Chapter Text
Verity
I AM A COWARD. I’ve already been here for a week and after I made that deal with SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer von Linden. And it is because I am a coward, and only because of that that I will tell you everything. Every last detail of everything I’ve learned and done, all so you stupid Nazi bastards can get what you want.
Here’s the deal I made: von Linden asked me how I could be bribed, and I, being the bloody coward I am, asked for my damn clothes back. My CLOTHES, damn it! It seems so petty, looking back now. I bet he was expecting me to ask for something heroic, like victory or something. But no. I asked for my clothes.
But now at least I can write this bloody confession with a small scrap of dignity. They didn’t give me back my scarf, to prevent me from strangling myself with it (I did try), and I guess that’s fair (we are at war, after all). It all cost me four sets of wireless code, out of eleven. I traded the last set for a set of ink and paper- and time.
Von Linden said I have two weeks to write down everything I know about the British War Effort. Apparently I can have as much paper as I need. To start off my confession, he gave me some stationary from the Bordeaux Castle Hotel, where I am currently being held. It’s no longer a hotel, but a prison for people they’ve captured that might have valuable information.
Anyways, I’m not even sure why I’m doing this. No matter what happens, I’m getting shot. You stupid Fascists are either going to shoot me once I’ve completed my confession, or I’m going to be shot for “collaborating” if I ever do somehow get back home. Out of the two options I’ve got, this one seems easier. It’s faster, and it’s easier.
I’m going to write this in English, as I don’t have the vocabulary for a warfare account in French, and I’m not fluent enough in German. I guess someone will have to translate for von Linden, probably Fraulein Engel. She’s standing behind me now, watching everything I’m writing, and numbering pages as I pass them to her.
I guess it’d be a good idea to start off with a list of British Airfields. Not that I know many, anyways. I work in the Special Operations Executive because I can speak French and German, not because I have a good sense of direction. It’s how I ended up here. The people I work for encouraged my ignorance of the location of British Airfields, to avoid me telling you anything if I’d been captured.
Wanna know how I got captured? I looked the wrong way before crossing the street. How stupid is that? The Gestapo noticed, and I was promptly arrested as a spy. Bad. Sense. Of. Direction. So instead of telling you false locations of British Airfields, I’ll tell you about aircraft types in operational use.
Funny thing is, I don’t actually know many aircraft types. It’s not my forte. Maybe if I was a pilot for the Air Transport Auxiliary, like Kara (the pilot who dropped me here. You sick bastards already showed me pictures of her charred corpse). Or maybe if I was a mechanic on such aircraft, but no.
Wait hold on, I do know some aircraft types. The first being the Puss Moth. I know it because it’s the first aircraft my friend Kara ever flew. The story of how I came here actually starts with Kara. I still have absolutely no idea how or why I ended up with her National Registration Card or her pilot’s license, but I did. You guys didn’t believe me when I said that wasn’t me on the license, but I think if I tell you about Kara you’ll understand why we flew here together.
Kara is properly Kara Danvers. It’s an American last name, but her family had immigrated to Britain some generations ago. Now, unlike me, Kara had an excellent sense of direction. That’s probably because her grandfather gave her a motorbike for her sixteenth birthday. She once took me to a beautiful spot up on Dark Peak; it was one of the most wonderful afternoons of my life.
Anyways, I can tell you a bit about the aforementioned Puss Moth. They are fast, light planes with one set of wings, while the Tiger Moth is a biplane (two sets of wings). It can seat two passengers, along with the pilot. I believe the ‘upgraded’ version of the Puss Moth is called a Leopard Moth (another type I have just remembered).
Another type of aircraft I remember is a Lysander. In fact, it’s the type of plane Kara was flying when she dropped me here. We were supposed to land, but when we got fired on that plan went to hell. She said she would try to land after I had bailed out, so I did. I never did see her come down, but I know she did. You sick bastards already showed me the photographs from the crash site. You could’ve at least taken her body out, damn it.
Circling back to the topic of airfield locations, I really cannot believe you idiot Fascists don’t already know that Catton Park Aerodrome is in Ilsmere Port. It’s been the busiest airfield for maybe 10 years. They build planes there, apparently. Before the war, it had been a posh civil flying club, and it’s also been a Royal Air Force base for years. What they use it for now, I have no idea. Your guess is as good (if not better) than mine.
I also remember one of Kara’s friends (I think they were friends, anyways. I know she’s how Kara became a pilot), Samantha, mentioning a new airfield at Oakway. She said “it’s right by Ladderal Mill.” I’ve no idea where that is, but there you go.
I’m getting a bit tired now, as I’ve not eaten or drunk since yesterday and have been writing for the past nine hours, so I’m going to risk tossing this pencil across the room and have a good chuckle.
//
Ths pen dos nt wrk. Is ths tes or punshmen I wnt my pencl bak
The English Flight Officer is telling the truth. The ink in the pen given to her was too thick and had clumped around the pen nib. It has now been thinned with kerosene and I am testing it here to make sure it is acceptable for writing.
Heil Hitler!
SS-Scharfuhrer Etienne Thibaut
You ignorant Nazi bastard, I AM IRISH!
Anyways, I know all the other prisoners here absolutely despise me. After I finished writing today, as punishment for throwing my pencil across the room, they made me watch them torture a French prisoner (I’ve been calling him Jacques in my head, dunno why), to “make me see how fortunate I am.” He even spat at me as they dragged him back to his cell, “Little British piece of shit,” though it sounds better in French p’tit morceau de merde écossaise.
There is actually another Jacques held here, a woman. She’s always humming, singing, or whistling for war hymn whenever we walk past each other (my cell is right next to the one they use for interrogations).
Don’t you guys think it makes them stronger to give them something to despise? They look at me and say, “ Mon Dieu. Please don’t ever let me be like her.”
Anyways, I’d like to tell you more about Kara. She plays in important role in all of this. (What “this” is, I’m not quite sure yet. We’ll find out soon enough). She started out her journey to becoming a pilot at Oakway. She’d go there every Saturday and tinker with the aircraft there. It wasn’t until October of 1938 that she really started piloting. It was in October that we (Britain) started the Civil Air Guard.
It was very popular. So popular, in fact, that thousands of people applied (free flight training!). Only a tenth of those thousands of people got accepted, and only one in twenty of them were women. Kara got lucky though, because she applied and got accepted,
The timing, however, was less than ideal. Kara started flying in late October of 1938. Hitler invaded Poland on September 1, 1939, and Britain declared war on Germany not long after that. Kara got her basic pilot’s license six months before all civil aircraft were grounded, in August.
A few days before that happened, Samantha managed to get Kara in to the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF for short). Thing is, you do everything but fly in the WAAF. You wouldn’t expect Kara to join the WAAF, all she wanted to do was fly. The Air Ministry was in a panic in August 1939, scrambling to find women to work as radio operators when they realized they’d need all the men to do the flying, so Kara joined the WAAF and became a radio operator.
I remember she always compared being in the WAAF to being in school. Everything from the drills they made them do, to the uniform they had to wear (though Kara’s group wasn’t assigned an official government uniform until later on), which was an airforce blue cardigan.
Fast forward a bit, and Kara got promoted (not sure if I should call it that) from Aircraftswoman to radio operator. One day, after helping a group of stupid boys flying a plane without a map, who couldn’t find Manchester of all places, Kara got what she’d been wanting. The chief radio officer had noticed what she’d done, and when he’d found out she had a pilot’s license, invited her on a flight in a Wellington (another type of plane I’ve remembered).
These flights (though they were more like joyrides) continued on for quite some time, with Kara performing small tasks and helping the pilots navigate. Her WAAF section officer took notice, and offered Kara further training.
“In what?” Kara had said.
“It’s a bit secret. Very secret, actually. Just say yes, and I’ll send you on the course.”
So Kara said yes. What she said yes to, exactly, she didn’t know yet, but it was everything she’d wanted.
Well that is all I can usefully write for today. I’ve hopefully a dish of keilkenny a la guerre, which consists of cabbage and potato mash without the potato and with not very much cabbage. At this rate, I’m just glad I don’t have scurvy yet.
//
I am afraid to write this. I don’t want to go down in history as the one who helped the Nazis win, but here I am.
RDF is Range and Direction Finding. It shares the acronym with Radio Direction Finding, to confuse the enemy, but they’re not the same thing. They call it radar now, and American word. An acronym for RA dio Detection And Ranging (which I don’t think is easier to remember, but to each their own). In the summer of 1940 it was still so new nobody knew what it was. It was so secret that-
Bloody hell, I can’t do this.
After spending a half hour fussing about a bent pen nib with Fraulein Engel. I bent it quite a few times, but stopped when she mentioned the SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer von Linden and the deal I had made. If I do not cooperate, they will resume my interrogation.
I’ll do anything. As long as it means they don’t resume my damn interrogation, I’ll do anything. SO. Range and Direction Finding. Radar. Whatever you want to call it. Kara spent six weeks in radar training, and got promoted to officer. Then she was stationed at RAF Maindsend, not too far from Canterbury, though she was still a radio operator.
One afternoon, Kara almost fell off her chair when she heard the desperate call for help.
“Mayday, mayday”
It was recognizable in English, though perhaps it was French ( maidez, help me). The rest of the transmission was in German. She quickly turned on her microphone, and switched the call to the speaker so everyone in the radio room could hear.
The plane was heading straight for Maidsend, and the other girls were worried it could’ve been a bomber, while some were worried it was a hoax. Someone pointed out that he’d be calling in English if it was a hoax, and then the officer in charge of the radio room asked if anyone in the room spoke German.
Silence.
He commanded one of the radio operators to run to the wireless station and find him someone who spoke German. Soon after, the door to the radio room banged open, the operator from before was back, with one of the WAAF wireless operators close behind him. Kara looked up from the notepad in front of her.
The girl was immaculate- not a blue thread out of place, her long black hair in a chignon two inches above her uniform collar. Kara recognized her. Everyone called her Queenie (though she wasn’t the WAAF Queen Bee), not was it her name. Kara didn’t actually know the girl’s real name, though she had a certain reputation for being fast and fearless. She sauced officers and got away with it, but at the same time, wouldn’t leave a building during an air raid until she knew everyone was out.
Realizing she had been staring, Kara finally handed her headset to the girl. After a few seconds of listening, she translated that the pilot was over the English Channel and was looking for Calais. Everyone in the room quickly realized, however, that he was over the Thames River and was heading straight for Kent, under the impression that he was heading for France.
After finding out what type of aircraft the guy was flying, Queenie made her first radio call, in German, as cool and crisp as if she’d been giving instructions to Luftwaffe bombers her entire life.
Eventually, they tricked the pilot into landing in one of their airfields, and all was good.
Until that night. Maidsend got raided again. Kara and her bunk mates were so dead asleep that they didn't wake up until the first explosion, and promptly ran through the woods to the nearest air raid shelter in their pajamas. All Kara had taken with her was a gas mask, ID card, ration coupons, and an umbrella. Hellfire raining down on her from up above her Kara brought a damn umbrella with her.
Once inside, the girls (all the men were quartered half a mile away and used a different shelter) passed around cigarettes and played some poker to pass the time.
It was quite cozy, for what it was. Someone next to Kara asked if she could share her umbrella. When she looked up, she realized it was the wireless operator from earlier- Queenie. She was a vision of femenine perfection and heroism, even in her WAAF regulation men’s pajamas. She offered Kara a cigarette.
“Wish I’d brought a brolly,” she drawled in the posh accent of someone who studied at Oxford, “Have you room for two?”
Kara took the cigarette, but did not immediately move over. Queenie seemed like the type of person who would mock someone who burst into tears every time she heard a gun fired. On a military airfield. In a war.
But Queenie didn’t seem to be making fun of Kara, it was quite the opposite. So Kara scooted over a little and made room for another body under the umbrella. She gently pried the handle out of Kara’s trembling hand and held the ridiculous umbrella over both their heads, inside the bunker.
The next day, Kara found Queenie asleep in the canteen. She sat across from her with two cups of tea and an iced bun. She was quite relieved to see the wireless operator with her guard down. She pushed one of the cups close to Queenie’s face so the warmth woke her up.
“Are you scared of anything?” Kara asked.
“Lots of things! I can name ten.”
“Go on, then.”
Queenie looked at her hands, “Breaking my nails,” she said jokingly.
“I’m serious,” added Kara.
“Alright, then. The dark.”
Kara didn’t believe her, but it was true, “I’m scared of the cold.”
Queenie took a sip of her tea before speaking again, “Falling asleep while I’m working. God knows what would happen.” Kara agreed, and added her fear of bombs dropping.
“Well that’s a pretty obvious one.”
“Fair enough. How bout bombs dropping on my sister and mum?”
“I guess that’s fair. I can’t relate, though.”
They switched topics, with Kara asking her what it was like to question the German bomber pilot they had found. Queenie only answered, “Careless talk costs lives.”
With that, the brunette stood up, thanked Kara for the bun, and walked off.
It took them a bit longer than I realized, but von Linden finally pointed out to Engel that Queenie and I are one and the same. He also pointed out that I have not used my own name, which confused Engel.
I guess the real answer to that question is that I am not Queenie anymore. I am someone else now.
//
I am supposed to have a meeting with an American woman. She is to interview me on what life is like as a prisoner of war.
//
They’ve got me in different, nicer clothes for the interview today. They gave me a scarf to cover up my bruises from the beatings I’ve gotten. We’re having the interview in von Linden’s office. She introduces herself as Georgia Penn. I don’t tell her my name. She says she is looking for verity- truth. We start the interview in French, not wanting von Linden to understand, but soon enough switch to English.
“Truth is the daughter of time, not authority. Verity! I am the soul of verity. I am the soul of verity, “ I repeat it in French as well.
“Well thank goodness for that, I can trust you to give me honest answers.” She glanced up at von Linden, “You know what they call this place?”
I shrugged, not knowing.
“They call it Le Château de Bourreaux,” she said. I laughed a bit too loudly at that. I was never a fan of puns, but I needed a good laugh. ( Chateau de Bordeaux, Chateaus des Bourreaux- Bordeaux Castle, Castle of Butchers.)
//
I am condensing now. I can’t write fast enough, and I’m running out of time.
Kara was given parachute training too. She was trained on how to fly the plane while people were jumping though, not in the actual jumping out of the plane itself. They use Whitley bombers for the parachute training, a type Kara had actually never flown before. Nothing about it seemed strange until she was asked to come along as Pilot 2 when I was making my first jump over Cheshire. She certainly hadn’t expected me and was too sharp to take it as a coincidence. She recognized me instantly as we climbed on board, but we were not allowed to speak to each other.
Some time later, Kara was offered a job as an air taxi, and accepted. It was a boring job. She had one flight every six weeks or so. She was back to flying Tiger Moths and Puss Moths, and a Lysander, once.
The most interesting flight, however, was in September a year ago. It was a gorgeous, glorious, clear and windles night (some of the best flying weather Kara had ever seen). She was to taxi another passenger from Oakway. As always, she wasn’t supposed to initiate conversation, and didn’t get to see her passenger. She did spot, however, that the passenger was wearing a WAAF cap.
Once airborne, Kara didn’t even point out how pretty the landscape below them was. The passenger gasped when Kara unclipped the Verey pistol from the side of her seat, “Don’t worry,” she shouted. “It’s only a flare gun, it lets them know we’re here, and to put the lights on for us!”
It was not until the aircraft had come to a full stop and the engine shut down did the passenger startle Kara by giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you. You are wonderful!”
“You should have told me it was you!” replied Kara, while her friend prepared to disappear into the night.
“I didn’t want to surprise you in the air. I’m not used to flying, especially not at night.” She leaned back into the cockpit for a moment, “I’ll see you when I’m done.”
Queenie walked across the concrete, going God knows where, and Kara headed for the Cottage, where she was staying for the night, along with a few other people. She ended up talking to some of the guys there before heading to the room she was supposed to share with Queenie. Not wanting to wake the other girl up, she lit a candle to light her way. Queenie’s bed was untouched, though. Whatever she was here to do, she was still doing it.
It was around four in the morning when Kara put on her pajamas and got into bed, and half past five when Queenie finally stepped into the room. Not bothering to check if Kara was awake or not (she wasn’t), she turned on the bright light overhead, and got her pajamas and a hairbrush out of her suitcase. Then she sat infront of the mirror and stared at herself. Kara stared too.
Kara watched as Queenie slowly took off her blue WAAF tunic. It took her a second to realize she was being slow, as if it hurt to move her shoulders.
She took off her blouse.
One arm was covered in bruises, same as her throat and shoulders. By the looks of it, someone had tried to choke her to death hours ago. Queenie gingerly examined the bruises, and after a minute or so, she sighed and slipped into her pajamas. She turned around and saw Kara looking at her.
“Hey, sorry if I woke you.” She said with a crooked smile
“You didn’t.”
“You saw?” She spoke of the bruises. Kara nodded.
She paused for a few seconds. “You know what you looked like just now? With your hair pulled back in that strict governess way-”
“- Eine Agentin der Nazis” Queenie interrupted.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. A German spy.”
Silence again. Kara didn’t ask what had happened. “What do you actually do? ”
“Careless talk costs lives, Kara.”
“I don’t talk. What do you do? ”
“ Ich bin eine -”
“Yeah, I know. You’re a translator. But what for?”
“I never said I was a translator. I’m an interrogator.”
It absolutely baffles me, von Linden, that you have not yet found out what I do. On the job, I am called Tess Mercer. Like you, I am a wireless operator. Our methods differ.
“Come get warm,” Kara said.
So Queenie turned off the light overhead and climbed into bed with Kara. Kara carefully wrapped her arms around Queenie; her friend was shaking now.
“Kiss me, Hardy,” whispered Queenie.
So Kara gingerly kissed Queenie’s shoulder, and held her tightly, not letting go, not even when they both fell asleep.
I like writing about Kara. I enjoy remembering. I like pulling together all the memories and constructing them into a story. But I’m so tired. The asshole who’s guarding me keeps pressing the end of his cigarette to my neck whenever I stop writing, so I’ll just write out all the Robert Burns I know.
Burns, heh. Burns to stop the burns
Behead me or hang me, that will never fear me-
I’LL BURN AUCHINDOON ere my life leave me
Burning burning burning burning burning burning
Oh God, those pictures.
burning
Kara.
Kara
//
He knows now. They had burst into my room in the middle of the night, von Linden in the lead. He was alight . He threw the door open wide, letting the white light from the hallway outside into the room, and uttered in disbelief, “ Tess Mercer? ”
He had only just found out. “You lie,” he accused.
Why the hell would I lie about that ? You know, I was quite surprised he had heard of me, or at least seemed to know who Tess Mercer is. I stood up and straightened my shoulders. “What possible reason could I have to pretend to be Berlin’s interpretive liaison with London?”
“What proof? You have no valid papers,” he said breathlessly. He sounded like he ran here. “You were caught with Kara Danvers’s papers on you, but you aren’t her. So why would you be Tess Mercer?”
“Tess Mercer’s papers are all forgeries. They wouldn’t prove anything.”
I paused, counted to three, and advanced on him. Just two steps. We now stood a meter apart, so he could not yet take advantage of his height over me. Then another step, to allow him that advantage. I looked up at him, and asked in German, “What is your daughter’s name?”
“Isolde,” he answered, and went red as a tomato. I had him and he knew it. I burst out laughing, instantly myself again, no longer Tess Mercer, “I don’t need papers! I don’t need proof! I don’t need all these different kinds of torture you’ve got planned! All I do is ask a question and you answer it! What more proof than that one word do you need?”
Oh, the irony of this man’s life. And of mine- Isolde alive in the day and sun, while I suffocate in the Night and Fog ( Nacht und Nebel, in German. It’s what they call the place we’re taken to after we’re no longer useful). The unfairness of it all, of everything. Of me being here, and Isolde probably in some school in Switzerland, wonderful neutral Switzerland. And Kara. Oh, sweet Kara,
KARA
I finally collapsed and sobbed at von Linden’s feet. He looked down on me, “Tess Mercer. You might have saved yourself a great deal of suffering if you had simply revealed this sooner. Fool.”
//
The next flight Kara had was supposed to be a normal air taxi flight, with Queenie as her passenger. They were to depart from Oakway and land in France. It was meant to be a covert mission. Four people checked over the parachutes and papers, maps and routes, and gave her a call sign to use (Wendy). Someone even offered her a revolver, but she declined, “I wouldn’t know what to do with a revolver, anyway.” She had said. It wasn’t entirely true. She had gone hunting once with their friend Winn (he had lost all his toes after crash landing in the Atlantic ocean, they froze off), and shot two pheasants with Queenie’s revolver. But after all, Kara was-is? Was. She was a modest person.
Anyways, they finally lifted off. They flew in silence for about half an hour, and when they were over the English Channel, Queenie asked, “What are you worried about?”
“It’s cloudy over Caen, and there’s a light in the clouds.”
“What do you mean, there’s a light in the clouds?”
“I dunno, there’s some pinkish flickering light in the clouds. Could be gunfire, could be a plane going up in flames. I’m gonna try to go around it.”
Their new course went over the Normandy Coast, and over a citadel. It was a dull flight, so Queenie ended up falling asleep in the cockpit. She woke when she was slammed into a bunch of crates. She wasn’t hurt, but disoriented as hell. She looked up and saw bright orange light surrounding the windows. Just as she realized the plane was heading straight for the ground, she was knocked out cold. When she woke up a few moments later, she heard Kara’s frantic voice over the intercom, “ Are you alright? Oh, hell, there’s another one.” Another what , Queenie wasn’t so sure.
“Fly the plane, Kara. Just fly the plane.” She muttered, mostly to herself. Soon enough, she figured out they were being gunned down by antiaircraft guns. “ Sorry about earlier, I had to dive to put out the fire from the guns. Bit of a warning, you might have to do a parachute jump, I’m not sure I’ll be able to land.”
“Well what about you?”
Kara had never jumped out of a plane, and both she and Queenie knew that if it came down to it, Kara would rather go out with her hands on the flight controls, rather than jump into darkness.
“You’d better put your parachute on.”
After signaling to the airfield that they were there (by flashing a Q in Morse code), Kara began to try and descend, so she could land. The plane was stuck in a climb, the handweel for adjusting the tailpipe was broken, and Kara couldn’t get it to budge. She gave up, deciding to let the plane climb so Queenie could jump. There was no way in hell she was going to land this plane.
The guards are here to fetch me again, which means I am officially out of time. God damn it, why couldn’t I have written faster i shouldve written faster DAMN IT I shouldve writ
//
I’m brought into a room, at the center of which sits von Linden. There is a small metal table in front of him, along with a pen and paper. He looks at me, and points to the paper. “Write.” It is a command, “Finish your tale.”
I only nod in response, and pick up the pen.
Queenie clutched Kara’s shoulder tightly, she was now squatting next to Kara. “Tell me when to go.”
The plane was still climbing- they were supposed to go to 3000 feet. Queenie didn’t let go the entire time. “Okay, you can jump from here. It’s a bit windy, so keep your eye on the lights.”
Queenie squeezed Kara’s shoulder. “Kiss me, Hardy,” It was a recurring phrase throughout their friendship. They were both fans of Laurel and Hardy, and normally they’d give each other a quick kiss on the cheek, but not this time. Not after everything they’d been through together, and how much they loved each other (neither would ever admit it). So Kara kissed her. It was a quick peck on the lips, time being of the essence
And with that, Queenie retreated through the bulkhead. Kara felt the slightest shift in balance as Queenie jumped out.
Then she flew alone.
//
I’ve been given the past three days to read over what I have written, and it makes a good story. Engel will probably be disappointed it has no proper ending, though (not on paper, anyways). She’s seen the pictures, too though. She knows how it ends. There’s no point in me trying to write it out, make it seem hopeful.
Oh well, one thing I have noticed while reading over everything I’ve written, is that I have not once written my name down on anything, so it only seems fitting I do it here:
Angelina Kieran Luthor
That is my name, but I think of myself as Lena. I am not lassie (as some have called me over the years). I am not Tess Mercer. I am not Queenie. I’ve answered to all three, but at the end of the day, I am Lena. It’s what my parents called me, what my brother called me (before he decided to join the Nazis), it’s what Kara called me. It’s what I think of myself as.
Oh God, they’ll take away this paper if I stop writing now, and that’ll be it for me. For this account. It’ll all be over. They’ll finally ship me off into the Night and Fog, where I’ll die.
God, why did I do this? Why? All I have done is buy myself time. I haven’t actually told anyone anything of use, looking back now. I’ve just told a story.
But I have told the truth. Isn’t that ironic? I was sent because I’m so good at lying, yet here I am. But I have told the truth.
I have told the truth. I am finished now, but I will continue to write it again and again until someone comes and takes this pen away.
I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. i have told the truth. i have told the truth, i have told the truth, i have told the truth i have told the truth i have told the truth i have told the truth i have told the truth i have told th
SS-Sturmbannfuhrer N. J. Ferber
Ormaie
30 November 1943
SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer von Linden-
This is my final reminder to you that Flight Officer Luthor is a designated NN prisoner. If I see her in your custody again I will be forced to take formal action.
I recommend you send her at once to Natzweiler-Struthof as a specimen, where she will be executed by lethal injection after six weeks, if she survives the experimentation.
Show that devil one ounce of compassion and I’ll have you shot.
Heil Hitler!