All with a determined look.
Ernst stepped forward, palms open.
—"We don't want to shoot."
A stone flew. Then another. Then a dry, sharp gunshot.
Falk shouted:
—"Take cover!"
They dove into a doorway. Lukas fired into the air. Helmut tried to call the nearest unit on the radio, but interference blocked the signal. The street became a blur of steps, shouts, and small blasts.
—"Five streets, chief! If they block the back, we're trapped!" Lukas yelled.
Falk looked at Konrad. It wasn't an order. It was a silent question.
Konrad nodded and returned fire. One of the civilians fell. Another retreated. The rest scattered at the corner.
The silence returned, but it was different. Not tension—defeat.
They had fired. And not on a front line. In a city. Against their reflection.
That night, before heading to Berlin, Ernst dropped the wilted flower he still carried into a storm drain.
—"I don't deserve it," he murmured.
And no one disagreed.