I’ve been waiting for this knock on my door for almost 50 years. I know it’s not the milkman or the postman—I can feel it in my brittle bones. I’m in my mid-70s now; I forget how old exactly. When I crossed into the UK, I paid for a new ID and I’ve forgotten my original date of birth. I’m probably around 76, give or take a few years, and I doubt I’ll reach the upcoming millennium. I walk with a cane and it takes me a while to reach the door, to peek through the eyehole and see a brunette woman on the other side, young and alert with a steely glare. In my time, women like this wouldn’t have dared knock on my door, but the world has changed since then. I open up. “Come in,” I say, and turn, without waiting for her story. “I’m a journalist,” she says. “I know. Close the door behind you.” I settle into my armchair and she sits diagonally from me on my couch. My cat, Snozzle, leaps onto my lap and curls into a ball. I stroke her absently, comforted by the vibration of her loud purrs. “Would you like a drink, Miss—?” “No, thank you.” She pauses. “I’m Celia Brune.” “Pleasure. I assume you know my name?” “Well…” And that hesitation tells me I was right: she’s here because she’s discovered who I am, or who I used to be. “Franco,” I offer. “Franco Gotze.” “I, uh…” She flips open a pad. “I have a feeling you might be someone else. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” “You just did.” She laughs; it’s been so long since I’ve heard that sound from a woman. Not since Margaret, but she’s been gone over a decade now. She was the one person who knew my secret and didn’t hate me for it. She understood, I guess, that a man can evolve. “Who do you think I am?” I ask, helping her along. “Maybe we should start with the easy—” “Why waste time? Just say it.” An edge creeping in that I can’t suppress. I’ve been expecting and dreading this day and I always thought I’d react more forcefully, more aggressively. But now I feel slightly annoyed, and that’s it. This was, after all, inevitable. She looks at her pad, then back at me. “I think you’re Brigadeführer Jurgen Herzog.” “I see.” “I believe you evaded capture after the Second World War and you ended up here, in London. And I, uh, think you’re a Nazi.” She flicks her gaze down at her pad, scared to look in my eyes. Then she looks up again, and the steel has returned. “I think you’re a murderer.” I nod, but say nothing. I could deny it or offer excuses, but why bother? Margaret’s gone now and most of my days are spent talking to my cat, Snozzle. I have nothing, and no one, to protect anymore, other than myself. I started off life as a compliant soldier, doing unspeakable things to innocent people to gain attention or credit or maybe for my own sick thrill, I don’t know. And since then, I’ve lived the quiet, thoughtful life of a Londoner, following the rules like I always have. The last fifty or so years have been peaceful. “I plan to write a story about you,” she says. “How did you—? I mean, what made you think—?” “You want to know how I found out?” She offers a cryptic smile. “That will all be in the story, Mr Herzog. But in short, I’ve been studying things like this for a long time. And chasing men like you.” That steel in her eyes isn’t strength; it’s anger, hatred. “My grandparents died under your command. I don’t know if you ordered it, or someone else but—” “I’ve never felt good about my past,” I say. “I’ve always locked it away.” She looks at her pad again. “Do you feel any remorse?” “Hmm.” Margaret used to ask me the same thing. I would like to say yes, but the truth is, the moment I fled that country I left behind Jurgen and became Franco. I don’t think about Jurgen’s crimes or acts; he’s another person, an old shell. “I try not to dwell on it too much.” She writes that down. “You compartmentalise it, I suppose.” “Perhaps.” “So you admit you’re him?” “I admit nothing.” “You realise,” she said, “once I leave, I will alert the authorities.” “Of course. But I suppose you have to get your story first.” A twist of a smile. “History needs to be documented.” “Sure.” I slip my hand down the side of my armchair, feel the barrel of an old revolver. I’ve kept it here for years, waiting for such a moment; waiting for THIS moment. But that was before Margaret passed away, when I still had something to lose. I shrug Snozzle from my lap, and she jumps gracefully to the floor and wanders off. I pull the gun out and point it at Celia. Startled, she drops the pad and raises her hands. “Wait, what are you doing?” “You’ve found me,” I say. “Once you leave, my life as I know it is over.” “Listen, please—” “I would like you to go now,” I say. “Get out, please.” Confused, she heads to the door, hands in the air, leaving behind her fallen pad. She’s tense, as if she expects me to shoot her in the back. She leaves, then I hear her running. I go to my picture of Margaret on the mantle, and I say: “They finally arrived.” I’m happy I shared a life with her before they found me, but I know I didn’t deserve it. Sometimes, the monsters win and life isn’t fair. Sometimes evil prevails over the innocent. I raise the gun to my chin— Close my eyes. And rest my finger on the trigger.