Lost in her studio, Charlotte sat before her easel, scrutinizing a portrait that had consumed her for weeks. With each stroke of her brush, she sought to capture the elusive essence of her subject, finding solace in the familiar scents of linseed oil and turpentine that enveloped her sanctuary. Outside, the late bloom of lilac mingled with the crisp air, a reminder of the lingering chill from the harsh winter. Amidst the tranquil ambiance, a sense of anticipation hummed beneath the surface, as if the quietude held the promise of an unexpected interruption.
She’d deliberately avoided asking their other neighbors about Klaus, and changed the subject whenever his name was mentioned. Each time his face danced at the edge of her thoughts, she clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to pry deeper into his enigmatic presence. If she learned too much about him, she worried that she’d stop being civil, and she had to be. She’d meant what she’d told Zelda; an SS man was a dangerous enemy, especially one who saw all of her comings and goings. So long as all she knew about him was his name, she could pretend that he was any man paying her disturbing and slightly unwanted attention.
But there was more to it, a small voice whispered, wasn’t there?
Caught in the web of familial obligation, she struggled with raising a sister who at times felt more like a child. Even though she was only a few years older, she felt compelled to shield Zelda from the harsh realities of their world, to provide a semblance of stability in the chaos that surrounded them. Yet, each interaction with Klaus heightened her discomfort, reminding her of the precarious balance she tried to maintain. She couldn’t afford to alienate him, not when he wielded so much power—and not when his presence offered the only respite she got, from her overwhelming solitude. Despite her misgivings, she found herself reluctantly drawn to his persistent attention, with a conflicted mixture of gratitude and unease.
A bird landed outside and promptly started scolding her, its sharp chirps penetrating the serene atmosphere of her studio. She couldn’t help but chuckle at the avian admonishment, raising an eyebrow in mock indignation as she waved her paintbrush in playful defiance. “Stop daydreaming, and get back to work? Is that what you’re saying? Alright, alright, no need to get your feathers ruffled.”
He cocked his head at her, then flapped away. A smile played at the corners of her lips as she watched him disappear into the distance, then started to mix a new color. Who was she, after all, to argue with the local wildlife? She admired the bird’s persistence, too, his simple chirps reminding her that even life’s greatest challenges could be overcome with sufficient determination. Here she was, a being at least a hundred times his size, and he had no problem telling her what he thought of her slacking off. With a renewed sense of purpose, she began her next round of glazing, watching her grandmother’s skin come alive under her brush.
Some time later, a new sound permeated her consciousness, a subtle interruption in the tranquil symphony of her studio. At first distant, it grew steadily closer, each footfall marking its progression with an unmistakable cadence. The rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot echoed up the drive, followed by a distinct shift in tone as jackboots stepped onto concrete. It was a sound she knew all too well, a slow and deliberate pace that sent a ripple of ice water through her veins.
She watched him approach, her heart in her throat. Despite the effect he had on her, she couldn’t help but notice the effortless grace in his stride or the confident tilt of his chin, as if he owned the ground he walked upon. With his classical features and his stern, Prussian bearing, the Hauptsturmführer was a propaganda poster come to life. His very presence seemed to evoke the rigid discipline and uncompromising authority that his uniform symbolized. Yet, beneath his polished exterior lurked something unrestrained and feral.
His piercing brown eyes were softened only by a hint of warmth as, stopping, he smiled. “Hello.”
Swallowing, she gripped her brush and tried to look nonchalant. “Hello.”
“You seemed deep in thought, just now.” His accent was cultured, a sibilant hiss that hinted at origins in the northwest. “I hope I’m not intruding too much.”
“You’re not,” she said, surprised to find that she meant it.
He clasped his hands behind his back. “What was on your mind?”
She opened her mouth to fabricate a response, and found herself unable to lie. “You.”
His smile deepened, and became somewhat smug. “Meine Gebete wurden erhört,” he declared, his sense of vindication evident. My prayers have been answered.
In response, she couldn’t help but laugh.
She wasn’t sure Klaus ever laughed, but his eyes sparkled with amusement. “So you do speak German.”
“Yes,” she confessed, her voice a touch hesitant. “But not as well as you speak English. I grew up speaking German at home, with my father and grandmother.” She paused, her eyes flickering to away before returning to meet his. “And I’d hate to be the subject of anyone’s prayers.”
Klaus studied her intently, his gaze searching. “Because?”
Her discomfort grew as she pretended to focus on a tube of paint, avoiding his probing stare. “Too much responsibility,” she said finally, the admission making her feel strangely vulnerable.
He began walking around her studio, his movements deliberate and possessive as he picked up various art supplies and inspected them in turn. “Where are Zelda and Constance?”
“Out,” she replied, her voice betraying a hint of tension.
As Klaus continued his inspection, Charlotte felt a growing unease. His casual possessiveness grated on her nerves, stirring up a mixture of frustration and anxiety. She clenched her fists, struggling to maintain her composure in the face of his intrusive behavior. With each item he handled, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was touching not simply her things but deep inside her very being. She forced herself to keep her gaze steady, unwilling to show any sign of weakness.
“I apologize,” he said seriously, “for not returning sooner. My commanding officer believes me capable of miracles, although doing the work of ten men is less daunting to me than setting up house.” He returned a bottle of damar varnish to a shelf, and turned. “I hope you’re not upset with me,” he continued, his gaze lingering on her face.
“No,” she replied, choosing not to mention everything he had done to unnerve and unsettle her. “Thank you for the food,” she added, with genuine warmth. “It was a nice surprise.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied with her response, then returned to where she was sitting. “I’m guessing that the secret to your heart is chocolate,” he remarked, still in that same earnest tone. “But I’ve brought something else along, just in case. Another surprise, of a different nature.”
She felt a flutter of apprehension, at this statement. “Oh?” she queried, trying to sound casual.
He held out a cylinder of neatly rolled canvas; she hesitated for a moment, before accepting it gingerly. As she untied the cord and opened the rectangle of fabric onto her lap, her breath caught in her throat. It was a brush roll, the same old-fashioned kind that Rembrandt and the other old masters had used, and would’ve been present enough in its own right—but what lay inside made her gasp. A dozen brushes, each nestled into its own special pocket, greeted her eyes. She’d never seen such craftsmanship, at least not in person. “This is hand-knotted sable!” she exclaimed, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of awe and astonishment.
“I know that artists prefer to choose their own supplies,” Klaus replied. “But I’m also told that there’s no such thing as too many brushes. Hopefully, you’ll be able to find some use for these.”
Lightly, reverently, she touched one of the filberts. Its flat belly and round end would make it perfect for blending, and softening out harsh edges. “Where did you find them?”
He seemed pleased that she’d asked. “I sent for them, from home.”
“Thank you,” she breathed, although the words seemed entirely inadequate to express her gratitude.
He transferred his attention to her current work. “And who is this?”
She felt a rush of conflicting emotions as she met his gaze. A note in his voice suggested that this wasn’t just an idle question; it felt like an invitation, to share a piece of herself. “My Oma Jeanette,” she replied, her pride in her grandmother’s beauty tempered by a sharp stab of longing. Reaching for one of the clipped photographs adorning her easel, she handed it to him. “This is from right before her wedding. I never knew her as young, of course, but that’s how I picture her now. Probably because my first memories are all of her laughing.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Accepting the photograph, his expression softened as he studied it with genuine interest. “Tell me more?” His tone was gentle, encouraging Charlotte to open up about someone who’d clearly held a profound place in her heart—and who still did, although she’d left them all behind at Christmas.
“Oma Jeanette was a painter, too,” she continued, surprised again by her own willingness to share. “My mother died, giving birth to Zelda, and Oma Jeanette moved in after. She’s who I think of when other people mention their mothers.” She felt a pang of nostalgia as her mind drifted back. “Oma Jeanette was the one who developed the night-light ritual,” she explained, her voice warm with affection. “We’d turn it on and then she’d sit with me until I fell asleep, telling me hilarious stories about her own childhood and reading Lord of the Rings.”
Memories of their morning walks flooded back, accompanied by the sound of rustling leaves and chirping birds. “I especially loved our trips to the park,” Charlotte continued, a wistful smile playing on her lips. “Armed with sketchbooks and pencils, we’d find a cozy spot under some tree and spend hours sketching the world around us.” She paused, reflecting. “I’d get so frustrated when my ducks looked like beaked blobs instead of ducks,” she admitted with a chuckle. “But she always asked me how bringing them to life on the page made me feel.”
Charlotte’s voice grew softer as she shared one of her favorite memories. “Oma Jeanette entered a painting of mine into a local exhibition, because I didn’t have the courage.” She remembered the pride in her grandmother’s eyes, as her own had widened in disbelief. “I was so embarrassed, but then….” Her smile turned rueful as she gazed at the sun-drenched garden. “I watched in awe as people admired it. She wasn’t surprised, but I was.” It’d been a defining moment, one that’d fueled her determination to pursue her artistic dreams. “She believed in me, even when I didn’t.”
“I would have liked to have met her,” Klaus said, handing the photograph back.
Charlotte tried to smile, but her lips trembled with unshed tears. “I miss her so much.”
His gaze shifted downward, his brows furrowing slightly as he spoke. “I lost my mother, too. But I was older. Seven.”
Her heart clenched, at the realization that he’d suffered the same loss she had. “That’s horrible.”
“In my case,” he replied, “my father remarried.”
The obvious fondness in his tone surprised her; she hadn’t expected that someone so reserved and aloof would feel so much warmth toward anyone, let alone his stepmother. “You get along, then?”
“We do,” he confirmed. “It’s a bit like weathering a hurricane together, blending families. You either bond from the experience, or you drown. I wasn’t too sure, when she arrived. But, from that first moment, Ingrid treated me as though I were her own.” A fleeting expression passed over his face, like a ripple on a calm pond. “She was different, naturally, but just as loving,” he reminisced, his words carrying a quiet affection. “She helped me to emerge from my shell.”
She tilted her head slightly, studying him with newfound interest. “You weren’t an outgoing child?”
His smile grew self-deprecating. “I was awkward and sad, even before, and sick often.”
Even as her heart clenched in empathy, she struggled to reconcile the cool and self-assured man before her with the timid and vulnerable child he’d apparently once been. She wondered, too, if anything of that child remained—or if Klaus was describing a part of himself that he’d long since sacrificed on the Reich’s altar of manhood, who’d felt things of which he was no longer capable. Would he recognize himself, all these years later? “That’s difficult to picture,” she admitted. “You’re the most confident person I know.”
“I’m glad you think so.” His voice carried a hint of wistfulness.
She found herself, once again, being drawn in. “You were an only child, before?”
He nodded. “Now I have five younger brothers.”
“Five?” she repeated, stunned. “That’s a basketball team!”
“They undoubtedly helped my confidence,” he confided, the playful glint in his eyes belying his serious tone. “They looked up to me, and I’m told still do, but also lit my shoes on fire.”
Raising a hand to her mouth, she stifled a giggle. “All five at once?”
His snort was almost a chuckle. “Not all at once, thankfully. They took turns keeping me on my toes. I thought myself quite a serious young man, back then.” He shook his head at his own hubris. “Matthias, the oldest of the tribe, thought me insufferably stuffy. And, truthfully, he was correct! His idea was to help my overcome the problem by celebrating my misfortunes and, on the rare occasion when I had none, creating some.”
Arching her eyebrow, she leaned forward. “Oh?”
He adopted a mock-serious expression. “Whenever I spoke to a girl, or so it seemed to me, the little gremlin would drop down from some nearby tree to tell them about a love letter I wrote in second grade. The recipient, in a fit of dramatics, lit it on fire and then complained to her parents. Or how, during my first concerto as a soloist, I sneezed. It was during the rest between the adagio and the rondeau, and it echoed through the concert hall like a foghorn.” Grimacing, he issued a resigned sigh. “My father clapped.”
It took all of Charlotte’s composure not to fall over in her own fit of dramatics. “What,” she asked, struggling to contain her laughter, “was the piece?”
“Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 5,” he replied, his horror tempered with nostalgia. “The Turkish concerto. I was sixteen at the time, with a habit of nervous sneezing that I thought I’d left behind!”
Her smile deepened. “Artists are driven by passion—and failure.”
His eyes locked with hers, the moment suddenly too intimate.
Standing, she gathered up the brushes she’d been using earlier and brought them to the sink, the sharp scent of turpentine filling the air as she vigorously scrubbed each bristle. Klaus’s presence behind her, his warm breath against her neck, stirred a complex concoction of sensations within her—excitement entwined with apprehension. With a subtle tilt of her head, she silently implored him to respect her need for space, granting her the solace to navigate the tumultuous whirlwind of emotions swirling within.
“Life is difficult without support,” he murmured, his lips soft against her ear. “Even in the best of times.”
She swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the swirling water in the sink. “I have support.”
“Do you?” He sounded skeptical. “Not enough.”
“I don’t know about that.” Pouring more turpentine onto her brushes, her heart pounding against her ribcage as the words tumbled out. “Everyone thinks I’m being selfish, playing at Rembrandt while the world burns. You can’t eat a painting, and it’s dangerous to use them for fuel! I talk about selling my work, and I want to, but potential customers aren’t exactly lining up.” Frustration laced her words as she brushed her hair back from her face, leaving a smear of paint. “Who wants a portrait,” she asked bitterly, “for the end of the world?”
“But that’s precisely why you must paint,” he countered, his voice low and heated. “Art is the only outcome of conflict capable of giving it meaning.” Reaching out, his fingertips grazed her cheek lightly. “Otherwise, all our sacrifices on both sides are for nothing.”
Drawing back slightly, she sniffed, a hint of defiance in her posture. “Zelda would disagree.”
“Zelda is at a difficult age,” he conceded.
“I’m not much older,” she pointed out, a note of uncertainty creeping into her tone.
His voice was as tender as his touch had been, his eyes searching hers for an answer to his unspoken question. “Old enough to know what you want.”
She twisted the faucet on with a sharp gesture, the sudden splash of water loud in the quiet space. Grabbing a bar of soap next, she began attacking one brush after another with a single-minded determination. He was too close, his presence overwhelming, and her anger offered little defense against whatever this magic was that he wielded. She flinched as his hands closed over hers, her throat tightening, desperate for him to stop and desperate for him not to. A brush, barely clean, clattered into the sink as his lips grazed her neck.
She pushed back, breaking the spell.
“Zelda’s birthday is tomorrow,” she managed, clutching her remaining brushes in front of her like a shield.
As Klaus hesitated, her mind raced. Part of her longed for him to pull her close, to erase the distance between them with a kiss. But another part of her, the part that hadn’t gone completely insane, was screaming at her to run. She couldn’t afford to forget that standing before her wasn’t some innocent admirer, but an occupier—no matter how charming or genuine he seemed.
“A June baby,” he remarked, his tone lightening the mood. “Do you have plans?”
“No,” she admitted, chagrined. “That would require my sister and I being on speaking terms.”
“Good,” he said cheerfully. “Because I have plans for you. Zelda can come along.”
She knitted her brows, unable to follow this line of thinking. “What?”
“I’d like to get to know her better.” He shrugged. “Zelda is your sister.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she confessed, unable to hide her concern.
“It is,” he insisted, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Unfortunately, though, I have to go. I have meetings with people I dislike, followed by a dinner engagement with people I dislike even more. I will enjoy neither, I promise, and think of you the entire time.” He took her hand again, giving it a light squeeze before releasing it and stepping back. “Until tomorrow, then.”