First person POV

The Windhund Treason
First Person Perspective

May 20th, 1936
If you are reading this, then something must have happened. Know that my purpose here is not any kind of glory or recognition. I simply wanted a record of what I have seen and done. This journal is my testament to history and what role, if any, I may play in it.
It was my graduation day. I had been going to the University of Chicago and was getting a Bachelors Degree in International Relations. The truth was, there was no good reason for me to go to the ceremony. My parents were both killed in a train accident several years ago. I don’t have a lot of friends. They tend to distract me from whatever I am trying to accomplish. Plus, there is the whole German issue.
My parents were German immigrants. They came here after the First World War. They were concerned that they would face a lot of discrimination, but things actually went smoothly for them. They both went into banking and made a small fortune from it. I grew up speaking German at home and English at school. Still, having a German accent didn’t seem to bother my classmates. During the Depression most people were just glad to have a job. Where I grew up they didn’t care where you were from as long as you didn’t try taking anything from them. That’s been changing recently. When the Nazis came to power, some of the people started to revive that old hatred of Germany. I can’t say that I blame them. I can’t stand the Nazis either. I cringe whenever I think of what they might be doing to the home of my ancestors. Still, that doesn’t mean that I would willingly put myself on a stage so that people can hear my German name and then start booing. The hell with it. They can mail me my degree.
Instead of a graduation ceremony I found myself in one of the many Irish pubs that grow like wildflowers throughout Chicago. The beer was good, and that was really my only concern. It must have been better than I realized because I never noticed the newcomer walk up and sit on the stool next to me. I almost jumped out of my skin when he gave me a friendly pat on the back and said “It’s a little early to be both drinking beer and looking depressed, isn’t it pal?” The guy was pretty big. Tall and muscular, like a soldier, with that smile on his face that you give people when you are sitting at a bar and want somebody to talk to.
The trouble is I didn’t feel like talking. “I’m just in deep thought,” I responded. “Besides, I’m German. It’s never too early for beer.”
The fact that I was German didn’t seem to surprise him. That should have been my first clue that something was wrong. “Maybe you’ve drank so much that you got lost. This is an Irish pub.” He was still wearing that same smile. I told him that good beer is good beer. I’m normally not unfriendly, I just didn’t really feel like company that day, so I figured I’d let him know that I wasn’t interested in casual conversation by asking him what he wanted. That seemed to flip a switch in the man. He dropped the friendly bar smile and gave me a look that was all business. He offered to by me another beer so we could go talk at one of the tables. I have to admit that I was kind of scared. What could this stranger be setting me up for? I tried to stop him from buying the beer by grabbing his arm. I guess he really was a soldier because he peeled my hand off of his arm more easily than peeling a banana.
That’s when he told me he wanted to offer me a job. Dangerous or not, I figured I would let him buy me that beer. Even though we were recovering from the Depression, jobs were still pretty scarce around here, even for college graduates living on a trust fund. I took the beer and walked over to a table in the corner.