“You don’t understand!” Constance waved her hands frantically at the gate, her voice cracking with desperation. “I have to get in!”
“No,” the guard at the gate said coldly, his expression impassive. “You don’t.”
Constance stared back at him, her mouth working as she searched for a response. He was standing at the gate to what, a week ago, had been a through street. A wall had been laid out, however, and was going up; Chinatown was being closed in. A steel frame extended crosswise in both directions, gray and forbidding in the rain. Men who looked like locals worked in teams to attach one corrugated plate after another. One team hauled on ropes, counting in unison as each huge piece of metal rose skyward. A second team secured it as a third drove in the rivets. The clang of metal and the rhythmic thud of hammers filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of rain-soaked soil. Mud clung to the workers’ boots as they trudged through the mire, their determined movements a stark counterpoint to the guard’s boredom.
“I was here a week ago,” she protested, her voice rising with indignation as she blinked raindrops from her eyelashes. Her fists clenched at her sides, trembling with frustration as she tried to overcome the guard’s indifference. “I didn’t have a problem, then.”
“Look, lady,” the guard snapped, grimacing as a fresh gust of rain buffeted him, his patience wearing thin. Constance had been badgering him for a good five minutes, and neither of them wanted to be out in this weather. “That was then, this is now.” He jabbed a finger at the sign to his right. “The Chinese Residential District is closed. Didn’t you see the warnings?”
“But my friend is in here,” Constance repeated, her voice pleading as she willed him to understand. “She’s sick.”
“Then she can see a doctor,” he said, in the condescending tone of a man who’d grown sick of repeating himself.
“Is there one?” Constance pressed, her voice tinged with frustration.
“Of course there’s one,” he replied curtly.
She crossed her arms, irritated by his dismissiveness. “There wasn’t one last week.”
He made an exasperated sound. “He’s probably been moved on, then! This is a transit camp, lady, not a permanent camp.” Producing a handkerchief from somewhere inside his uniform’s coat pocket, he blew his nose. “If your friend can work, she’ll be reassigned.”
“And if she can’t?” Constance’s arms tightened around herself, a defensive gesture as she waited for his response.
He shrugged indifferently, his gaze returning to the wall’s construction as if it held more interest than the fate of an old woman like Alice.
She fought to keep her fury in check, taking a slow, steadying breath before speaking again. “You’re an American, aren’t you?” Her tone held a mix of accusation and appeal.
He turned abruptly, water cascading from the brim of his cap as he regarded her with narrowed eyes. “What of it?”
“I’m an American,” she declared. “They’re Americans too.”
“Yeah, well.” He gave an unsympathetic snort, his hand moving to rub his nose as he shifted his weight. “None of us are Americans anymore, or hadn’t you noticed?” Then, dismissing her for good, his eyes went back to scanning the crowd as it moved up and down the street behind her.
Her hand flew into her bag, her fingers closing around one of the apples Klaus had sent. With a swift, fluid motion, she drew her arm back and launched her makeshift missive at the guard’s head. Satisfaction surged through her as she watched his face contort in shock, scrambling to retrieve his cap from the puddle where it’d fallen. At least he cared about something.
A second guard stepped forward, his voice hostile as he faced her down. “Now listen, you nutcase, we’ve all had just about enough of your antics—
“Gentlemen.” A man in a sergeant’s uniform stepped between them, his voice calm yet commanding. Seemingly immune to the escalating tension, he exuded an air of composure that sharply contrasted with the guards’ agitation. “What seems to be the problem?”
The guard she’d attacked rubbed at his temple and scowled. “This dumb broad—”
The sergeant shot him a glare, silencing him. “I didn’t ask you,” he stated coldly, before turning to Constance. “What happened?”
She felt a wave of relief wash over her at his intervention. Her voice quavered slightly, as she began to explain her situation, but at least someone was finally taking her seriously. Both guards tried to cut in, but the sergeant ignored them. Meanwhile, construction continued. Along the top of the wall, a man meticulously rolled out concertina wire, the screeching sound echoing like a banshee’s wail through the incoming fog. Each twist and turn of the wire seemed to heighten her growing sense of foreboding, until at last she was done with her tale.
Considering her words, the sergeant looked across the street. “Perhaps we should talk elsewhere.”
He led Constance across the bustling street to a quaint café nestled between two empty storefronts, and pointed towards a small table sheltered under a threadbare awning. The bitter tang of brewing coffee assaulted her nose, blending into the rhythmic drumming of raindrops cascading against the fabric above. The dampness in the air clung to her skin, heightening the sense of claustrophobia enveloping her. As they settled at the table, she couldn’t help but notice a man with an apron glaring at them through the café’s open door, his arms crossed in silent disapproval at her choice in companion. She wanted to tell him that she agreed.
The sergeant cleared his throat, startling her back to the present. She hadn’t studied him closely before but she did now, noticing the worn edges to an otherwise immaculate uniform. It was like Fritz’s: canvas tan with a forest green collar that’d seen hard use, and standing in sharp contrast to her neighbor’s perfection. But Klaus was in the SD, a glorified bureaucrat, and her companion’s collar patches and shoulder boards spoke of an affiliation with the Heer Artillery. His features were unremarkable, with a thin scar tracing a jagged path from his chin to just above his ear. Rather than distorting his face into a sneer, as it might’ve done on another man, the scar merely tugged at the corner of his mouth, adding an understated ruggedness to his appearance. But it was his eyes that captivated her attention the most; devoid of any hint of malice or hostility, they radiated only a calm curiosity as he studied her in return.
Her hands clenched around her bag, the knuckles turning white as she steeled herself and spoke. “Are you going to help me?”
“Let’s introduce ourselves, first,” he said, raising a hand in a calming gesture, urging her to slow down and collect herself. “I’m Feldwebel Anton Jost. I’m overseeing the allocation of materials, equipment, and manpower to this project—for the time being, anyway. It beats babysitting cans of beans. But we saw each other there, too,” he added, recognition dawning in his eyes. “At the rations depot, the one on Willard Street in Cambridge?”
“Fritz!” she exclaimed, her heart racing with the realization of what felt like an impossible coincidence. “Fritz Krüger! He’s one of your men, isn’t he?” Observing Jost’s shock at her outburst, she felt a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. “He’s mentioned you,” she added hurriedly.
“Young Herr Krüger.” Jost’s smile softened as he mentioned Fritz’s name. “Yes, he was, also until last week. A good kid, that one, and an excellent soldier.” A shadow passed over his face, but he forced himself to smile as his eyes returned to hers. “Fritz has been reassigned, to a different division, but I’m sure he’d be glad to know you were asking after him.”
She couldn’t hide her disappointment, her shoulders slumping as she saw her hope of trading on the connection vanish. “Oh,” she murmured. “I was hoping….”
Jost cocked his head, his gaze searching. “Something happened, with him?”
“Yes,” she admitted, flinching as the café’s manager slammed the door shut. “I mean—no, nothing bad. He carried that crate home for me, and since then he’s helped me fix a few things around the house.” She chewed nervously on her lip, feeling like she was admitting to some crime. “He’s also been bringing us…other groceries. Officers’ groceries.”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Jost’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Wait—you’re Fraulein Wahl? Charlotte?”
“No,” she asserted, annoyed with how apologetic his assumption made her feel. “Constance.”
“Ah.” He eased back into his chair, a glimmer of warmth lingering in his eyes. “Fritz speaks highly of you, Frau Bianchi. And there’s no need to miss him, as you’ll undoubtedly be seeing more of him soon.” His smile took on a tinge of regret. “It seems that Fritz, much like yourself, has friends in high places.” Though his polite demeanor suggested otherwise, discontentment simmered beneath his words; he wasn’t entirely happy with this turn of events.
She pondered the source, uncertain if her companion’s ire was for Charlotte or Fritz. “Where is Fritz?”
“He’s been promoted,” Jost explained, his voice lacking the usual pride one might expect at such a development. “He’s working for the Hauptsturmführer now, as a clerk in the SD’s office on Brattle Street.” He grunted. “I dislike these administrative staff swaps.”
He might as well have punched her in the gut. The old nausea surged through her as she leaned forward. “Wait—Hauptsturmführer Dassel? He’s working for Klaus?”
Shrugging, Jost checked his watch. “It seems that Fritz is quite the whiz with computers.”
Klaus’s toxic influence was a second and even more relentless plague than the cholera had been. He was always hanging around Charlotte; despite her protestations that she didn’t like him, she accepted his gifts readily enough. The thought of Fritz being corrupted, too, made her want to scream; soldier or no soldier, like Charlotte, he couldn’t recognize evil when he saw it. But working at a desk, she told herself, any desk had to be better than guarding the Gates of Hell. Today’s pilgrimage would be her third to the ghetto in as many weeks—and, every time she came, things were somehow worse. Filled with starvation and disease and a dangerous black market that failed to stave off either, the Chinese Residential District was like the Warsaw Ghetto of long ago. Here, the Reich dumped its most unwanted and waited for them to die.
Jost studied her for a long moment, his expression troubled. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
She steeled herself, a knot of anxiety tightening in her chest. She wanted to run, to escape the suffocating grip of fear, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be weak. “I have to.”
Jost sighed, resigned. “Fine,” he said, standing. “Then I’ll bring you in.”
She hesitated, then followed him across the street and into the heart of darkness. The air felt heavy with misery, suffocating her senses as she stepped into the worst place she’d ever been. There was no sign of life on the outside, only the sterile presence of the oppressive wall. Its towering structure seemed to cast a pall over the indifference below—and the desolation, still just visible, on the other side. The ghetto’s inhabitants crowded against it, their faces contorted with anguish as they cried out to their former neighbors through the crude studs. How long would they be trapped in this hellish confinement? How were they supposed to survive, cut off from the outside world? Their desperate pleas echoed off the cold concrete, unanswered and unheard.
A few passersby stopped to stare, their eyes hollow with resignation. But most hurried on, as though the helplessness of captivity might be contagious, infecting all who dared to linger too long. Constance felt a chill crawl down her spine as another metal plate went up, sealing off the faces of those trapped within from the outside world—a silent barrier between hope and despair.
While she relayed Alice’s address to Jost, a man adorned with the armband of the so-called ghetto police force stood sentinel at a corner. He offered a perfunctory salute to the sergeant, his squinting eyes nevertheless suspicious. Jost ignored him, his own focus solely on guiding Constance out of the street and up onto the cracked sidewalk. A putrid stench assaulted her senses, emanating from the bubbling drains that overflowed with more than just water. It coated the back of her throat, thick with sewage and an equally oppressive sense of unease.
Piles of rubble littered the landscape, a grim reminder that Boston no longer belonged to Americans. Yet, amidst the chaos, life stubbornly persisted—albeit in a grotesque parody of normalcy. She watched in disbelief as a man engaged in animated conversation with an unseen companion, his voice echoing through the refuse-strewn streets. Their eyes met and she offered him a strained smile, another futile attempt to mask her growing trepidation.
Passing a makeshift school, its walls adorned with faded remnants of its former glory as a bustling restaurant, Constance couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow for the shattered dreams it represented. Inside, children clustered around tables, most of them oblivious to their new reality, immersed in innocent laughter and chatter. Sharing their optimism for a brief moment, she yelped as Jost abruptly pulled her to the left. Looking down, she recoiled in horror at the sight of a man, his still form face down in a murky puddle.
At an intersection, soldiers started unloading crates from the back of a truck. People were already gathering, their gaunt faces terrifyingly hopeful. A weathered poster, barely clinging to the wall, proclaimed the benefits of volunteering for the Chinesische Ghetto-Polizei: double rations and better housing. From where, she wondered? The seemingly never-ending line of those waiting for regular rations far outstripped what even the largest truck could hold.
She scanned the crowd, feeling a sharp stab of guilt at her own full cupboard—and what Charlotte had undoubtedly done to earn it, while she’d hidden in her room. Several of them coughed violently, their handkerchiefs stained with blood as they futilely attempted to stifle the symptoms of what she feared might be tuberculosis. “What if there’s no doctor?” she asked, her voice strained.
“I can find your friend a doctor,” Jost’s response was grim.
“And what about everyone else?” she pressed, frustrated with how little he seemed to care.
But Jost remained silent.
She stole a quick glance at him, feeling a stab of disquiet. Jost, for all she’d heard about him, was a stranger—and no one back at home knew where she was. She hadn’t confided in anyone about her destination, and even Charlotte had no idea that she’d ever visited Alice again after that first awful experience. She justified her silence as a means to spare her best friend worry but, deep down, she knew it was fear that motivated her secrecy: fear that Charlotte might inadvertently mention something to Klaus. Despite Charlotte’s claims of terror in his presence, her telltale blush whenever his name was mentioned betrayed a different truth.
They finally reached their destination.
Alice’s building stood before them, its crumbling façade unchanged except for a few newly hung laundry lines hanging limply high above. The sounds of someone’s halfhearted piano practice drifted from a nearby window but, otherwise, the street seemed devoid of life.
She started up the steps, but Jost grabbed her again. “Listen,” he urged. “I’m taking a risk, here. I don’t want Dassel to hear that I was unhelpful, but if anything happens to you my head will roll.” He glanced around cautiously, before continuing in a lowered voice. “The SS has a lot of power, and he has a lot of power. This ghetto is their operation, do you understand?”
Angrily, she pushed past him.
At Alice’s apartment, he halted her once more. “What’s in the bag? Other than apples.”
“Tea,” she responded defensively, her voice edged with tension. “Some sugar, some sausage.”
His eyes narrowed. “Where did it come from?”
Refusing to be cowed, she lifted her chin defiantly. “I procured it,” she declared firmly. And her statement was true, in a manner of speaking; she’d borrowed this haul from their latest crate of wonders, which had once again come courtesy of the very organization Jost wished to avoid.
Jost threw his hands up. “From whom?”
Ignoring him, she announced her presence with a sharp rap.
After a few minutes, the door cracked open, revealing a woman with red-rimmed eyes and a drawn expression. She regarded Constance with a distrust that only sharpened when she saw Jost.
“I’m here for Alice,” Constance announced, hoping she sounded confident.
The woman jabbed a finger in Jost’s direction. “And him?”
“He’s a friend,” she stated, forcing the words through gritted teeth.
The woman snorted in disgust. “Some friend,” she muttered, but she reluctantly opened the door wider. “You’d better come in,” she added, stepping back to allow them entry. As Constance crossed the threshold, the stale atmosphere of the apartment assaulted her senses. It was cleaner than last time, but not much; wallpaper still curled from the walls, leaf-like, along with patches of mold that crept downward from the ceiling like sinister vines.
Instead of Alice, two children hunched over the worn-out table, engrossed in a game of cards. In the corner, a third traced patterns in the mold with a fingertip, leaving faint trails of moisture that glistened in the low light. Constance glanced toward Jost, who’d wisely waited in the hall; he knew he wasn’t welcome. She didn’t feel all that welcome, either, but the woman gestured for her to sit and then walked over to Alice’s sink. “Does he know when the plumbing’s getting fixed?”
Constance shook her head uncertainly. “I don’t think so.”
“And the hoods next door?” The woman spat into the drain, her expression as hard as her voice as she glared out the window. “Bunch of crack dealers. I don’t want my kids around that.”
“Where’s Alice?” Constance asked, her voice faltering.
The woman paused, her eyes fixed on the worn porcelain. “Alice is dead.”
She choked back a sob. “How?”
“I don’t know,” the woman replied, refusing to meet her gaze.