At the front door to the home, a matron pointed towards the old man. “There he is.”

Another man, one of a pair, clad in the leather trench coat that marked him as a member of the Bundesnachrichtendiest — the Federal Information Service, Germany’s CIA — answered, “We shall take care of him from here on out. You and your home need trouble yourselves no further.”

Unseen, the matron nodded. Alles war in ordnung. All was in order. Already the two men had turned their backs on her and focused their attention fully on the old man. They walked up to him, one crouching before the wheelchair, the other standing at the side.

The croucher, he in the trenchcoat, spoke softly. “Herr Gruppenführer? Gruppenführer Mühlenkampf? I do not know if you can understand me. But if you can, you are coming with us.”

Some faint trace of recognition seemed to dawn in the old man’s watery, faded blue eyes.

“Aha,” said trench coat. “You can understand me, can’t you? Understand your name and your old rank anyway. Very good. Can you understand this, old man? Your country is calling for you again. We have need of you, urgent need.”

Berlin, Germany, 17 November 2004

And my, my don’t those two seem urgent, mused the patron of the gasthaus nestled in an alley not far from where that patron lived. As was his normal practice, the patron sat in a dim corner, nursing a beer. And when will the Gestapo, under whatever name they chose to go by, realize that those coats mark them for what they are as clearly as my Sigrunen — the twin lightning bolts — used to mark me.