Zelda felt a surge of panic as the door slammed shut behind her, sealing her fate inside the sleek vehicle. Uncertainty gnawed at her, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of having just been ensnared in a trap. Voight had sprung it, somehow, and all she could do was sit here and wonder what he wanted. She was a captive audience, once again, tricked into close quarters with a man whose intentions and expression both remained inscrutable. There was a hint of something lurking beneath that calculated calmness, even so, a subtle intensity that belied his outward composure.
He inclined his head slightly, his tone polite but detached. “Fraulein Wahl.”
Instead of returning the greeting, she fixed him with her most withering glare. He, in turn, seemed amused. He was also as impeccably groomed as ever, making her even more acutely aware of the fact that she looked like a drowned rat. If he minded the puddle forming under her, however, he gave no sign. Indeed, he seemed entirely at ease, as though this black cavern were his natural habitat. His uniform, meticulously tailored, exuded an aura of casual power. Every crease and fold seemed to accentuate his imposing stature, while the stark contrast of black against his tan shirt gave him a certain sinister allure.
Gestapo agents were typically plainclothes, but wore uniforms in occupied territories to avoid being mistaken for civilians. The sig runes underneath his left chest pocket denoted that, unlike many in the Secret State Police, he was a full member of the SS. Here was the Devil made flesh, a slight smile playing at the corners of his lips as he waited for her to do something else stupid.
“Might I inquire,” he asked blandly, “what brings you out in such weather?”
He was still playing at this charade of normalcy, treating her like a guest at the world’s worst dinner party instead of the suspect she was. The warmth enveloping them and the scent of leather polish only heightened the surrealism of her situation. She shifted uncomfortably under his impassive stare, her eyes glued to the window in a vain effort to ignore him. She felt the crawling sensation of his gaze, like a phantom finger running up and down her spine.
“No,” she snapped, just to break the tension. “Where I go is none of your business.”
“Charming, as usual,” he replied, his tone flat.
She gritted her teeth, her nails digging into her palms as she fought to contain her rising anger. Voight’s deliberate use of German, despite her responding in English, felt like a calculated attempt to assert dominance. Refusing to be cowed, she crossed her arms. “You set me up.”
He feigned ignorance, despite his sharpened scrutiny. “I did?”
“You did.” She all but spat the words.
“I did not,” he replied crisply. His composed façade felt like a taunt, each word carefully chosen to goad her. He knew perfectly well what he’d done, making it look to all the world—to her friends—like she’d sold them out. She was in real danger, now, even if she didn’t mind being a pariah.
Her tone was arch. “I would’ve preferred prison.”
Voight’s brow furrowed in what, if she hadn’t known better, might’ve almost been concern. He leaned forward slightly, his expression softening as his eyes searched hers. His voice, usually about as warm as the average refrigerator, took on a gentler tone. “What happened?”
Her expression darkened further, as her mind raced. Chalking Voight’s appearance up to mere coincidence defied common sense; every fiber of her being screamed that their supposedly chance encounter had been carefully orchestrated, and with malicious intent. “Are you following me?”
Voight’s lips tightened almost imperceptibly, betraying a hint of exasperation. Then his face was smooth again. “As tempting as that sounds,” he replied dryly, “I have better things to do. I was just at the Reichskommissariat,” he added. “Which, as you might be aware, is right down the road.”
“Doing what?” she demanded, not bothering to hide her skepticism. “Torturing people again?”
He arched an eyebrow, at her tone. “Having lunch. I saw you, and I stopped.”
Turning her head, she stared out the window as they crawled through rain-soaked streets choked with traffic. Store after store stood abandoned, their once vibrant fronts now marred by broken windows and faded signs proclaiming various violations of the Reich’s race laws. The desolation of the scene weighed heavily on her, as she pondered the plight of the city’s inhabitants. She couldn’t shake the image of the couple she’d seen earlier, futilely protesting their American identity in the face of relentless discrimination. Nor could she forget Frank, drowning his sorrows at the bar, his dreams of a new life shattered by the harsh reality of this regime. Underneath his protestations of contentment, she understood how he felt: disillusioned and trapped. The Gestapo and the resistance were two sides of the same coin, exclusive clubs that cared little for the character or wellbeing of those caught in their crossfire.
“Take off your shoes,” Voight ordered suddenly, his voice slicing through the air like a whip.
“What?” she stammered, dumbfounded.
His gaze bore into hers. “Take off your shoes,” he repeated, enunciating each word.
She recoiled, her back pressing against the door in a futile effort to put distance between them. The hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end as she stared back at him, struggling to understand what was happening—and terrified that she knew. Her heart thudded in her chest, as she swallowed. “No,” she whispered. She wasn’t about to remove her shoes for this man, or anything else.
“Now.” The command was curt, devoid of warmth or compassion.
It also left no room for argument and, given that he had about a foot on her, she decided that maybe she should play along—for now. So, with a sense of dread pooling in the pit of her stomach, she bent down and reached for the first pair of laces. Her fingers felt stiff, their movements robotic as she struggled to contain the rising tide of panic within.
Hissing in pain, she peeled away the canvas to expose skin pruny with wet and filmed over with blood. She yelped, shocked, as he grabbed her ankle and pulled it toward him. She couldn’t tell what he was doing at first, if this was an assault it was a strange one, but then he placed her foot in his lap. His gaze sharp, he turned it over to reveal a deep gash in her heel. Her breath caught as he probed it with a fingertip, his touch surprisingly gentle and assured.
Her mind raced with conflicting thoughts. Here was a man she regarded as an enemy, yet his movements were precise—even clinical. Despite her wariness, she couldn’t deny the relief that washed over her as he examined one foot and then the other with practiced efficiency. “This cut has to be cleaned,” he pronounced matter-of-factly. “Or it will become infected.”
He released her, and she pulled her knees to her chest in a defensive gesture. As relieved as she was that he hadn’t tried to play a different kind of doctor, she still resented how terrified he’d made her. “Thank you,” she retorted, her voice dripping with acid. “But I already had a father.”
“You also need new shoes,” he observed, indifferent to her animus. “And a new overcoat.”
“I can’t afford them,” she admitted, her pride stung by his judgment. “The tavern isn’t exactly doing a roaring business, or hadn’t you noticed? Not that it matters,” she added, with a morose sigh. “As of this afternoon, I’m out of a job.”
His lips compressed into a thin line. “That, trust me, is for the best.”
“Trust you?” she repeated, almost laughing at her own incredulity. “As if!”
When he finally responded, his tone was quiet. “Frau Kaczynski has misled you as to her intentions.”
She scoffed, letting him know what she thought about that. “You, meanwhile, have only my best interests at heart.”
He made an irritated noise, his jaw tensing with suppressed frustration, and didn’t respond. It bothered him, undoubtedly, that she wasn’t as weak-minded as her friends; however, only a fool would fall for his shallow ploys. So, in the uncomfortable silence that followed, she found herself studying his uniform. The ribbon of the Iron Cross looped through his second buttonhole, one of half a dozen medals that spoke of his determination in stamping out freedom. Morbid curiosity almost drove her to ask what he’d done to earn them, but she couldn’t bring herself to show interest in the accolades of the man who’d ruined her life.
When he spoke again, his tone was measured and calm. “Frau Kaczynski’s husband is wanted for murder.”
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Zelda threw up her hands. “Convenient!”
His gaze darkened. “No.”
“If there aren’t any real charges to bring against whoever you’re persecuting this week, you make some up,” she accused angrily. The memory of Alex’s ordeal still haunted her, fueling her defiance. “How many people, innocent people have you tortured, Sturmbannführer? Alex is—
“Alex is alive,” Voight interposed smoothly. “To fight his own battles.”
“You shouldn’t have done what you did to him.” She paused. “And you shouldn’t have hit me.”
He studied her, his expression unreadable. “You are correct.”
She blinked; she couldn’t possibly have heard him right. “What?”
“In regards to yourself, at least.” His tone was arch. “I don’t hit children.”
“Even your own?” she inquired.
“I have none,” he said flatly, his discomfort with the subject evident.
Glancing at his right hand, she noted the conspicuous absence of a ring. He wore one on his left hand, the SS-Ehrenring that all of the most fanatical officers had. A grinning Totenkopf, or death’s head, it winked evilly in the low light. Then, her tone innocent, she asked her next question. “Are you a homosexual?” Needling him like this was suicide, but she somehow couldn’t help herself. The Sturmbannführer’s personal life was the one topic that seemed to make him squirm, and she found a strange satisfaction in that discomfort. Besides, although she didn’t judge people for who they loved, the Reich did; homosexuality was banned.
His eyes narrowed.
She smiled sweetly, undeterred. “You are awfully old to be single.”
“I am thirty-four,” he said stiffly.
His composure seemed to be slipping, and she pressed on. “I thought it was every man’s duty to bear children for the Reich.”
“I thought little girls like you were supposed to be in school,” he snapped.
“The schools are closed,” she reminded him. “Are you sure you aren’t homosexual?”
“Quite sure,” he said, his irritation growing. “And the schools are reopening.”
“The only thing your schools teach women,” she countered, “is how to pick up a frying pan and find a man. There’s no point in me going back, since I have absolutely no interest in either.”
“Yes,” he agreed sarcastically, “you spend your time much more wisely.”
“You’re wrong about Marta,” she asserted, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. “She’s a good person, whether or not she agrees with you. So is Alex, and everyone else you’re persecuting.” Her words felt feeble, barely masking her own uncertainty. Voight was suddenly accusing her former comrades of a whole lot more than leaving pamphlets in the coin-op laundromat. “As for Bill….” She hesitated, the seed of doubt taking root in her mind despite her efforts to suppress it. “If he did hurt someone—which, to be clear, I don’t believe—he was defending himself. People have that right,” she added. “Or they should.”
“Fine then.” Voight’s voice ripped through the tense atmosphere, making her flinch. “But I’m going to tell you a story.” His tone remained dispassionate but, as he continued, a somber undercurrent crept in. “A woman and her son met a soldier. The soldier was from the middle of nowhere, and worked as a mechanic in the motor pool. The woman, a florist by trade, had taken work in a field canteen to support her son.” Zelda felt a chill creep down her spine as the images formed in her mind’s eye, scenes from ordinary lives intertwined with the brutality of war.
“The boy had watched his father die, and not spoken since. He was, from what I gather, frail.” Voight’s tone grew softer. “Stabsgefreiter Müller was the soldier’s name. Johannes Müller. Jennifer told him what’d happened, and he found the boy a doctor. I suppose she was…grateful.”
Zelda couldn’t shake the discomfort that settled in her chest as Voight’s words hung in the air; she couldn’t help but note that he kept referring to the characters in the past tense.
“Herr Smith broke into their home,” Voight continued, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “A small flat that Müller had found for them and that he could afford, on an enlisted man’s wage.”
The detail tugged at Zelda’s heart. “What happened?”
“Herr Smith shot him first,” Voight said coldly. “Then slit Jennifer’s throat.” The words landed like hammer blows, each syllable driving home the horror of what this family had had to endure in their final moments. Zelda’s breath caught in her throat as she struggled to comprehend what she was hearing, but Voight wasn’t done. “Then he slit the boy’s throat, leaving him to die.”
Her stomach churned with nausea. “That’s horrible,” she agreed, her voice trembling with despair. “But the fact that Bill stands up to the Reich doesn’t mean he’s guilty!”
In response, Voight reached into his inner pocket and retrieved a photograph, passing it to her without a word. As she gazed at the image of the young boy, clad in footie pajamas and lying motionless on the floor, her heart sank. Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill over. “This…this doesn’t make sense,” she insisted, choking back a sob. “Why would Bill harm innocent children? You’re trying to portray anyone who opposes the Reich as a monstrous villain capable of anything, but you’re the ones committing cold-blooded murder!”
A fleeting expression, almost resembling regret, flickered across Voight’s face before vanishing. “The resistance operates like any other paramilitary organization,” he explained evenly, his tone betraying no hint of sentiment. “While individual cells may act independently, the motives of those involved vary. Some seek to enact change, while others pursue personal vendettas.” He drew a deep breath, before returning his focus to the world outside the car. “Believing in a cause doesn’t guarantee the purity of those aligned with it.”
“We’re just ordinary people,” she protested, her voice tinged with desperation. “We’re trying to do what’s right.”
“I understand that that’s your belief,” Voight conceded calmly. “As to how I know….” His demeanor shifted, the vulnerable man once again disappearing behind the mask. “A neighbor witnessed Herr Smith leaving the scene, though she failed to comprehend the gravity of her observation until later on that morning. All three—mother, son, and stepfather—were on a list, penned by Herr Smith himself. Additionally, certain revelations made by his associates, now in our custody, corroborate his involvement.” He paused, his expression pensive. “Under duress, a man might confess to anything. I know this. But their statements contained information that we never released, information that only the man responsible could’ve shared with them.”
Her mind reeled, trying to process the horrors Voight had just revealed. “A list?” she repeated, her voice barely audible above the lashing of rain against her moving prison. “There were others?”
“The boy’s death was not quick,” Voight replied grimly.
She stared at the photograph. “I thought we were printing a newsletter.”
“I know,” he said simply.
Her lower lip trembled, as she forced herself to ask the next question. “What was his name?”
“Thomas.” Voight kept his gaze fixed on the rain-drenched street.
Closing her eyes tightly, she fought back tears, but the image of the young boy lying lifeless on the floor seemed crisper than ever. She despised that Voight was using this tragedy to undermine her convictions. Worse still, he was succeeding. She and her friends were supposed to be heroes, fighting against injustice, but this senseless violence shook her to the core. It felt like the ground was crumbling beneath her feet, leaving her to tumble endlessly through space.
Thoughts of Charlotte flooded her mind; if she really was hanging around with Klaus, then she might also be in danger.
As the car came to a stop in front of her house, Zelda glanced around the deserted street, her anxiety mounting. She hated the idea of being seen with Voight, but in that moment, it seemed insignificant compared to the uncertainty of her situation. Her friends, if they could even be called that anymore, didn't care about her or the truth—and they thought Charlotte was a traitor, too.
“We’re here,” Voight stated unnecessarily, as the car came to a stop. Rain continued to patter against the windows, a steady rhythm accompanying their conversation. “Is there something else?”
Zelda’s fingers fidgeted in her lap, betraying her inner turmoil. She hesitated for a moment before speaking. “My sister,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, “she….”
“Yes?” Voight’s piercing gaze bore into her, urging her to continue. “What about her?”
“She’s…” Zelda’s voice trailed off, uncertainty etched across her features. She swallowed hard, trying to find the courage to voice her concerns. “Marta thinks she’s seeing someone. But she’s not.”
Voight’s brow furrowed in concern, his expression unreadable. “You’re sure?” His tone was insistent, probing for the truth beneath her words.
“Charlotte’s no horizontal collaborator,” she insisted, her voice gaining strength as she defended her sister’s honor.
“I see,” Voight acknowledged, his voice neutral. “And Thomas was?”
“That’s not what I meant!” Zelda exclaimed, frustrated.
“Whatever you think of me,” he replied sharply, “I want to see justice done.”
“You're using a little boy’s death to manipulate me!” Her voice rose as, at last, the dam of her emotions broke. “For all I know, you’ve made the whole thing up and there never even was a Thomas. Or you murdered him, yourself! Even if you are telling the truth, all you’re proving is that both sides are capable of terrible things. Congratulations,” she added bitterly, “the world is an appalling place, and nobody’s right about anything.”
“I am telling the truth,” Voight insisted, locking eyes with her. “And you can help me stop him.”
Without another word, Zelda opened the car door and stepped out into the storm, feeling more lost and alone than ever before.