A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love.

Before Major Hochstetter first encountered Colonel Hogan and the Heroes, he had a life in Berlin...

March 1942

Gestapo Headquarters, Berlin

A young woman, blonde and quite pretty, knocked at the office door of Hauptmann Wolfgang Hochstetter. She bent her head slightly, listening, as she awaited the summons.

"Herein!"

She opened the door and approached the remarkably untidy desk of her new boss. Papers were strewn across the desk, some having fallen to the floor, and files were stacked haphazardly. The Hauptmann was smoking a cigarette and appeared quite perturbed: his dark hair was mussed, his tie was loosened, and his mustache was twitching. He looked up as she came forward and waved her to a chair.

"Fräulein Hilda, sit." As she sank down into the chair he said, "As you know, I am new here, as I was previously assigned to Hannover. It would be very helpful if you could provide me with information."

Hilda hedged. "I am not sure what you mean, Herr Hauptmann."

"No?" He rose, and linking his hands behind his back, began to pace the confines of the small office. "You have neighbors, friends, former schoolmates. Can you tell me anything...interesting about any of these people? I have files, as you can see, but any insight I can get from you will be helpful."

Hilda sat up very straight and said firmly, "I am afraid I do not know anything...interesting, Herr Hauptmann."

Hochstetter's head snapped up and he met her eyes for a moment. Then he smiled suddenly. "Of course not, Fräulein. You may go."

Cohen watched the secretary leave the office and sighed. It had been rude of him to question the poor girl, but he felt better now that he had established that Fräulein Hilda was not in the habit of providing information against people she knew—not even to impress her new boss.

He was finding it the same here in Berlin as it had been in the Hannover office: there were mountains of files containing information that German citizens had provided on each other. An epidemic of fear and paranoia seemed to grip the land.

This situation actually helped Cohen maintain his cover, however. So far he had been able to pick and choose amongst the plethora of files to fill out his caseload. Most of the cases he undertook were baseless, even to the perverted justice system of the current regime. There were a few involving individuals engaging in activity that would be considered criminal in any contemporary society: these cases he had no compunction in pursuing. A few were indeed cases of individuals plotting against the Third Reich, but he was able to bury most of those with lengthy and meaningless reports.

But not all. Every now and then, a citizen would lodge a complaint that caught the attention of one of Cohen's superiors. In these instances, Cohen would be forced to carry out a full-fledged investigation. It was not his fault that these cases seemed to fall apart at the seams eventually...was it?

In some instances the suspect was found to be related to a high-ranking member of the Third Reich, and Cohen was tacitly encouraged to turn a blind eye. A few times the suspect mysteriously disappeared; one had even jumped from a bridge, committing suicide—or so it had appeared. Cohen relied on his London contact being able to mobilize the Underground to rescue these people; his contact always grumbled about it, but somehow London always came through.

Cohen had been forced to contact London about tonight's planned arrest of Horst and Else Schneider. Not only had they attracted the wrong sort of attention, Cohen actually had proof of their involvement in anti-government activities.

He had carefully planned the arrest for tonight, selecting two of the younger and less experienced of his assigned staff to accompany him. Schmidt and Müller had both been members of the Hitler Youth, but Cohen suspected the indoctrination never fully took with either of them. He sensed that there was an inherent humanity to the young men that would make it less likely they would be trigger-happy when confronting the suspects.

The arrest would take place, but Cohen had arranged that the Schneiders would never make it to Gestapo Headquarters for questioning. A problem with the engine of his car, an unfortunate jamming of the weapons his men were carrying, and his quarry would vanish safely into the night.

Later that evening...

Tonight's situation was made considerably more difficult by the presence of the Schneiders' young daughter. Cohen realized it just after he had his men kick down the door of the little cottage, surprising the Schneiders who had been sitting around a small fire in the hearth.

The little family looked up at the intruders with defiance, not fear, even when Cohen roughly ordered them to their feet. Herr and Frau Schneider both regarded Cohen with unblinking hatred; their daughter, perhaps eight years old, was expressionless as she clutched something to her breast.

There was something about her eyes as she watched him, and Cohen didn't know what to make of her. She looked straight at him and he stared back; the moment hung in time, although it must actually have been but a split-second. And as the family was being led away, the child darted at Cohen and thrust what she was holding into his hand.

Automatically, he put it into his overcoat pocket and managed to conceal his surprise, as he shouted to his men: "Raus! Raus! Raus!"

Afterwards, after he had completed his routine check of his Berlin apartment for listening devices and other signs of intrusion, he reached into his pocket and retrieved the object the child had given him—a tiny, jet-black scrap of a kitten, perhaps a few weeks old.

After he had provided his guest with a scratch-box and a saucer of milk, Cohen sat down and pondered the situation. The child's parents had looked at him with hatred; what had inspired the child to entrust him with her treasured kitten? Certainly he had arranged for the family to be freed shortly after their arrest, but the child couldn't have known that would happen. And he would never see the family again; the Underground connection would see to that.

So that leaves me with a kitten to raise. Some spy I must be.

But the encounter with the child had gone deeply with him. Cohen had not considered himself to be a lonely man; he had chosen this life because he was determined to do his part to right a great wrong, and the nature of his work meant he worked alone.

But I'm always the bad guy...that's the way it has to be. I have to appear to be a conscientious officer to my superiors and that means I must present a menacing attitude to the people I investigate. It doesn't matter that everyone I meet hates and distrusts me. Except for that kid tonight.

What did she see when she looked at me, for her to consider me worthy of her trust?

Cohen didn't have the answer to that.

A tiny squeak interrupted his thoughts and he winced as needle-like claws pierced his trouser leg and a small triangular face appeared at his knee. A reluctant smile tugged at his mustache as he gingerly stroked the kitten's fluffy fur.

Whatever she saw in me...I hope I can live up to it.