Charlotte added a third heaping spoonful of the coffee-like crystals to her mug, stirring as the granules dissolved into the steaming water. Though it lacked the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the warmth seeping into her fingers and the faint scent of caffeine brought a sense of comfort. Outside, the storm raged on, casting shadows across the room as daylight waned prematurely. The rhythmic patter of raindrops on the windowpane provided a soothing soundtrack to the conversation she’d been having with Constance now for an hour. Adjusting the blanket more snugly around her shoulders, she savored its softness against her skin, finding solace in the simple pleasures of being indoors and with her friend amidst the tempest.
Constance sighed deeply, her shoulders slumping as she stared into the depths of their kitchen sink. “Remember when we didn’t have to wash dishes by hand? Oh, the luxuries we took for granted.” Her face contorted in a grimace. “Like soap. And deodorant.”
Charlotte chuckled, her lips quirking into a wry smile as she stirred her drink. “Yes, the joy of pressing that button and watching the magic happen.” Or peaceful nights of uninterrupted sleep, or traveling freely without restrictions or checkpoints, but she didn’t want to mention those things; she didn’t want to ruin this rare moment of camaraderie. It felt like a glimpse into the past, where the invasion had been nothing more than rumors and their easy banter had felt like second nature.
But Constance didn’t laugh, or even smile. Her fingers tightened around the dishcloth, instead, her knuckles turning white as she scrubbed at a particularly stubborn stain. “Now we’re stuck here, toiling away like pioneers in the wilderness.”
Glancing over, Charlotte noticed the tension in her friend’s posture. “At least we’re in this together,” she pointed out, “battling the elements and the dishes side by side.”
“True,” Constance allowed. “And if we ever encounter a bear in the kitchen, we’ll know who to call for backup.”
Charlotte shifted in her seat, at this obvious reference to their neighbor. She didn’t know if Constance meant that Klaus could save them from the bear, or that the bear could eat Klaus, and didn’t especially want to speculate. Hoping to steer their conversation back to safer waters, she opened her mouth to ask Constance about the puddle she’d found upstairs and whether the roof was leaking again when the door banged open and there stood Zelda.
The words died on her lips as she beheld her sister’s bedraggled appearance, the rain-soaked tendrils of hair plastered to her forehead and her clothes clinging uncomfortably to her skin. But it was the fire burning in Zelda’s eyes that truly gave Charlotte pause. She took a step forward, concerned, but Zelda held up a warning hand. “No,” she said, the disgust in her voice barely contained.
“What?” Charlotte stopped, taken aback by her Zelda’s sudden intensity.
Rage, hurt, the storm brewing inside her sister put the storm outside to shame. Clenching her jaw, her hands trembling at her sides, she glared back at Charlotte. “Just tell me if it’s true.”
Charlotte furrowed her brow, struggling to comprehend the source of Zelda’s agitation. “If what’s true?”
The dishes temporarily forgotten, Constance surveyed Zelda’s disheveled appearance with concern. “You should change out of those clothes,” she commented, sounding more detached than concerned. “Otherwise you’ll catch a cold. And where are your shoes?”
Ignoring her, Zelda pointed an accusatory finger towards the house across the street. “About him.”
“Klaus?” Charlotte’s voice held a note of uncertainty.
“Yes, Klaus!” Zelda drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “Are you seeing him?”
“No!” Charlotte held up a pacifying hand, hoping to forestall another outburst. “We went to Burdick’s, is all.” She hesitated, feeling unaccountably guilty despite having been given absolutely no choice in the matter. “And then we walked to the river, and fed the ducks.”
Zelda’s eyes narrowed into slits. “That sounds like a date to me.”
Charlotte’s shoulders tensed, her voice rising defensively. “I was trying to keep him happy!” she protested, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You know firsthand how well the SS hears no!”
“Luckily for the Hauptsturmführer, that’s not a concern!” Zelda’s voice echoed through the kitchen, thick with derision.
Charlotte closed her eyes briefly, silently counting to regain her composure. “As much as I’d like to punch him in the face,” she continued, as calmly as she knew how, “I can’t. Someone in this house has to act sensibly. A captain in the SS isn’t an enemy we want to make, Zelda.” She fixed her sister with a pointed look, her gaze steady. “Think about what happened to Alex, and to your other friends. Klaus has made it clear that his attentions are not optional and—
Zelda’s fists balled at her sides, her face flushing with anger. “I have no friends!” With a frustrated gesture, she stormed out of the kitchen, the door slamming shut behind her.
Her heart sinking, Charlotte stared at the worn paint. She wished everyone would stop talking about Klaus and, worse, holding her responsible for his actions! Klaus terrified her, not that anyone cared. Most women didn’t dream about collecting stalkers, especially not stalkers in uniform. Thinking back to the look on his face when he talked about the Reich, she felt a thrill of unease.
Constance, as unbothered as if Zelda had been discussing bears, sniffed her dishrag. “I like to think I’m quite sensible,” she commented, wrinkling her nose. “Would anyone barter for bleach?”
Charlotte sighed, feeling utterly defeated. “There was cake.”
“Oh?” Constance shrugged. “Then by all means, marry the man.”
Deciding that she’d had enough of other people for the night, Charlotte went into the living room. Things had been strained between her and Zelda, since their father’s passing. For a while after, she’d had Constance to lean on, but their bond seemed to be fraying with each passing day. Something had happened, when she’d visited the benefits office, but whenever Charlotte broached the subject Constance seemed to close off. Throwing herself back against the couch, she stared blankly at the ceiling, feeling increasingly isolated within the walls of their home.
Her thoughts were abruptly shattered by the sight of a soldier making his way up the walk. Panic surged through her veins; instinctively she dropped to the floor, seeking cover behind a nearby Windsor chair. Its spindles offered meager protection but, in her mind, anything was better than nothing. Her heart raced as she speculated wildly about Zelda’s possible misfortunes—had she been arrested again, or worse? There was no other possible reason, for a visit this late. The soldier’s insistent rapping on their front door only fueled her escalating fear. “Hide!” she hissed urgently, as she heard Constance approaching. “Pretend we’re not home!”
Bending down, the soldier waved cheerfully through the window, oblivious to her plea for invisibility.
Constance, appearing unfazed, threw the bolt and greeted the soldier with her customary lack of enthusiasm. “Hello, Fritz.”
Fritz’s face lit up with a grin. “I have a crate!”
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And, Charlotte noted, a talent for stating the obvious. “Thank you. If you could—
“No,” he interjected, his tone apologetic. “I’m really sorry, but I have to bring it in this time. I’ll get in trouble if I don’t.” Sensing Charlotte’s unease, he offered what he thought was a helpful solution. “I can take off my boots! My mother complains that men are forever tracking in mud, especially in weather like this. But….” He glanced around uncertainly. “I should take them off inside.”
Both Fritz and Constance wore expressions of discomfort, albeit for different reasons.
Fritz motioned toward his feet. “My socks will get soaked.”
Constance, taking the hint, stepped aside as she held the door open for him. “Charlotte, meet Fritz.”
Fritz got down to business, meticulously placing his boots by the door before turning his attention back to the task at hand. The notion that unexpected nighttime visits from enemy soldiers might be disconcerting for women living alone hadn’t, evidently, crossed his mind. “I have orders,” he declared with a sense of accomplishment. “You’re Constance,” he stated, indicating her with a nod. Then his attention shifted. “Which means that you must be Charlotte.”
She forced a tight smile, as she imagined braining him with the fire poker. “Yes, I am.”
Producing a sheaf of paperwork, he held it out. “This is for you, courtesy of the Reich.”
Constance led Fritz and his crate into the kitchen.
“This is a really nice kitchen,” he enthused, his appreciative gaze sweeping each non-functional appliance in turn. “My mother would love it. Her kitchen is big, too. Leni wants a big kitchen, but I told her that we probably wouldn’t be able to afford one—at least not at first.” With the ease of someone accustomed to manual labor, he pulled out a multitool and began popping nails from the wood while Charlotte watched in suspicious silence and wondered who Leni was.
“In a small kitchen,” Constance remarked, “she’ll have trouble feeding your baseball team of children.”
Fritz considered. “Oh. Maybe we should live with my mother, then.”
His suggestion was met with dry sarcasm from Constance. “Every woman’s dream.”
“I have pictures!” he announced, eagerly producing them. “This is Leni,” he explained, showing Charlotte a creased photograph that looked like it’d lived in his pocket for some time. She looked to be about Zelda’s age, a blonde farm girl with a big smile. “And this is my mother. She turns fifty this year! She and Constance look so much alike, don’t they?”
Charlotte laughed, in spite of herself. “Yes,” she agreed. “The resemblance is uncanny.”
Returning to the crate, Fritz held up a chicken.
Charlotte stared at the papers in her hand, before returning her concerned gaze to Fritz. “There’s been a mistake,” she said firmly. “You have to take this back.”
Fritz turned the chicken over in his hands, puzzled. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s come to the wrong house,” she objected. “All of it.”
Clearly perplexed, Fritz tried to work through her words. “Do you want something else? Because this is the right address, it’s right there on the form, and you are Charlotte Wahl.” He furrowed his brow, trying to guess her complaint. “Do you not like chicken? Should I have brought a pig, instead? Feldwebel Jost said nothing about a pig, but I could probably find one tomorrow if—
“No,” Charlotte cut in, frustrated. “I like chicken, but….”
Fritz’s smile returned. “Everyone likes chicken.”
He removed a second chicken from the crate, and then a third, lining them up on the counter as Constance peered over her shoulder. Seconds later, her eyebrows shot up. She might not speak a word of German, but she could recognize a name. “These are Klaus’s chickens!” she blurted.
Fritz shook his head. “Not his, personally. At least, I don’t think so.”
Charlotte and Constance exchanged a glance, their concern deepening.
“Next time,” Fritz promised, “I’ll bring a pig. If there is a pig.”
“I don’t want a pig!” Charlotte cried. “I want you to pack everything back up and take it away!”
“Madame.” Fritz gazed at her, his expression serious. “I appreciate your commitment to the Reich, but I promise, we enlisted men have more than enough. There’s no need for you to go without to support the war effort. Besides,” he added, leaning in with a conspiratorial tone, “Feldwebel Jost tells us that the only real difference between our food and the food for our officers and their families is in the presentation. And we had chicken at the barracks just last night.”
Constance examined a bottle of Schnapps with surprising enthusiasm.
Charlotte nodded, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry at the misunderstanding.
“At the risk of being forward, Charlotte,” Fritz continued, “you’re a lucky woman.”
Constance took a swig, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Almost as lucky as Leni.”
Fritz’s cheeks reddened at Charlotte’s incredulous expression. “Hauptsturmführer Dassel is a hero.”
Constance had also found a jar of Nutella. “What wonderful news,” she deadpanned.
Ushering Fritz back into the hall, Charlotte watched him struggle with his boots. She was eager to make her goodbyes before Constance devoured everything he’d brought. “Be sure to tell Feldwebel Jost that we appreciate your service,” she said. “And his.”
Fritz beamed and, as he stepped outside, she swiftly closed the door behind him.
Returning to the kitchen, she found Constance sampling marmalade. “This is amazing,” she purred, licking sticky fingers. “And that must’ve been some date.”
Charlotte stamped her foot. “It was not a date!”
Constance held out a Ritter Sport bar. “Dessert?”
Rolling her eyes, Charlotte slumped into a chair and stared morosely at the Schnapps.
“Don’t feel guilty,” Constance advised. “If we don’t eat it, someone else will.”
Charlotte relented and tried the chocolate, unwrapping the foil to reveal dried fruit nestled within each square. Fritz’s miracle chest also contained sausage, real coffee, and sugar. The vegetables remained canned, with more asparagus to add to their collection. Meanwhile Constance, in between swigs of Schnapps, began preparing one of the chickens. She passed the bottle to Charlotte, who hesitantly took a sip. All Schnapps tasted like vaguely fruit-scented floor polish to her, but apricot was marginally more palatable than the others. “What about Zelda?” she asked, gasping as her eyes watered. “Shouldn’t we tell her to come downstairs?”
“She’s old enough to find the kitchen on her own.” Constance examined a knife. “Everyone has to grow up sometime.”
Charlotte mulled over this thought. “Her birthday’s coming up.”
“Eighteen,” Constance agreed. “Seems like she’s aging twice as fast as the two of us put together.”
“Speaking of aging,” Charlotte teased, “poor Fritz’s mother.”
Constance shot her a warning look. “I do not resemble that woman.”
“You’re practically twins,” Charlotte insisted with a grin. “It’s the wrinkles.”
At long last, Constance chuckled. “I can imagine having Fritz for a son would age anyone.”
“I hope for his sake,” Charlotte quipped, “that Leni’s as oblivious as he is.”
“And as enthusiastic about procreating,” Constance added, finishing her preparations. Then, washing her hands, she leaned against the counter. “Ever wonder how Nazis manage to have sex?”
Charlotte giggled at the Schnapps. “Efficiently.”