Chapter 207: Tyrant
Early morning.
The first slanting rays of sunlight had just fallen across the Wehrmacht building in Berlin.
Deep underground, in the military command center, a soft knock sounded at the door and woke Jörg from his shallow sleep on the sofa.
He rubbed his blurred eyes and said, "Come in."
At first, Jörg thought it was Ethan. But when he looked more closely, he realized the man entering was Kesselring, Chief of Staff of the Air Force.
That made even his usually steady heart stir slightly.
Could it be a British air raid?
No. It should not be. Germany's long investment in Britain would not allow the British, each with their own calculations, to intervene in the war so quickly.
"What is it?" Jörg asked. "Is it Britain?"
Kesselring shook his head. His crooked collar showed that he had only just received the news himself, while the joy barely hidden at the corners of his mouth told Jörg that this was good news.
"No, Führer. Last night, Slovakia's Second Air Force Base forcibly stopped a civilian airliner. We captured several individuals from the plane, and after comparison, one of them was confirmed to be... Polish President Mościcki."
Morning.
Mościcki, who had been urgently transferred to Berlin, wore heavy handcuffs and leg irons. From the moment he arrived at the Slovak military base, he had not spoken a single word.
Like a puppet left to the mercy of others, he was pushed into a bulletproof car by agents of the Internal and External Intelligence Department.
The car stopped in front of a restaurant.
When Mościcki was escorted up to the second floor, he saw a smiling devil seated by the window, calmly looking back at him.
Only then did Mościcki finally speak his first words.
"Jörg, you damned war criminal!"
Jörg smiled faintly and continued eating his somewhat cold wontons.
Times had changed. Every bite of food he ate now had to undergo meticulous poison testing. The ten-minute wait for inspection drained even the finest food of a third of its flavor.
"Sit down, Mr. Mościcki. You look much better than you did in Munich."
Mościcki, who knew perfectly well that he looked awful, was forced into a chair.
"Jörg, you look like a golden retriever!"
Heydrich, waiting nearby, was about to step forward and teach this insolent man a lesson, but Jörg waved him back.
"You must be starving, Mr. Mościcki. Would you like some Noodles? Or perhaps potatoes? There is an old saying. Noodles are eaten when one gets off the carriage, and potatoes are eaten when one gets on."
Jörg's smile deepened slightly.
"Getting on means you still want to live. As for getting off..."
He did not finish the second half of the sentence.
He merely looked at Mościcki in silence, tilting his head slightly as though urging him to make his choice.
"I don't understand your strange symbolism!" Mościcki snapped. "I always thought you were a decent man who upheld peace. I never imagined you were a treacherous war criminal. Are all Germans liars? Is that why they chose a deceitful scoundrel as their president?"
Mościcki continued cursing.
But Jörg knew very well that the more rigid a man acted at a moment like this, the weaker he often was inside.
If Mościcki truly wished to die, he would not have fled Warsaw by plane.
If Mościcki truly wished to die, he would have swallowed the potatoes without hesitation.
Jörg wiped the grease from the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Then his teasing tone vanished, replaced by cold severity.
"Every adjective you just used applies better to you, Mr. Mościcki. Do not think I don't know. You also wanted to attack Germany. We simply acted first."
"If I were the prisoner and I insulted you, I do not believe I would receive such generous treatment."
"At most, my insults might earn me an arrogant lecture from you."
Jörg paused, then said calmly, "From the standpoint of a nation, there are no scoundrels and no liars. Only winners and losers."
He pushed a cup of black tea toward Mościcki.
"I can allow you to live out the rest of your life in Berlin with dignity. A villa, fine wine, a private car, bodyguards, fishing rods, everything at presidential standard."
"All you need to do is deliver speeches on radio and television. You will admit that the war was entirely instigated by you, expose your vile alliance with Mussolini and your French friends, and demand that Poland cease resistance."
"All of this can be yours."
Faced with humiliation before thousands, Mościcki shouted, "You war criminal! I will never agree to your demands! Do you think I am a traitor?"
A cold smile appeared on Jörg's lips.
He gestured for Heydrich to draw his pistol and press it against Mościcki's head.
"No, Mr. Mościcki. I do not think you are a traitor."
Jörg's voice was calm, almost gentle.
"If you had died in Warsaw, I would have laid a bouquet of white jasmine at your grave. Sacrifice is always the most admirable virtue. To borrow a biblical image, after Jesus sacrificed himself, even sinners doomed for hell could still find a stairway to heaven through self-sacrifice."
"But unfortunately, Mr. Mościcki, you are a coward."
Jörg's eyes turned cold.
"For the crime of desertion, I sentence you to death."
Click.
The sound of the pistol being cocked rang inside Mościcki's skull.
Knowing that his value was immense, Mościcki did not believe Jörg would actually kill him here.
"Who do you think you are? God? You have no right to judge me! You're nothing but a damned war criminal!"
Jörg stood and shook his head.
"You are wrong, Mr. Mościcki. I am not a war criminal."
He looked down at him and said slowly, "I am a tyrant. The Tyrant of Berlin."
"And now, the tyrant is forcing you to choose."
"Three."
"Two."
"One."
"I agree! I agree!"
Bang!
The bullet pierced the bowl of noodles, splattering soup all over Mościcki.
Completely terrified, he muttered that Jörg was a lunatic, a monster born from religion, ethnicity, and war. Then, not even knowing how to eat properly anymore, he lifted the bowl and eat the potatoes mixed with splinters and debris.
After signaling Heydrich to take him away, Jörg went downstairs and walked all the way to the heavily guarded kitchen.
The restaurant owner and his family were all squatting in a corner. When they saw him, they raised their hands in salute and greeted him.
Jörg signaled for the soldiers and agents to leave.
Then he sat down on a chair, gently pinched the cheek of a little girl who had grown much older than he remembered, and spoke.
"Business isn't easy, is it, boss?"
"Yes... it isn't easy. No, no! Thanks to you, business has been very good."
Jörg released his hand and shook his head.
"Don't give me that, boss. The simplest relationship in the world is between a diner and a chef, because delicious is delicious, and bad food is bad food. The mouth does not lie."
"If you stop running this restaurant, where do you plan to go? Back to Asia? Or how about coming to my house as a chef?"
Seeing the other party hesitate, Jörg did not press him.
Instead, he placed a business card on the table and said, "Last time, thanks to your call to the Army, greater chaos was avoided. On behalf of Germany, I thank you for your courage. This is my business card."
The girl picked up the card. There was only a signature on it. Curious, she asked, "Mr. President, it only has your name. There is no... phone number?"
"If you encounter difficulties or trouble, show them this card."
Jörg's tone was casual, yet the weight behind the words was unmistakable.
"Anyone who forges my handwriting will die. It cannot be faked."
He stood, then added, "Be careful. The world is growing more chaotic."
"It truly is hard to make a living in Germany."
Thinking of certain matters, Jörg took a deep breath.
Then he walked out.
And with that, the diner once again became the man Mościcki had named the Tyrant of Berlin.
.....
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