Charlotte tried to reassure herself that whatever Klaus had planned couldn’t be too perilous, since she was allowed to bring Zelda along. Nevertheless, the memory of his unnerving presence in her studio lingered, his touch sparking a disconcerting warmth that seemed to reignite at the slightest provocation. Absentmindedly touching her neck, she tried to shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at her insides. What on earth could Klaus want with her? The question tugged at her mind, but she pushed it aside, focusing on remaining calm for both her sake and Zelda’s. Whatever Klaus’s intentions, she really could not afford to offend him.
Across the room, Zelda’s glare bore into her, a silent accusation of cowardice that Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to refute. Reluctantly, she resigned herself to another day of feigned normalcy, concealing her apprehension beneath a forced smile. Even so, her sense of foreboding persisted, casting a shadow over a date that felt more like a date with the executioner.
Claiming she’d come down with something was an option, she reminded herself; she had barely slept all night, but somehow she didn’t picture Klaus accepting exhaustion a legitimate illness. So, instead, she’d found some clothes that weren’t stained with paint or two sizes too large and done what she could with her hair. Zelda, on the other hand, had put on some green number, the color so vivid it clashed with the subdued hues of the room. With her petite frame and fiery demeanor, she looked like an angry elf, her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed into a tight line.
“Thank you for coming,” Charlotte said, her voice lacking conviction, as she absently straightened her blouse in front of the mirror.
Zelda crossed her arms, her expression tense. “Under protest.”
Charlotte let out a resigned sigh, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Yes, you’ve been reminding me all morning.” She glanced at Zelda, hoping for support but finding only judgment in her sister’s stance.
“He’s creepy, Charlotte.” Zelda’s tone was low, her arms tightening around her torso defensively.
Charlotte nodded, her gaze dropping to the floor as she thought about explaining again why she couldn’t attack an SS officer in broad daylight. “I should’ve made something up, about being busy.” But, of course, she hadn’t—and who knew if he would’ve cared, regardless?
Zelda’s frown deepened. “I don’t trust him.”
“I don’t either,” Charlotte admitted quietly. “But we have to play along for now.”
Zelda’s disgust was palpable as she turned toward the window. “He is not normal, Charlotte. Let’s start with how he looks at you: like he can’t decide if he wants to kiss you, or skin you alive and wear you! You have no idea what he’s doing when he’s not hanging around here, tormenting us, but the man definitely knows his way around a knife.”
Charlotte’s laughter bubbled up, a nervous defense mechanism. “I’m too short to make a good suit.”
“That’s why he needs both of us.” Zelda’s words carried the weight of foreboding.
The doorbell interrupted their exchange, its chime jarring in the fraught atmosphere.
They stepped outside to find Klaus waiting, his imposing figure stark against the backdrop of the quaint neighborhood. His service dress uniform, as usual, was crisp and precise. Zelda fixed him with a piercing glare, which he skillfully evaded. His gaze shifted to Charlotte; he scrutinized her from beneath the brim of his cap, his eyes shrouded in shadow, making his expression inscrutable. “I missed you last night,” he murmured, his tone somewhere between longing and reproach. “Perhaps next time you could accompany me.”
Charlotte struggled to hide her discomfort, her mind racing for a polite response. As she pondered how to articulate her aversion without causing offense—she’d honestly rather do almost anything than engage in this exchange—Klaus waited. Then, mercifully, he gave her a reprieve. “And the birthday girl!” His sudden shift brought the attention back to Zelda, who remained impassive in response to his attempt at pleasantries. “Thank you for sharing your special day.”
Zelda’s silence spoke volumes.
Klaus hesitated, taken aback, then cleared his throat. “This,” he declared to Charlotte, “will be fun.”
Despite his assurance, the knot of apprehension tightened in her stomach. She offered a hesitant nod, concealing her skepticism beneath a veneer of compliance. Klaus turned back toward the street, motioning for them to follow, his confident stride betraying none of the unease that lingered in the air. Behind him, Zelda shot Charlotte a pointed look before miming a slashing motion across her throat. Charlotte shook her head vehemently, desperate to quell her sister’s silent protest before it could undermine their already precarious situation.
She wasn’t anticipating a trip to the abattoir, regardless of Zelda’s suspicions, but her fear dissolved into disbelief as Klaus led them straight across the street to his own home. The Excelsior Estate loomed before them, an English country manor that’d somehow been dropped into the middle of Cambridge. Towering walls concealed lush gardens, where box hedges enclosed a riot of roses, and a serene pond mirrored the sky.
Stepping through a wrought iron gate, she found herself enveloped in splendor. Alongside the roses, more blooms in every hue and type imaginable adorned the landscape, their fragrance filling the air with an intoxicating sweetness. Among the lush foliage, guests lounged in elegant lawn chairs, their laughter mingling with the rustle of leaves and the soft hum of conversation. It was as if she’d stepped into the pages of a Jane Austen novel, this leisurely garden soirée offering a respite from their chaotic world—and jarringly out of place in it.
Feeling Klaus’s arm around her, she stiffened at the unexpected contact. His voice, when he spoke, was low and conspiratorial. “Charlotte, allow me to introduce Reichskommissar Friedrich Pohl.”
Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized the fat, bald man lurching to his feet. Pohl, representing the Führer in New England, wielded absolute power over everyone present, a fact emphasized by the armband he wore over his suit—a chilling reminder of authority stained with blood. He extended a hand and she returned the gesture automatically, repressing a shiver as his grip enveloped hers.
“His wife, Marie-France,” Klaus continued, indicating a woman easily twice as wide as her husband. “And their daughter, Gretchen.” Gretchen, who appeared to be about Zelda’s age, fluttered her eyelashes. Before she could speak, however, he gestured towards the final guest: a man with sharp, patrician features and an aura of grim determination. “And Sturmbannführer August Voight,” he finished, with a certain degree of distaste. “Head of the Gestapo in Cambridge.”
This newest shock struck Charlotte dumb, as she struggled to offer a greeting.
Klaus’s grip on her tightened. “And this,” he declared proudly, “is Charlotte Wahl.”
Marie-France, at least, looked interested. “You speak German?”
“Yes,” Klaus said, answering for her. “Charlotte’s family hails from Lindau.”
The Reichskommissar’s smile was indulgent. “Charming!”
As Klaus pulled out a chair for her, Charlotte sank into it, the detachment of shock enveloping her as the bizarre scene unfolded. Someone handed her a glass, which she accepted reflexively, barely registering the taste of the liquid she brought to her lips. The chirping of birds mingled with the gentle breeze, offering a fantastical backdrop to her astonishment.
“We were going to eat inside,” Klaus explained, accepting a drink of his own and sitting down next to her. “But this weather was too nice to miss.”
She glanced around, taking in the warm afternoon sunlight, and resisted the urge to run screaming.
“I’ve heard so much about both you and your art, Fraulein Wahl,” the Reichskommissar continued, his eyes lingering on her as if trying to unravel a mystery. “Last night, in particular, Klaus talked of nothing else!” He paused, his smile turning uncomfortably knowing as he issued a low chuckle. “Although I understand now that the boy managed to leave out a detail or two.”
The Reichskommissar’s obvious appreciation made her skin crawl, but she managed a tight smile.
His wife intervened, whacking him. “Stop being embarrassing, and stop being so formal! Charlotte, is it?” Steering the conversation back into safer waters, she patted Charlotte’s knee as she once again addressed her husband. “I’m sure, Fred, that she’d prefer to be called Charlotte.”
“And you can call me Fred,” the Reichskommissar enthused, his tone lightening as he leaned back in his chair. “No need for stuffy titles here,” he added, with an airy wave of his hand. “Given that we’re soon to be colleagues!”
Charlotte turned to Klaus, her brow furrowing in confusion. She struggled to make sense of the unexpected turn of events, the pieces of the puzzle refusing to fit together in her mind. What had Klaus gotten her into now? She searched his face for answers, but he only favored her with one of those fractional smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Fred, sensing her confusion, exchanged a glance with his host. “You haven’t told her?” he asked, dumbfounded. A split second later, shock shifted to satisfaction as he slapped his knee. “I knew it!” Klaus didn’t respond, and Charlotte simply gaped, but then he turned back to her. “The Reichskommissariat,” he explained, meeting her gaze, “is in need of an official portraitist. Your young man has argued quite persuasively in favor of hiring you for the job.”
Charlotte’s world tilted on its axis. Her young man? Fred’s casual reference hit her like a punch to the gut. The notion of Klaus as anything other than an enemy soldier, here to exert control and instill fear, seemed absurd—yet Fred’s beaming countenance would suggest otherwise. She’d been almost ready to accept Klaus as a friend, maybe, but date him? She’d interpreted his kiss the previous afternoon not as a gesture of genuine affection, but as further confirmation of his occupier’s sense of entitlement; now she didn’t know what to think.
She searched his face, seeking some answer, but his expression remained difficult to interpret. Meanwhile, Fred’s words flowed on, his verbosity grating against her frayed nerves. “The studio tour is merely a formality,” he assured her, misunderstanding her stupefied stare. “So don’t worry yourself overmuch. Klaus has never been prone to exaggeration, even as a child, so I have no doubt that you’re every bit as good as he claims. Still, I’m excited for a glimpse behind the curtain!” He chortled at his own non-joke. “See how the sausage is made, and all that.”
“Sometimes people ask, why bother with a painting?” Fred’s voice trailed off as he glanced around the garden. “We have photography now, and I think we can all admit that photographers, even the worst ones, are much better at capturing likenesses. But photography is so cold,” he mused, “so sterile.” Sipping his drink, he grunted. “Plus, I like supporting the arts.”
Throughout Fred’s discourse, Voight listened in stoic silence, the faint curl of cigarette smoke wafting around him. His expression remained impassive, though a flicker of discomfort seemed to pass over his features. Zelda, sitting next to him, observed the exchange with a mix of disdain and curiosity, her sharp eyes darting between the characters as if dissecting their every move.
“That’s a disgusting habit,” Fred informed him, wrinkling his nose in disapproval.
Marie-France merely rolled her eyes, retrieving her own cigarette from an enameled case and holding it out. Voight, without a word, leaned forward and lit it for her. Inhaling, she settled back into her chair, her expression one of weary resignation. “Please, August, ignore Fred. I do.”
“You,” Fred replied with mock solemnity, “and everyone else.”
“This is a large house, Klaus,” Gretchen interjected, her voice laced with what she no doubt imagined was a flirtatious purr. “Too large, to be wandering around in all alone.”
Klaus responded in the same patient, slightly disinterested tone that he used on Fred. “Ah, but I hope it won’t be just me for much longer.”
Gretchen giggled, the sound ringing a little too loudly in the serene garden ambiance.
Once again, her mother changed the subject. “And you, Zelda? Are you also an artist?”
Zelda’s response was immediate and blunt. “No,” she said flatly, her tone devoid of any hint of enthusiasm.
“Zelda is a talented designer,” Charlotte interjected, eager to highlight her sister’s skills and even more eager to avoid a confrontation. “My dress is one of her creations.”
Fred let out a theatrical sigh. “My daughter has no interests,” he lamented, his exaggerated slump of the shoulders emphasizing his disappointment. “Except shortening my lifespan.”
Gretchen’s eyes were bright with malice. “Is it working?”
Her father seemed amused, but her mother scowled. “Our daughter is only nineteen, Fred,” she chided him, her tone reproachful, before addressing Zelda. “And how old are you, dear?”
“Zelda is eighteen today,” Charlotte announced brightly, to Gretchen’s snort. She shouldn’t have worried, though, about diffusing the situation; the birthday girl wasn’t paying attention. Instead, she was sipping her lemonade and studying Voight. Charlotte couldn’t fault Zelda for ignoring Fred and Marie-France, or for that matter Gretchen, but she didn’t understand her sister’s fascination with the joyless creature who’d arrested her. Maybe she was scared.
“Oh!” Marie France clapped her hands. “An adult! What are you planning next?”
“Planning?” Fred seemed confused at his wife’s choice of words. “What do you mean, planning? Why should a woman be planning anything other than to learn those skills, which are necessary to secure a husband? And to care for children, I suppose; children require some degree of effort.”
Throwing one leg over the other, Gretchen sneered. “How would you know?”
Marie-France examined herself in a compact. “When will a bride school open here?”
“Bride school? Please, Mother.” Slouching in her chair, Gretchen’s lips formed a petulant pout. “I have no intention of marrying any man who expects me to cook, or iron his uniforms, or do any of the other stupid and boring things that girls learn in those places. I have a life, you know,” she added crabbily. “Not to mention, that’s what servants are for.”
Marie-France raised an eyebrow, her lips pursed in disapproval. “And if you marry a man who has none?”
Gretchen blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What?”
Fred regarded his wife with a quizzical expression. “Do you know how to iron a uniform?”
Platters of delicate sandwiches, scones with clotted cream and jam, and an array of pastries emerged from inside the house, their tantalizing aroma mingling with the warm afternoon air. Despite the tempting spread, Charlotte found herself unable to muster an appetite. As a pair of uniformed women meticulously arranged the food on the table, Gretchen seized the opportunity to make a pointed remark. “See?” she declared, jabbing a finger at them. “Klaus has servants.”
Zelda and Voight exchanged a look.
They’d been having their own parallel conversation, in silence, since he’d offered Zelda the chair by his. Their eyes kept meeting in brief exchanges, conveying volumes of meaning known only to them, while remaining inscrutable to everyone else. Charlotte was still trying to decipher her sister’s grin, when Fred intruded once more. “Enough about servants, on to more important matters!” he declared, emitting an absolutely disgusting noise into his napkin before jovially clapping Klaus on the shoulder. “Congratulations are also in order to the Hauptsturmführer!”
Passing a cucumber sandwich to Zelda, Voight responded with his characteristic blandness. “Indeed.”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Fred waved his sandwich towards Charlotte. “I suppose that Klaus also neglected to mention the purpose of last night’s little get-together?”
“Yes,” she confessed, creeping tendrils of apprehension worming through her.
In response, Fred gloated, his smug tone grating on her nerves. “See?” he turned to Marie-France, as he chewed. “I told you! The boy is far too modest for his own good. He and Charlotte have known each other for how long, now? And he hasn’t told her a thing about himself. Probably lets her do all the talking,” he added, his voice muffled by a mouthful of chicken salad.
“Oh, no.” Gretchen’s tone was dry.
Fred pretended not to hear. “Klaus received the Iron Cross, 1st Class for his heroism during the invasion. You might or might not know,” he continued, “but we very nearly lost Marblehead right after we landed. That would’ve been a grievous blow as the harbor there, while small, is still strategic.” He grunted. “The terrorists, unfortunately, proved remarkably resilient.”
“Terrorists?” Charlotte echoed, her voice strangled.
But Fred carried on, oblivious to her shock. “Naturally their leader, Ted Hood, went to ground when reinforcements arrived. We might’ve still lost, regardless, had they been able to reform around him.” His tone was conversational, as he licked mustard from a fingertip. “Klaus, however, had the brilliant idea of arresting all the men in the town between the ages of sixteen and sixty and ordering them hanged. Ten at a time, you see, until someone at last gave up Hood’s location. And he’s the one who arrested Hood and saw him executed, that’s what the medal was for.”
Beside her, Klaus said nothing. She felt the weight of his gaze, though, as she stared down at her lap. The introverted violinist she’d befriended, who loved children and taught them how to feed ducks, was a mass murderer. Shock coursed through her veins, leaving her feeling numb and drowning out the rest of Fred’s monologue. How could he have lied to her like this and, worse, how could she not have seen through his disguise? Her hands trembled as she reached for her glass, only to find it empty. The taste of food turned bitter in her mouth, and the hum of conversation around her became a distant murmur. She felt as if she were drowning in a sea of betrayal and deceit, and Klaus’s continued silence only added to her confusion and despair.
“By terrorists,” Zelda cut in, her voice cold and clipped, “you mean the resistance.”
Charlotte’s heart hammered against her ribcage, threatening to burst out of her chest.
“He found Hood, the following morning and interrogated the bastard himself,” Fred continued, full of horrifying enthusiasm. “I understand that the techniques he used were quite innovative, he—
“No one wants to know,” Marie-France cut in sharply, her obvious disgust brooking no further discussion.
“Your father must be so proud,” Fred gushed.
Klaus glanced at Charlotte, his expression unreadable. “I hope so,” he replied quietly, a hint of uncertainty underlying his words.
Charlotte’s stomach churned with repulsion as she watched Klaus absorb Fred’s compliments. Could he tell how disgusted she was? Did he even care? Was someone this indifferent to human suffering capable of feeling anything at all? She couldn’t fathom how he’d thought his monstrous exploits would be perceived, how anyone could speak of such atrocities with such detachment. The realization sank in like a lead weight—she could never see him in the same light again, never see him again period. The thought of facing him again, even as neighbors, was unbearable.
Fred continued to extol Klaus’s virtues for what felt like an eternity, each word driving a deeper wedge of horror into Charlotte’s consciousness. It was during this relentless litany that she learned the full extent of Klaus’s involvement—not just in the SS, but in the dreaded SD. The revelation struck her with a force she couldn’t comprehend. While she’d already found the regular SS abhorrent, the SD, or Sicherheitsdienst, represented a new level of malevolence. This core group of fervent believers made the rest of the SS seem tame in comparison. Tasked with rooting out and eliminating the Reich’s perceived enemies, both at home and abroad, the SD wielded a terrifying influence. Not only did they control the Einsatzgruppen, highly mobile death squads dispatched to occupied territories, but they also orchestrated operations ranging from intelligence gathering to executing acts of genocide. And at the helm of Einsatzgruppe C was Klaus himself, commander of two hundred other bestial thugs.
Gretchen, delighted at such an impressive resumé, asked him about his other medals.
Zelda held her spoon like she was deciding where inside Klaus it should go, but at least she wasn’t actively attacking him—yet. Charlotte breathed a silent sigh of relief; surviving this lunch with her dignity intact would be victory enough, if it was even possible. Meanwhile, Klaus remained a study in neutrality, his demeanor betraying neither pride nor remorse for his actions. As Gretchen fired off questions, he responded with a detached air that bordered on indifference.
Charlotte, in turn, remembered the fire of his touch with bone deep shame.
She felt naïve, and she felt tainted.
At least neither Voight nor Zelda seemed to share Gretchen’s bubbling delight. While Zelda’s attention flitted around the group, Voight remained focused on her, his unwavering stare betraying an unusual depth of observation. This was the first time that Charlotte had seen him in person, but he looked exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes, coupled with his pallid complexion, hinted at a life marked by sleepless nights and unspoken burdens.
Coffee arrived, and he poured a cup for her sister with practiced ease. Charlotte couldn’t help but find the gesture peculiar, as preoccupied as she was; jailers didn’t usually wait on their charges. Nevertheless, Zelda accepted the offering without comment as Voight lit another cigarette.
Gretchen’s complaints echoed through the garden, as she steered the conversation back to herself. “There’s no shopping here,” she lamented. “I miss shopping. And parties! By which I don’t mean these stupid political things you drag me to, Father. None of that would be so bad, though, if there were any clubs. But there aren’t those either—and the music in this hell-hole is terrible!”
“I’m sure,” Zelda interjected acidly, “that Massachusetts will soon be unrecognizable.”
Voight raised his cocktail to his lips, concealing a faint smirk behind the glass.
Gretchen gasped. “Oh, do you really think so?”
“A good cure for boredom,” Marie-France chimed in, her tone pointed, “is work.”
Gretchen’s snort was even louder this time. “Between you chasing me around the house with a needle and thread and Father trying to convince me that I’m some sort of brood mare, I’m going insane.” Reaching over the arm of her chair, she fingered the hem of Zelda’s dress with undisguised envy. “Did you really make this, Zelda, all by yourself?”
“Of course she did!” Marie-France’s voice was indignant. “Meanwhile, you can’t manage to darn a sock.”
Gretchen rolled her eyes. “Mother!”
“Zelda, dear,” Marie-France inquired politely, “what are you planning to do for your service?”
Within the Reich, upon turning eighteen, all women were obligated to work in government for at least six months. Those fortunate enough to secure a man’s affections were granted admission to bride school, while the rest were left to toil. Charlotte was well aware that for many women, especially those in fields considered unmasculine, work outside the home was common practice.
“I haven’t given it much thought,” Zelda replied, sounding as though she’d rather wrangle a porcupine into a dark crevice.
Marie-France patted Fred’s knee, her smile saccharine. “She’s so charming, isn’t she? She should work for me! She can design my clothes, and then perhaps she can fix the Deutsches Modeamt.”
The mention of the Deutsches Modeamt, the Reich’s department of women’s fashion, prompted a sage nod of agreement from Fred. It was universally acknowledged to be atrocious. Gretchen, pouring herself another glass of lemonade, looked almost like she was having fun. “Perhaps our household wouldn’t be such a pit of doom, with someone else around.”
“You have servants,” Zelda snapped, not bothering to hide her vexation.
Voight’s snort sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Marie-France persisted. “The Deutsches Modeamt could use some fresh ideas.”
“The Deutsches Modeamt should vanish, Mother,” Gretchen declared with a disdainful toss of her head. “I’m sick of wearing dirndls.”
Marie-France sniffed dismissively. “You’re not wearing one now.”
“Only because I changed,” Gretchen retorted. “Right before we left the house.”
Ignoring Gretchen’s outburst, Klaus turned his attention to Voight. “Isn’t your office in need of a new girl?”
Gretchen attempted to catch Klaus’s eye, fluttering her eyelashes and wearing a suggestive smile. “I was thinking that I could work for the Sturmbannführer. Or the Hauptsturmführer.”
Marie-France shot an apologetic look at Charlotte. “No, dear.”
Charlotte’s mind whirled with conflicting emotions. The conversation felt surreal, a gloss of normalcy masking discussions of mass murder and forced labor. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she and Zelda were being drawn into a tangled web from which escape would be impossible.
Crossing her arms, Gretchen’s lip formed a petulant curve. “But—
“Zelda speaks both German and English,” Klaus cut in, “which would be useful in the office.” He didn’t look at Gretchen; he was doing his best to pretend that Gretchen wasn’t there, although she didn’t seem to care. Fanning herself, she unbuttoned another button on her blouse.
Fred coughed, his cheeks flushing. “Gretchen only speaks German,” he confessed, his tone apologetic.
Gretchen let out an exasperated groan. “I don’t want to be useful!”
Zelda’s gaze flickered pointedly to Gretchen’s ample cleavage. “We’re well aware.”
Eager to escape this newest humiliation, Fred stood. “Shall we move on to the studio tour?”
Klaus led them back across the street, his steps purposeful and assured. Entering Charlotte’s studio, he moved with an air of familiarity, as though he belonged there. His gestures were decisive, pointing out the features of the space as if he’d been intimately acquainted with them for years. Each movement seemed to assert his ownership, the master surveying his domain while Charlotte looked on in helpless silence.
Following Klaus’s confident lead, Fred bombarded Charlotte with questions, dealing another blow to her already reeling senses. Despite her best efforts, she struggled to keep pace with his enthusiastic curiosity, each new inquiry like a hammer blow to her already throbbing head. She felt like she’d been thrust into a whirlwind, with Fred eagerly seeking the full history of every piece she’d ever painted. Meanwhile, Gretchen’s attention seemed entirely fixated on Klaus, her exaggerated laughter cutting through the air like a malfunctioning kazoo.
Leaning toward him, touching his shoulder, she was treating him more like a matinee idol than a cold-blooded killer. Charlotte wondered sourly if, next, Gretchen would ask for his autograph. Forcing herself to nod along at Fred’s latest inane observation, she tried to decide whether she wanted to laugh or to scream. Her sanctum sanctorum, her safest of all safe places, had been invaded by the world’s worst troupe of clowns. While Gretchen followed Klaus around the room and Fred held forth on the subject of museums being over-funded, Marie-France cornered Zelda to continue their discussion of fashion. Zelda glowered at Voight who, ignoring them all, studied the portrait of her that Charlotte had been varnishing the week before.
Fred clapped his hands in delight. “This is wonderful! And bravo to Klaus, for introducing us. He’s a man of taste, it seems, in all departments.”
Gretchen simpered in agreement, ignoring her mother’s pointed frown. Whenever she approached him, Klaus would instinctively take a step back, creating a small but noticeable gap between them. He’d then glance around the room, searching for an excuse to be elsewhere, his eyes darting from one object to another as if hoping for a sudden distraction. In response to her comments—none of which were about art—he’d offer polite but brief responses, then turn his gaze to Charlotte.
Charlotte wished he’d give Gretchen what she wanted; those two deserved each other.
“The first portrait should be of my wife,” Fred declared. “And she should come here?”
Barely hearing her own assent, Charlotte nodded.
It wasn’t up to her; nothing was up to her, anymore. She felt like she was living someone else’s life, as Marie-France announced that she’d have her first sitting the following week and hadn’t this afternoon been so much fun? As the group bid their farewells, she felt numb, desperate to escape this nightmare from which there there was no escape. Fred shook her hand once more and then Marie-France enveloped her in a hug, before dragging a protesting Gretchen toward their waiting car. Fred, trailing behind, continued to remark on how amazing it was that anyone still made art of any kind in these modern times.
Zelda, Charlotte noted with concern, stood in close conversation with Voight. The two figures appeared engrossed in their discussion, the atmosphere between them tense. Voight’s face was etched with an unpleasant scowl, and Zelda seemed unusually subdued. A prickling sensation of unease crawled up Charlotte’s spine as she observed them, but she couldn’t rescue her sister; the Pohl family’s departure had left her alone with Klaus. That she didn’t want to talk to him was an understatement but, strangely, she found herself rooted to the spot. Like a deer in the headlights, she watched him approach, malevolent in his grace.
When he spoke, however, he was cheerful. “The Reichskommissariat is hosting a dinner dance on Saturday. A bit old fashioned,” he added, with the ghost of a smile, “but nonetheless an excuse to leave the house.” His eyes searched hers, dark in the gloom of her studio. “I’d like for you to come.”
She averted her gaze, her throat parched as she searched for a response. “I don’t….”
What might’ve been amusement crept into his expression, at her discomfort. “As Fred points out, it’s really only fair that you suffer these torments along with me.” His tone remained casual, yet there was a subtle shift—a hint of entitlement, almost possession, that prickled the small hairs on the back of her neck. “No matter how little I want to share you.” He let his words hang in the air, a shadow passing over his face as he let her absorb their meaning. Then the mask he wore so well returned, and he smiled. “Besides, we have so much to celebrate!”
Mustering her courage, she shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “I don’t think so.”
A hint of irritation flashed across his face, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What?”
She studied her shoes. “I can’t do this.”
“Nonsense,” he replied, gesturing dismissively. “Of course you can.” He spoke with an air of authority, clearly considering his own word final. “Your work is beautiful.”
“No.” Her blood rushing in her ears, she steeled herself to look up. “I don’t mean the portraits.” With a deep, shuddering breath, she forged on. “I can’t see you, not at some dance and not—not ever. I can’t bridge our worlds, Klaus. They’re like parallel lines that should never meet.”
The truth was a chasm between them, in the suddenly oppressive silence.
“I’m still the same man,” he said carefully, “that I was this morning.” His words were like the calm surface of the ocean, hiding the turbulent currents beneath, but she saw the anger in his eyes.
Except, this morning, she’d been in denial. “I didn’t understand,” she mouthed.
His expression darkened, revealing the storm brewing within him as the polite façade of the aristocrat cracked. “And I didn’t think I had to explain my job to you,” he snapped.
“But you never told me….” Her voice was still barely audible.
“Did you ever think to ask?” His tone was sharp, almost accusatory, his frustration evident in his tensed jaw and fixed stare. “Or did you imagine me, in the field, winning this war with flowers?” The sarcasm dripped from his words, his voice rising with each syllable.
She shrank back, confused and miserable.
“Listen to me,” Klaus said, his voice strained, as he fought to reign in his emotions. He paused, taking a deep breath to steady himself, before continuing. “I don’t want to dwell on this, either, not ever but especially not during whatever brief moment I can snatch to spend with you.” His words came out measured, his tone carefully controlled. “The life of a soldier isn’t a pleasant one, especially not the life of a soldier in the SS.” His gaze softened as he looked down at her, his eyes holding hers for a long moment. “But you’re so gentle, Charlotte, so good.” He reached out tentatively, as if seeking reassurance, but withdrew his hand before making contact. “I recognize the difference, you know,” he added with a touch of wry humor. “And I’d rather visit you in your world than drag you into mine.”
“So I should just ignore what’s happening?” Her plea for understanding was tinged with hurt, as she searched his eyes for some hint of what she was supposed to feel.
“Yes,” he said simply. “Because you can change nothing.”
His words dropped down like an anchor, pinning her to the grim reality of their conversation. She felt the first tear roll down her cheek, a hot rivulet of anguish carving a path through her resolve. “But those were innocent people,” she choked out, the taste of salt on her tongue.
“In Marblehead? Innocent?” His dismissive scoff was like a knife, cutting through her defenses with brutal efficiency. “Your innocent people were ambushing soldiers, boys your sister’s age, murdering them as they surrendered.” Anguish twisted his features, and was gone, as he remembered. “The same thing happened in California, nine years ago. I know, because I was there.” He turned his head, looking through the open garage door at the brilliantly illuminated world outside. “There’s no such thing as innocent people, on either side.”
“But Ted Hood,” she protested feebly, feeling the last of her certainty slip away.
“Yes,” Klaus agreed, his tone still matter-of-fact. “I killed him. And had our roles been reversed, I can assure you, he would’ve done the same to me. He understood that, and so did I. Maybe….” His sigh was heavy with resignation, his voice tinged with regret as he pondered. “In a different world, we might’ve wound up fighting on the same side. I admired the man.”
She brought her hands to her face, unwilling to confront the possibility that he was right.
When he spoke again, though, his voice had grown musing. “I suppose I could tell Fred that you’re not interested,” he said, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the table. “Our dear Reichskommissar might understand, or he might not. Regardless, he’d want an explanation. I’d imagine that he’d have questions, too…including about your sister, and my reassurance as the commander of Einsatzgruppe C that she poses no threat. How should I answer them?”
As she peered through her fingers, she caught his gaze, finding it unbearably knowing. There was a gleam in his eyes, a subtle yet unmistakable satisfaction that danced in his expression. He’d drawn her in, just like a duck, putting her at ease with his gifts and his stories and his self-effacing humor, but now he’d sprung the trap. He knew too much about Zelda, and Charlotte’s own support of her rebellious sister; one well-placed comment, and their tenuous freedom would come to an end. His demeanor exuded confidence and self-assurance, his posture poised and commanding. Watching the realization dawn in her eyes, his smile deepened. He’d always known he held the upper hand; now she did, too.
He touched her chin, tilting it up. “I’ll pick you up at six.”