"And he just… gave up." Marc shook his head ruefully. "After everything he did for them, it almost feels… anticlimactic, to thing that he would be so content to just rot in a prison form however long it would be."

Nath nodded. "I know. But that's part of what makes him so unique: he held to his honor. That's why Opa respected him so much."

Marc quirked an eyebrow. "Say what you will about him, I suppose you can't claim that he didn't have honor. We especially see it on display in his grandson."

Nath chuckled. "I'm glad he's not an enemy, too!"

Nuremberg, September, 1945

"Salza?"

Placing the pack of cards he had been absentmindedly shuffling back on his writing desk, Sigmund looked up on hearing the barked order to find a man in the uniform of the American military police standing at attention outside his jail cell. Stoically, Sigmund rose to his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. "Yes… Corporal?"

The soldier's nostrils flared, and he sneered at him. "Your lawyer is waiting."

"Very well." Sigmund held his hands out to the soldier through the grate, and the soldier promptly affixed the cuffs before unlocking the cell door. The cuffs rattled, shaking against each other as he shifted the position of his hands. Sigmund sighed, looking around the small cell that had been his home for the last four months, ever since Dönitz's surrender and Sigmund's arrest on the family estate by the leading elements of the Red Army. A simple cot with a thin blanket, a desk attached to the cell wall to prevent it being moved, his cards, a couple books… hardly anything to call his own. Nothing his captors might consider dangerous – though whether they were afraid that he would hurt himself or attempt to hurt one of them, he was not sure. The military police officer shook the manacles several times, checking that the cuffs were secure, before finally opening the door and freeing the manacles from the door wall. Sigmund tried to suppress the involuntary wince as the door opened, standing rigidly still by the cell door and waiting for the guard's instructions. Eyeing Sigmund suspiciously, the soldier grabbed his shoulder roughly, jerking him out of the cell and pushing him in front of him down the corridor, past the cells housing the other "defendants" – prisoners, really. Catching his balance, Sigmund strode calmly, purposely down the corridor, through several guard posts, past the laundry room and kitchen, past the doors out onto the practice yards, until he stood outside the small room set aside for attorney meetings. The officer paused outside the room, working the locking mechanism, and Sigmund cleared his throat. The officer paused momentarily, staring at Sigmund expectantly. "Thank you, Herr Corporal," Sigmund told him solemnly. "You have served with honor by your actions, these last months. I only wish I could say the same about myself – or about my… codefendants."

"Huh." Cocking his head to one side, the soldier furrowed his brows, staring at Sigmund in surprise. "You're not pulling my leg, are you?" he demanded. "Not jerking my chain by buttering be me up?"

Sigmund shook his head. "I am familiar with honor," he assured the soldier. "And you exemplify honor by your treatment of those who had been condemned. Far better than many of those I have known since this 'war' began…"

The soldier scoffed derisively. "None of those other bastards seem to recognize or appreciate us."

Sigmund dipped his head, stepping through the doorway. "Perhaps someday."

Inside, a man in a pressed business suit waited for Sigmund, a large briefcase opened next to him with papers spilling out of it onto the table. He did not stand up, though he glanced toward the door as Sigmund entered, nodding briskly toward the empty chair opposite him at the table. "Herr Salza, I am Herr Berkel. I will be your attorney for the trial."

"Thank you," Sigmund told him, taking the indicated seat. "I appreciate the hard work that you have already put into this case. But I do not think that a defense attorney or full trial will be necessary."

"I'm sorry?" Herr Berkel cocked his head in confusion, looking fully away from the documents in front of him and staring across the table at Sigmund. "I must not have heard you correctly."

"You heard correctly. I do not know that it is necessary to burden the tribunal with a long, drawn-out trial," Sigmund explained. He managed to keep his composure for another three minutes before his shoulders slumped. Looking down, he sighed heavily. "I intend to plead guilty to all the charges against me."

Herr Berkel's jaw dropped. "But–but– that's absurd!" he spluttered, blinking hard several times. "You have to dispute the charges against you – the sworn affidavit laying out the charges is a mess; so much of the statement is entirely spurious and contradictory!"

"That may be the case," Sigmund responded, giving him a resigned smile. "But nevertheless, I will plead guilty to all charges."

"But… I don't think that is a wise decision, sir!" protested Herr Berkel. "I have read through the indictment against you, the list of charges, and it contains every single potential charge that Nuremberg hears: 'Conspiracy to commit a crime against peace', 'Waging wars of aggression', 'Participating in war crimes', 'Crimes against humanity'… if you are convicted of even one of these crimes, you could be sentenced to life in prison – or even hanged! And if you plead guilty to all four…"

"If that is the case, then it will be no less than what I deserve."

"No!" Herr Berkel folded his arms, his mouth set in a thin line. "We must dispute the bill, even if for no other reason than to negotiate a lighter sentence."

"But all of those charges are accurate," Sigmund pointed out, sighing heavily. "I will not dispute something I know to be true. I did wage a war of aggression on behalf of Herr Hitler – good soldiers died because of me. I did commit crimes against peace – this entire war was a crime against peace! I deserve to be punished for my participation in this abominable 'Reich'!" He clenched his fists. "I will not fight this."

Herr Berkel scoffed, shuffling through his papers. "But if you did–" Sigmund gave him a sharp look– "if you did, then you would have an excellent case to have at least two of the charges dropped. The only evidence the Soviets have presented states very clearly that you were an actor, a participant in the Nazis' propaganda efforts. You were the one in the Teutonic Knight armor, but it was nothing more than that: a prop. You posed for a photograph, but nothing more."

"I suppose I was little more than a prop of the Nazis," Sigmund muttered under his breath.

"Sir?"

He sighed. "That is the official record," he confirmed, nodding.

"That does not explain everything, though," Herr Berkel mused, shuffling through his documents until he found another one. "According to de Menthon, the Teutonic Knight was supposedly one of Hitler's 'most powerful supporters'. The Soviets requested a postponement so they could search for further evidence of your 'crimes'."

Sigmund stifled a wince, reaching for the shoulder where the Soviet soldiers had beaten him, when they had arrived at the estate to arrest him. "Did they receive their postponement?"

"No; Judge Biddle believes the evidence is sufficient."

Sigmund allowed himself a small smile, though it quickly turned to a frown. He had hidden the sword carefully before their arrival; no one would ever find it. When they had come to the family estate outside of Berlin, he had been wearing the ceremonial armor, holding the dull ceremonial sword that his great-grandfather had commissioned for public functions. But still their captain had not been satisfied. What would the Soviets do to the estate while searching for the sword? "Given that I will not contest the charges, I am inclined to agree with the Judge," he told Herr Berkel wryly. "Whatever evidence they may present will be more than enough."

Herr Berkel smacked his hand on the table. "Are you not listening to me?" he demanded, giving Sigmund an incredulous look. "They will convict you, and they will hang you!"

Sigmund leaned forward, staring into Herr Berkel's eyes. "Now you need to listen to me: if that is to be my fate, then I will put the noose around my neck myself." He clenched his jaw. "After what I did – after what I allowed them to do with my name and image – I deserve no less."

"But why? Why plead guilty to… crimes against humanity, if you were nothing but a publicity stunt?" Herr Berkel frowned, eyeing Sigmund carefully, and his brows furrowed suspiciously. "Unless it wasn't a simple publicity stunt…"

Sigmund raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair, and laughed. "Do you have any idea the power of propaganda?"

"The French intend to show every propaganda film you ever produced, every poster and image with 'der Deutsche Ritter' on it," Herr Berkel retorted. "So yes, I understand the value of propaganda. But I do not know if it merits death."

Sigmund smiled sadly. "That may be where you and I have to disagree."