Chapter 2: Dust in the Archives

Friedrich shoved open the heavy wooden doors of the Municipal Archives, the rain dripping from the hem of his trench coat onto the marble floor in weak, rapid taps. Behind him, the hinges groaned with a low whine, as if the building itself was resisting the uninvited visitor in the night.

The air reeked of aging paper, mixed with the burnt smell of high-heat drying. The heating pipes in the corner clanked softly, yet the damp chill still crept slowly over his skin. He walked straight into the depths of the archive room, where a dim yellow desk lamp burned, illuminating the towering rows of metal index cabinets behind the office desk.

Karl Richter stood before a pile of scattered files, his fingers lightly brushing the edges of the yellowed pages as if touching some ancient remains. Hearing the footsteps, he looked up, adjusted the glasses on his bridge, his gaze behind the lenses sharp and cautious.

Karl noticed Friedrich’s soaked cuffs, his brow furrowing slightly. He didn’t immediately rise to greet him, instead continuing to focus on the work in his hands.

Friedrich skipped the pleasantries. He simply turned his phone screen toward Karl. The image on the screen was slightly blurred due to rain refracting through the glass, but he had applied noise reduction beforehand. That line of dark red dates stood out painfully against the gray static. This was the last piece of evidence from the previous chapter’s rainy-night surveillance footage, and the key to breaking the deadlock.

Karl took the phone, his movements gentle as if he were catching a piece of fragile porcelain. He put on his clean white cotton gloves and studied the magnified image on the screen carefully. The cold white light from the screen cast its glow on his face, making his already serious features look even older.

It was a mark inside a cut cement cross-section, near the wall side. At first glance, it looked like rust, but after Friedrich adjusted the contrast, it revealed an extremely irregular shape resembling brush strokes. Karl’s pupils contracted slightly. He swiped his finger across the screen, confirming the date: April 30, 1945.

Karl was silent for a moment, then placed the phone on the desktop, a faint clink echoing. A distant old-fashioned wall clock ticked past an hour mark, the sound amplified in the empty archive room. He turned around and retrieved a thick black leather-bound log from the top shelf of the index cabinets. The gold-leafed text on the cover was worn almost illegible.

Karl opened a page, his fingertip stopping at an entry marked "US 103rd Division," his brows locked in a frown. This discovery had cracked his otherwise calm expression. He knew there was a massive gap between this official record and the physical evidence before him.

Karl adjusted his glasses, his voice low and steady. He pointed to the dense text on the log and said, "This is the original duplicate of the garrison rotation memo. Look here, page four, third paragraph. It clearly states that the 43rd Infantry Division entered the periphery of Freiburg on April 27th, while the main force of the 103rd Division didn’t arrive until May 5th."

Karl turned his head, locking eyes with Friedrich, his gaze carrying an academic chill: "In other words, on April 30th, there were no 103rd Division soldiers here. Not even their outer reconnaissance units had crossed the Regensburg River. The official timeline is very clear. There is no ambiguity."

Friedrich clenched his fists. Rain was still dripping from his hair, but he no longer cared about the cold. He cut off Karl’s explanation, his voice trembling with suppressed anger: "But physical evidence doesn’t lie. The US military serial numbers in that cement cross-section are real. The bloodstains are real.

You tell me, how does a unit that hasn't arrived yet leave a cement block with its own serial numbers engraved on it? And on the inner side, where the date was written before it even dried."

Friedrich stepped closer to the desk, pointing at the photo: "This isn’t a time error. It’s a forgery. Someone deliberately manufactured a non-existent time point to cover up an action that actually took place. Were the files missing? No. Someone destroyed the truth."

Karl didn’t argue. Instead, he slowly stood up and walked to a storage cabinet in the corner of the archive room. He dragged out a dusty cardboard box. The box had no labels, only a rough arrow sketched in pencil. A faint trail of dust marked the floor as it moved, and a few startled pieces of paper scrap slid away from the bottom of the box.

Karl opened the box. Inside were scattered documents, the edges of the paper curled and blackened, the ink blotched with age. He pulled out a folder and said, "This is the remnant part that wasn’t rushed to destruction in the early post-war period. The situation was chaotic back then; many temporary orders were discarded as 'redundant material' before they could even be archived.

But some things, because they were hidden too deep, or too important, were preserved." Karl placed the folder on the desk, the friction of the paper sounding unusually clear in the silent room. "There are some unindexed temporary files in here. They might resolve the contradiction you’re facing."

The two of them sat under the dim desk lamp, shadows stretching out their figures. The curtain of rain outside blocked the streetlights, leaving only a blurred halo on the glass. Friedrich took out his tablet, zooming in further on the number "30" in the photo, trying to compare the handwriting characteristics of the officer at the time.

Karl, meanwhile, flipped through the map markings in the folder. The hand-drawn march route diagram was scribbled, but there were obvious logical contradictions at the key nodes.

Friedrich squinted, suddenly pointing out: "Look here. The markings show the 103rd Division entering from the East Line, but based on the terrain, the East Line was completely impassable for heavy vehicles in late April due to flooding. If someone wanted to mislead, they would deliberately mark the route wrong to make people think the unit entered from the south."

Karl looked up, his surprise unhidden. He quickly flipped through the memo next to it, his face turning pale: "You’re right. The map tucked into this memo deliberately omitted the closure records for the East Line. It was done to cover up a secret transport channel."

Friedrich’s heart pounded. He realized he had found the key. He pointed to a spot on the map where ink had smudged a trace: "That confused route connects directly to the old gold vault and the foundation of the old city wall. Late April 1945 was exactly when the Nazi gold was being moved in a sensitive transfer.

If someone forged the timeline to mark the 103rd Division’s activities on April 30th, it would explain why a massive gold convoy passed through the city undetected. My father was searching for the whereabouts of that wealth at the time."

Karl fell silent. The map in his hands trembled slightly, the pages rustling softly. He seemed to understand the immense interests at play and the danger involved. The desk lamp flickered, and Karl instinctively reached out to steady the lampshade, as if afraid a secret suppressed for decades would be exposed along with the light.

Karl took a deep breath, his gaze growing complex. He pointed to the bottom of the folder and said, "At the time, a high-ranking commander from headquarters stayed here briefly. He inspected these archives and questioned the operational range of the 103rd Division.

But later, he went completely silent. There are no public records of him leaving Freiburg, and no one has seen him since." Friedrich pressed: "His name?"

Karl lowered his voice, glancing alertly at the door, and said, "Otto Kaese. He was a man of deep secrets. After the war, he lived in seclusion somewhere in the old town and never accepted a single media interview. I warn you, Friedrich. Do not touch this sealed gray zone.

Your father’s disappearance back then may have been related to him. Getting involved again will only plunge you into deeper danger."

Friedrich pulled an old metal badge from his coat. It was the only memento left behind by his father, its edges worn down but still holding a faint sheen. The badge left a cold sensation on his palm, bringing back memories that had been deliberately forgotten.

He said firmly: "I’m not an intruder. I’m here for my last chance at the truth. If his silence was to protect that wealth, or to cover up a murder, then I must break this silence now."

Karl looked at the badge, hesitation flashing in his eyes. Finally, he pulled a folded piece of paper from the bottom of the file pile, his movements stiff and heavy. He admitted: "This is the only evidence I’ve preserved. It’s enough to overturn all existing conclusions. But I can’t guarantee its source is legal. I can only tell you, it exists."

The light focused on that faded copy of a temporary order, the paper so brittle it seemed it would crumble at a touch. Friedrich took the paper, his fingertips growing cold from tension. He carefully identified the signature at the end of the order. It wasn’t a regular officer’s signature, but an abbreviation with a unique force. His pupils contracted sharply as he recognized the name.

Karl pointed to the abbreviation at the signature, his voice as light as a sigh, confirming: "The signatory is none other than Otto Kaese. This is a silent murder order, or at least, the starting point of covering up the truth. From this moment on, the dust in the archive room holds not just history, but blood."

Friedrich gripped the paper tightly. The sound of the rain outside seemed to stop, the world falling into absolute silence at that moment.