“You’re not doing it wrong,” Alex pointed out, a mischievous glint in his eye, “if no one knows what you’re doing.”
“They’re supposed to be butterflies,” Zelda retorted, wrinkling her nose in mock offense.
Crossing his arms, he scoffed. “They look like vaginas.”
She balled up the napkin she was working on and launched it at Alex’s head.
He ducked, laughing. “Nice aim!”
Marta joined them, propping one meaty elbow on the bar. “Just what kind of outfit do you think we’re running, here?”
“Ideally a profitable one, soon.” Alex’s voice was strained with forced optimism.
Zelda watched as Marta turned away from the conversation and knuckled her back, her movements slow and pained. Each creak of Marta’s bones seemed to echo the burden of this new existence, where even the simplest tasks felt like insurmountable challenges. The chairs and tables, once proud oaks, had grown scarred with the ravages of war. Yet, amidst the pitting and smoke stains, the tavern still exuded a quaint charm. It was a testament to resilience, Zelda thought, a lingering echo of Marta’s grandfather’s dreams of a better life in the promised land of freedom. Her heart clenched; it had almost been named the Constitution Tavern.
She poured herself a glass of water from the bar tap, the brown, tainted liquid a visceral symbol of the havoc wrought by the invasion. As she sipped the foul-tasting sludge, she fought back the urge to vomit, her stomach churning with disgust. Forcing a strained smile, she reminded herself of the need to stay strong for herself and her friends, even as the world crumbled around them. “Wasn’t the original Green Dragon Tavern also called the Headquarters of the Revolution?”
Marta’s hand shot out, delivering a sharp whack to Zelda’s arm. “Shut your mouth,” she snapped, her voice tinged with irritation.
Zelda winced, rubbing her arm where Marta had struck her. She tried to muster up a convincing display of annoyance, but her attempt fell short as a hint of amusement flickered in her eyes. “There’s nobody in here!”
“We’d look more suspicious,” Alex quipped, “trying not to look suspicious.”
Zelda chuckled. “Skulking around, whispering don’t say revolution.”
Alex folded his napkin into a makeshift hat. “Besides, it’s kind of late to change our name.”
“Our?” Marta raised an eyebrow.
Alex, placing the little tricorn on his head, flashed a sweet smile.
“This,” Marta interjected, “is what happens when I let you two encourage each other.”
“I will have you know,” Alex replied, “that I am delightful.”
Zelda’s accusatory tone cut through the banter. “You chased away our only regular customer.”
Alex’s demeanor shifted as he began folding her napkins. “No, he died.”
The words hung heavy in the air, triggering a sharp pang of guilt in Zelda’s chest. “Oh.” The weight of responsibility pressed down on her, a nagging feeling that she could have done more to prevent his death. She couldn’t dismiss it, no matter how she berated herself for being irrational.
“I didn’t kill him,” Alex pointed out, unbothered.
Marta grumbled. “You didn’t save him, either.”
“Some miracles are beyond even my powers.” Alex placed the last of the napkins on the counter, completing a row of swans. A nursing student when the invasion began, he’d been thrust into the role of medic and had witnessed the horrors of war firsthand. “For our new overlords,” he announced, an edge to his voice. “I’m told the Germans like swans.”
Zelda’s gaze fixated on the linen origami, her lips contorting in a mix of indignation and exasperation. “Swans symbolize love in the Reich,” she remarked, her voice dripping with disdain. As the offspring of German immigrants who, like Marta’s grandfather, had fled the regime’s iron grip, she couldn’t suppress a pang of resentment at the perversion of such a beautiful symbol. But in this world, everything was either twisted into propaganda or made to vanish without a trace.
Alex’s eyes bulged, as if he’d just been force-fed a lemon.
“You can eat them, too,” Marta chimed in, with a certain low enthusiasm.
Zelda perked up. “Nazis?”
Tension thickened the air as her question hung there, unanswered. Marta’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before she plastered on a forced smile, her fingers tapping nervously on the counter. Alex’s expression darkened, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fists. He averted his gaze, a haunted look flickering in his eyes. Marta sniffed, masking her discomfort.
Turning, Zelda stared out the window at the ruined world beyond.
A distant horn blared, followed by urgent shouts. People scattered as a mammoth car forced itself through the crowd: a Mercedes-Benz G4, a command car for the Wehrmacht. Sleek and ominous, it prowled the streets, casting a pall over those who’d dared venture out of their homes.
As this specter from the past disappeared into the distance, Zelda’s hands trembled and her heart raced. A knot formed in her stomach, a silent testament to the fear and guilt gnawing at her insides. How had she dared to tell jokes, to laugh, when everything was so unbearably wrong? A renewed sense of powerlessness washed over her, leaving her feeling both vulnerable and exposed. With a heavy heart, she watched as the street slowly filled up again with people, cautiously emerging from the shadows like mice sensing the eagle’s departure.
“There are no Americans driving,” she remarked.
Alex snorted. “No Americans can afford gas.”
Marta let out a frustrated sigh, her brow furrowing in concern. “And people aren’t coming in, because we can’t serve half the menu.” That, as she and Zelda both knew, would involve having food.
Alex made a noncommittal noise. “You should add schnitzel to the menu.”
Marta scowled at him. “And how do you propose we afford the ingredients, Alex?”
He swept his arm over the swans, mocking a ringmaster’s grand gesture. “Our overlords and their new friends are the only ones with money. We need to cater to their tastes, if we want to survive.”
Zelda watched the exchange, torn between understanding Alex’s practicality and sympathizing with Marta’s principles. The idea of pandering to the occupiers left a bitter taste in her mouth, but she couldn’t ignore the harsh reality of their situation. “What if we—
“People came in all winter,” Marta countered, ignoring her. “And I wasn’t even charging, then.”
Alex shrugged. “And now, things are different.”
Different was an understatement. The siege was over and Massachusetts, the last holdout in New England, had given up. Zelda and her neighbors weren’t American citizens anymore; they were subjects of the Reich. Despite the overwhelming evidence all around her, she still couldn’t shake her disbelief. In her heart of hearts, she’d held onto the hope that they’d somehow beat back these invaders. She should’ve been preparing to graduate from high school this spring, attending prom, and making memories with the friends who should’ve been by her side. Instead, she found herself subsisting on Reich-issued rations, while those same friends rotted in ditches.
Even when the last cans disappeared from the shelves, around Halloween, no one mentioned giving up. Food or no food, all of Cambridge had to keep fighting. And throughout the harsh winter, as driving snow shook the glass in the mullions, Zelda had clung to the hope that spring would bring relief. As the first snowdrops emerged, she’d felt a cautious optimism…but then the bombs started dropping, leveling swaths of greater Boston and plunging the rest into a new and even worse hell. The morning after Boston’s sewage treatment plant became a crater, the mayor and the governor both fled for parts unknown. A week later, cholera struck down its first victim.
As the invasion dragged on, death became their constant companion. Those who hadn’t fallen defending the harbor or seeking refuge in air raid shelters now succumbed to the merciless grip of dehydration. It didn’t discriminate; soldiers, national guardsmen, and civilians alike collapsed dead amidst the rubble. By the time the next governor finally sued for peace at the end of March, greater Boston was in ruins…and fully half the Commonwealth was gone.
New leadership was installed.
In April of 1994, Massachusetts joined the Reichskommissariat Neuengland.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
The Führer hailed it as his latest administrative district, but the truth was in an uglier word: occupation. The Commonwealth, like most of the rest of the United States, was under the Reich’s boot. Even occupation, as a word, couldn’t encapsulate the extent of the devastation that had befallen Zelda’s universe. As she navigated through the refuse-strewn streets, haunted by memories and the stench of decay, she wondered: what was the point of living? The seeming handful who’d managed to survive were now conscripted into the Reich’s labor service, forced to toil in grueling conditions, digging mass graves for their own relatives—and worse. Everywhere she turned, soldiers loomed, their presence a constant reminder of everything she’d lost. The contrast between their well-fed appearance and her own starvation was a bitter irony that made her want to hit something and, somehow even worse, she didn’t recognize her own city. Nothing roamed the streets but rats and she’d seen mausoleums more active than its shuttered stores; there was no life here, only propaganda. Television, newspapers, and even the radio served as mere conduits for the Führer’s so-called wisdom, drowning out any semblance of truth or dissent.
And now, although it was only May, a suffocating heat gripped the city. It’d descended like a shroud the week before, amplifying Zelda’s despair…and the death toll. She eased a finger inside her shirt, grimacing as a fat bead of sweat rolled down her back.
“The Green Dragon is no Nazi den.” Marta spat, her lip curling in revulsion.
“It’s not too late to open a whorehouse.” Smirking, Alex reclined in his chair.
“Then we’d still have to serve Nazis!” Zelda countered, her voice sharp with disbelief.
Alex’s gaze shifted, his eyes scanning their surroundings before meeting Zelda’s again. “At least the Nazis and their friends have running water,” he said, a hint of resignation seeping into his tone.
Zelda’s eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?” she demanded, her voice low and tense.
“Nothing.” Alex’s voice was drained. “All I mean is that if we want to survive, we have to blend in. Act the part.” Leaning forward, his eyes sparkled with excitement as a new thought dawned on him. “Besides,” he added in a lower tone, “at least then we’d know what’s going on around here. Those officers, earlier, imagine if they’d stopped in for lunch.”
Zelda’s mouth firmed into a thin line. “I won’t become one of them,” she declared, her voice quivering with defiance. “I won’t betray my principles, just to survive.” Nor was she interested in playing spies, even if it did mean seeing meat that didn’t come from a packet.
Marta shook her head. “Survival means different things to different people.”
Zelda couldn’t stand this conversation and, right now, she couldn’t stand either of her friends. Taking Marta’s cleaning bucket, she stalked to the table nearest the door and began wiping it down like she was doing battle with it. Marta was right: the tavern had been busy, during the siege, even though all they’d had to serve was water. People had needed a place to go, to be together and to feel—if not safe, at least a little less scared. But then the supplies had started to arrive, boxes of rations and medical supplies, unloaded by soldiers who acted like they’d come here on some humanitarian mission instead of ruining everything in the first place. And with the last of the snow, The Green Dragon’s clientele had melted into nothing.
Because people were cowards.
She squeezed the rag until her hand ached.
“Zelda,” Alex pleaded, “come on.”
She ignored him in favor of a nonexistent spot.
“One minute you’re laughing and the next you’re storming off in a fit of pique.” He’d adopted his lecturing tone, again. “You need to calm down, and realize that I’m only trying to protect you.”
Zelda straightened and faced him, her heart pounding and her head feeling like it was swarming with bees. “By telling me to screw Nazis? So I can—what? Bathe?” She struggled to control the rising tide of her emotions, even as her voice trembled with indignation. “I don’t need you to tell me how to survive, Alex.” The words came out sharper than she’d intended, each one a barb aimed at his condescending tone. “I refuse to be silenced or sidelined, just to make you feel better.”
Alex was like a teacher, scolding a wayward student. “This anger isn’t helping.”
She glared, her chest tight with rage. “So you mean, I won’t mind as much when those pigs—
Marta screamed.
The door flew open with a deafening bang against the wall. Framed in the harsh light stood a man, austere and imposing. Zelda’s breath caught in her throat as she took in his uniform, marked with a Sturmbannführer’s silver pips. Soldiers poured in around him, all dressed in the feldgrau of the Schutzstaffel. The realization that the SS was here sent a shiver down her spine, her hands trembling on the bucket’s handle. Alex, usually so confident, faltered for a moment; his gaze darted nervously between Marta and the intruders, as he swallowed.
The Sturmbannführer stepped inside, his boots clicking on the hardwood. His tall, imposing figure seemed to fill the room, casting a shadow over the tavern’s sudden crowd. He was in black, from head to toe, save for the crisp tan of his shirt. His uniform was immaculate, every crease and fold meticulously arranged, in sharp contrast to the chaos he’d caused with his arrival.
His piercing gaze swept across the room, taking in each detail with unsettling intensity. There was a coldness to his demeanor, a detached calm hinting at darker depths beneath the surface. “Guten Tag.” His soft, cultured voice cut through the silence like a blade. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” Marta managed, her voice strained with forced politeness.
The Sturmbannführer’s smile was fleeting, devoid of warmth or sincerity. He shifted his weight subtly, each movement calculated and deliberate. “Is this your establishment?” His tone was composed, but with an underlying tension that seemed to suck the air from Zelda’s lungs.
“Yes,” Marta replied, her voice quavering slightly.
“The Green Dragon.” He tested out the words, as he circled her with predatory grace. “My men and I have heard nothing but praise for this establishment. The menu, the atmosphere, and, above all, the hospitality.” He surveyed the empty tables with a calculating gaze, his eyes lingering on Zelda for a moment longer than necessary. “Surely you can accommodate us.”
“No. I mean, yes, but….” Marta’s voice faltered as she struggled to find the right words. “We’re closed,” she finally added, her voice tinged with apprehension.
He stopped. “Closed?” A smile played at the corners of his lips, as though she’d just said something comical.
“There’s no food.” Marta’s voice shook as she averted her gaze, her throat tightening with apprehension.
The Sturmbannführer’s eyebrows shot up in feigned disbelief, a mocking glint in his eyes. “In a restaurant?”
Exchanging a nervous glance with Zelda, Marta nodded.
The Sturmbannführer’s gaze bore into Marta’s as he leaned in, almost nose to nose with her. “A beer, then,” he suggested, his words dripping with sarcasm. “While you figure something out.”
Alex, ever defiant, stepped forward. His jaw clenched as he met the Sturmbannführer's gaze head-on. “There’s no beer, either.”
Their guest arched an eyebrow, his amusement giving way to a steely glare. “Do you mean to suggest that we are not welcome?” His voice remained calm, but had taken on an unmistakable edge.
Alex bristled. “Yes,” he replied tersely, his hostility clear in his tone.
The Sturmbannführer’s gaze fixed on him, a silent challenge in his eyes. Then, with deliberate slowness, he turned his attention back to Marta as his voice somehow grew colder. “Well?”
Silence hung in the air, thick with tension.
Abruptly, the Sturmbannführer began to laugh, his sudden outburst making Zelda jump. The sound was high-pitched and unnerving, with a hard, almost frantic edge. “A joke,” he said, his tone shifting again. “Only a joke. Of course, no one wants this swill.” He slid a hand over the back of a chair, his eyes locking on Marta’s. “I have been assigned here, to stamp out a certain…resistance.”
Marta paled.
“I believe you know something of this.” The Sturmbannführer planted his hands on the bar, as Marta shrank back. She made a frantic gesture of denial and he clucked, as though disappointed. “Frau Kaczynski, come now. I grow tired of these lies. As, I am sure, do you. So first, I will tell you what I know. Then, you will tell me what you know. That sounds so much better, does it not?” He spoke with a smooth, menacing reassurance that set Zelda’s teeth on edge.
“Please,” Marta mouthed, her throat parched and constricted.
“There is a basement beneath us,” the Sturmbannführer continued, his gaze flicking toward the floor as if he could see through it. “A basement where your husband keeps a printing press. Herr Smith uses it to spread false information about the Reich.” At the Sturmbannführer’s gesture, hands gripped Marta’s shoulders from behind as his tame goons pulled her back. “I know this, and more,” he said softly. “What I do not know, unfortunately for both of us, is where your husband is.”
“He’s gone.” Marta’s voice was barely more than a whisper, choked with tears.
“Tell me, Frau Kaczynski, or I will make you tell me.” The Sturmbannführer’s tone sharpened on those last words, each one echoing in the air like shots fired from a rifle.
“Enough!” The word was out of Zelda’s mouth, before she even knew she was speaking.
“Ah.” The Sturmbannführer pivoted, his attention shifting. Her heart raced as he approached, the sound of his footsteps echoing ominously in the tavern. Her eyes were level with the swastika pin in his tie, its red enamel stark against the round silver backdrop. “The publican seems immune to my charms,” he remarked, looking down at her. “But it appears that you are not.”
Summoning her courage, Zelda met his gaze. “She’s only attracted to men.”
He backhanded her across the face, sending her sprawling. Dazed and disoriented, she struggled to make sense of the bedlam that’d erupted around her. Alex’s shout of pain mingled with the soldiers’ mocking laugher as he thudded to the ground beside her. “Endlich, dreht sich der Wurm,” one of the soldiers jeered, reveling in the turn of events. Finally, the worm turns.
As Alex attempted to rise, another soldier drove the stock of his rifle down into his forehead with a sickening crunch. Alex jerked, blood spraying in an arc, then pitched forward and was still. “Was hat sich dieser Mensch dabei gedacht?” another soldier remarked casually, prodding Alex’s motionless form with his boot. What did this one think he was doing?
Zelda feigned ignorance, her mind racing with fear and desperation; she couldn’t tell whether Alex was unconscious or dead, and the last thing she wanted them to tell was that she could speak German. “Ihre Ehre verteidigen,” the soldier continued, his tone lecherous. Defending her honor.
Her stomach churned as the soldiers leered at her, their intentions nauseatingly clear. “Lass sie eine Stunde mit mir allein, eine Puppe wie diese,” the first soldier sneered, his eyes crawling over her as she rubbed her swelling jaw. “Und sie wird nichts mehr haben.” Leave her alone with me for an hour, a hot little number like that, and she won’t have any left.
“Genug.” The Sturmbannführer’s tone was sharp.
Alex still hadn’t moved.
“Bring them,” he said, still in German. “All three are to be detained for questioning.”