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deservedly won. I repeat you: soon we will see each other, during the Final Battle, even though
we won’t see us again in this life.
We were at the door. I had gone out and I was sustaining the useless motorcycle, while I
heard Tarstein saying almost the same words of the Gurkha Bangi. I’d have wanted to cry of
impotence before such absurd: all died or left. Just Me, mute witness of a terrible and secret
reality, I had to stay in Hell. And without knowing why.
–Heil Hitler! –I screamed for every salute, meanwhile the door of the Gregorstrasse 239
was being closed behind me forever.
I started the motorcycle and, eluding the debris, I turned around the block. Before
completing the third block someone shot me from a terrace. The bullet sectioned cleanly the
fork and the front wheel crossed suddenly; I tightened the brakes and I flew many meters
ahead. Without stop rolling I occulted myself behind the incinerated chassis of a car, chased by
a rain of bullets. «I had forgotten that I was wearing the Russian uniform and I was
perambulating by a solitary street of Berlin without any protection». I released many oaths and
I ran to the corner, against the walls. I was in the Gregorstrasse again. I’d be already far from
there if I would havew not proposed to take a last sight at the house of Tarstein. I advanced the
meters that separated me from it looking at both corners, alternatively. It was an obscure night
but not silent; that 30 of April I would dawn accompanied by the most tough combatants and
the noise of the bullets, howitzers and bombs was deafening.
Soon I verified gaunt that the warning of Tarstein was not vain. Indeed, the 239 not
existed now in the Gergorstrasse. But the site whence I left was there; the recent marks of the
tires of the motorcycle evidenced it in the sidewalk and the street. But the door 239, in front of
these marks, was not there anymore. In its place was the closed door of a shop in a very good
condition. I removed the hand from the dust layer that covered the plaque and I read:
«Buchhandlung Hyperborea». I felt steps approaching to me; perhaps the snipers that had
fired me minutes before. There was nothing else to do, so I started to run in the opposite
direction.
I repeat to you that the time is short, neffe, so I’ll leave for another opportunity the
narration of the lived adventures until arriving to Italy. I’ll only mention that on June of 1945 I
met with Karl von Grossen and Oskar Feil in the Franciscan Monastery ofg the South of Italy
and I stayed there till February of 1947. On that date our contact with The Spider presented us
an officer of the Argentinian Army called Zapalla, who provided us passports and tickets and, of
course, new identities: I passed to be named Cerino Sanguedolce, as you already know; Oskar
became Domingo Pietratesta; and Karl von Grossen, Carlo de Grandi. The three of us would
feign to be Italian immigrants, thence the linguistic filiation of the names.
Once in this country, all happened as Tarstein predicted: they gave us the money in
Buenos Aires, and each one of us went to live to a different Province. Karl stayed in Buenos
Aires and, as Tarstein said, he would not delay to organize a Secret Service in company of other
old Comrade of the Gestapo, the Standartenführer Justiniano von Grosman. Oskar Feil
chose Córdoba, and it seems that the Gods had guided him because years later he found there
the Order of Tyrodal Knights, which oriented his last days; and I, knowing that the Siegnagel’s
resided in Salta, I decided that «Santa María de la Candelaria» was a good title for the Virgin of
Agartha, and I acquired this property where I live since then.

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