I found a pig!” Fritz announced with a broad grin. “Isn’t that great? I can slaughter her for you, too,” he added. “If you want.”
Charlotte’s steps faltered as she processed his words. “An actual, living pig?”
Fritz nodded eagerly. “Her name’s Bessie.”
Charlotte’s confusion only deepened at this revelation.
She also wasn’t entirely clear on how she’d wound up running errands with Fritz in the first place. Things had certainly changed since their first encounter, where she’d hidden as he’d banged on their door. Increasingly, she found herself thinking of him as almost like another sibling. He’d been assigned to their house as some sort of general-purpose helper, once again producing orders signed by Klaus. Klaus, naturally, hadn’t consulted her at all and she didn’t know whether to be charmed or annoyed. She’d barely seen Klaus since their big date at The Country Club but Fritz had already proved surprisingly helpful. Claiming that chores were a welcome relief from soldiering, especially for a farmer’s son, he’d immediately set about chopping wood for the coming winter and requisitioning supplies to repair their roof.
Winter was hard to picture as the midsummer sun beat down on them, casting dappled shadows through the thick canopy of green lining Mt. Auburn Street, but nothing lasted forever—including this halcyon time of peace, the first she’d experienced since learning that her father had been shot, what felt like a lifetime ago. Everything seemed so perfect, too perfect to be real. Klaus was a little strange, as boyfriends went, but if she didn’t think too hard that was all he was. Fritz saw nothing wrong, naturally, with Klaus’s so-called heroics in Marblehead and even Zelda had grown oddly silent on the subject…but for how long?
What Charlotte didn’t tell Klaus, in their all too brief moments together, was that she felt safer running errands with Fritz at her side—not because she was afraid of his people, but because she was afraid of her own. To the invaders who’d become peacekeepers, she was invisible; neighbors she’d known since childhood, on the other hand, saw her and slammed their doors. Laughter turned to silence as she walked past, expressions growing guarded.
“There aren’t that many pigs, here,” Fritz continued. “Isn’t that odd? I requisitioned Bessie from a farm in Lexington. She’s a very good pig, I think, bright and alert. No discharge, either, which—
Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean, requisitioned?”
“I gave the farmer a fair value!” Fritz protested, indignant at her insinuation. “I can’t very well write to Leni that I’ve become an animal thief, now can I?” He grimaced and then, his usual good mood reasserting itself, pushed her playfully on the shoulder. “You should keep the blood,” he added, “it makes a wonderful soup. My mother’s is fantastic, I could write and ask for the recipe…that is, if it’s not a secret. Are you sure that I can’t carry those buttons?”
“No,” Charlotte reassured him. “I think I can manage.”
Fritz’s expression grew dubious. “I don’t want to be useless.”
“I didn’t know the Wehrmacht was also in the livestock business,” she teased him.
“It isn’t,” he acknowledged. “But I did grow up on a farm. A dairy farm, to be fair, but we had pigs as well. Have pigs,” he corrected himself. “They’re still there. Not the same pigs, naturally, pigs aren’t immortal but….” Caught in a reverie, he paused mid-sentence. “Did I ever tell you, that’s how I met Leni?”
Charlotte almost walked into a lamppost. “At the abattoir?”
He chuckled, a mischievous sparkle dancing in his eyes. “Leni’s family grows cabbages,” he explained, “at a farm on the other side of our village. I met her when one of our cows was munching on them. Well, my cow, Henrietta. She was an agricultural service project, for the Hitlerjugend.”
Knowing Fritz, Charlotte could picture the scene. “And Leni defended her prize produce?”
“She was furious at us both!” he exclaimed. “She hit me with a stick!”
At that, Charlotte burst out laughing, the sound echoing down the street. “True love!”
“For me, at least,” he agreed, somewhat ruefully. “I spent the next six weekends working for her father, in restitution. My father was madder than Leni could ever be, and threatened to hit me with an even bigger stick.” He groaned, although he seemed more amused than upset. “At first, Leni didn’t talk to me at all. But on the last weekend, she told me I could take her to the harvest ball.” His smile returned, bigger than ever. “I did, even though I worried that her father might shoot me.”
Biting her lip in consternation, Charlotte looked up at him. “Fritz?”
He caught the note in her voice and stiffened, nervous. “Yes?”
“Where,” she asked, her tone measured, “is Bessie now?”
“Oh, that,” he replied, his shoulders sagging in relief. “She’s being delivered, this morning.”
“Wait.” Charlotte held up her hand. “Delivered where?”
“Here!” he announced, plainly—to him—stating the obvious. “Bessie wasn’t welcome in the office.”
She gaped at him in disbelief. “There’s a pig, coming to my house?”
He hesitated, his own confusion deepening as he struggled to understand the problem. “I brought her to work, first, but Hauptsturmführer Dassel caught her gnawing on the corner of his desk and then—
They rounded the corner, and saw the woman lying in the road.
She was curled up in a fetal position, her body convulsing with each brutal kick to her stomach. Two men took turns mercilessly assaulting her, while a third seized her head, wrenching it back to expose her vulnerable neck. With a wicked-looking knife, a fourth attacker grabbed a handful of her hair and began to saw it off, vile obscenities mixing with the woman’s anguished cries. Blood sprayed from her scalp as a young girl, no older than six, tried vainly to protect her.
“Strip the whore!” one of the assailants barked, his voice dripping with malice.
“She’s not wearing clothes for the Krauts!” another jeered.
Coarse laughter filled the air as the group’s apparent ringleader continued to mutilate the woman’s once beautiful curls, each vicious tug met with a chorus of sadistic encouragement.
“Stop!” the little girl sobbed, tears streaming down her face. “Leave my mom alone!”
Fritz stepped forward. “Enough.”
He’d spoken in a tone that Charlotte had never heard him use before, one she wouldn’t have thought him capable of using until that moment. Faces swiveled, contorted with anger and a kind of low, animal carnality that made her hackles rise. In that moment, she didn’t see her fellow human beings but a pack of hyenas, savoring the torment of a wounded gazelle. The man with the knife stood, using it to point accusingly at the interloper. “Maybe this is one of her boyfriends,” he leered, his sausage-like lips splitting into a vile grin. “Anyone recognize him?”
The other men rose as one, in response, moving forward to surround them.
Fritz drew his gun, his hands steady despite the crackling tension. “Don’t,” he warned.
“How many bullets are in that gun, kid?” one of the attackers taunted. “Hope you’re a crack shot.”
“Yeah, don’t hit the whore,” another added with a cruel smirk.
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Charlotte jumped as Fritz fired, asphalt exploding inches from the leader’s left foot. Her heart was thudding against her ribcage and even these crazed goons had started to exchange wary glances, but Fritz remained calm. “Come one step closer,” he said quietly, “and it’s your balls.”
“Now listen here,” the leader demanded. “We have a right to—
Fritz’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Go home.”
One by one, the assailants melted away, their figures shrinking into the shadows between buildings. A lone woman with no protection other than her own child might be easy prey, but a man with a gun and a will to use it was another matter; these cowards wanted easier pickings. The sounds of their hurried retreat faded into nothing, leaving only the distant hum of traffic and the gentle rustle of leaves in the July breeze, while Fritz watched in silence.
Charlotte, still feeling lightheaded from the adrenaline of the encounter, hurried to the woman’s side. She knelt down, taking one clammy hand in her own. The woman’s scalp was matted with blood, her clothes torn, revealing the depths of the abuse she’d suffered. Angry bruises were already forming, like storm clouds gathering beneath the surface of her skin. Each deep purple stain seethed with a damning narrative, a visceral testament to cowardice. Unable to confront their true adversaries, these men had unleashed their impotent rage on a target who couldn’t fight back. How many more women had there been, Charlotte wondered, vilified for surviving—and for the even worse crime of seeing, in the invaders, not faceless enemies but people?
The woman’s breathing came in shallow gasps, but Charlotte felt a weak squeeze.
“You’re safe now,” Charlotte reassured her, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. “We’re going to call for help. You and your daughter, you’re going to be okay.”
The woman’s brow furrowed, lines of pain etching deeper into her features. Each breath seemed to catch in her throat, punctuated by rasping coughs as she struggled to make herself understood. “Do you speak English?” she managed, after a minute.
Charlotte blinked in surprise. She’d been so consumed in the chaos of the moment—and so used to speaking German—that she hadn’t even noticed the language barrier. With a pang, she nodded. “We’re going to call an ambulance,” she clarified, attempting an encouraging smile.
But the woman shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “I just need to go home.”
Fritz’s eyes narrowed slightly as he scanned their surroundings, a tightness in his expression betraying his heightened vigilance. “You need the hospital,” he stated firmly.
“What’s your name?” Charlotte’s voice quavered slightly as she addressed the woman.
“Darlene,” came the faint response, her eyes filled with a suspicion that hurt Charlotte’s heart.
“And your daughter?” Her gaze shifted to the little girl, who’d curled up in an effort to disappear.
Wincing as she pushed herself upright, Darlene hesitated. “Cassandra,” she said finally. “Cassie.”
“Darlene.” Charlotte fought to keep her tone gentle, despite the growing urgency of their predicament. Darlene might be too injured to fully understand, but Charlotte had to try—for her sake, and her daughter’s. “You might have internal injuries,” she pointed out, “and these cuts could get infected.” She hesitated, acutely aware that in Darlene’s eyes she was a foreigner. “I live right down the street, and I know a doctor who makes house calls.”
“We need to get her out of here,” Fritz interjected sharply, “wherever we go.”
Charlotte understood his concern; the deserted street felt like it was holding its breath. Darlene’s attackers would return, soon, this time with reinforcements—and guns of their own. Looming walls seemed to press down on them, blank windows full of unseen eyes that watched in silent judgment. She might have grown up here, but she was not among friends.
Cassie’s eyes were wide with terror as her gaze shifted back and forth.
Their situation felt increasingly dire to Charlotte; she feared she might have to abandon the little girl, and her mother, but then inspiration struck. “Your daughter might like something to eat,” she ventured, thinking about how precious food was for her own family—even now.
Darlene’s shoulders slumped, her resolve dissipating. “I can walk,” she muttered, her voice numb with exhaustion. “I think.”
The journey home stretched on endlessly, a silent procession broken only by the echo of their footsteps on the concrete and Darlene’s subdued groans of pain. In the desolate streets of Cambridge, still pockmarked with damage from the invasion, they might’ve been the last souls left on earth—yet the barren expanse stretching before them offered little solace. Even with Fritz’s support, Darlene’s progress was slow and labored. Charlotte’s house came into view, finally, but she still felt that itching between her shoulder blades. Lush and verdant Ash Street seemed shrouded in menace, the welcoming atmosphere a cruel attempt to make her let her guard down.
Finally getting inside, Fritz guided Darlene toward the living room and gently settled her onto the couch. Charlotte stood nearby, barely registering as the stairs behind her creaked. Zelda appeared in the doorway a moment later, still clad in her pajamas and clutching a bottle of Fanta. “Charlotte,” she announced, a twinge of annoyance in her voice, “there’s a pig in the backyard. A couple of men from the SD showed up an hour ago and—oh my God.” Her words abruptly cut off as she followed her sister’s gaze to the scene in the living room. Darlene was half-sitting, half-lying on a pile of pillows, and Cassie was beside her.
Fritz studied them for a long moment, before turning on his heel and walking into the hall. “I have to use the phone,” he told Charlotte under his breath.
“Wait—Dr. Haas.” The words left Charlotte’s lips almost involuntarily, as if her mind had bypassed the conscious decision to speak. “You’ll need to call him, too.” She rummaged through the drawers of the small mail table, until she found a scrap of paper and a pen, hastily jotting down his number. “He’s retired now, but he was my pediatrician.” Memories of him stitching up wounds during the Battle of Boston Harbor flashed in her mind; he’d helped both sides equally, claiming that all life was sacred and his oath didn’t discriminate.
Fritz shook his head, his expression tightening with concern. “I can’t leave you alone.”
“You won’t have to,” she assured him. “He’s just around the block.”
Relenting, he vanished into the library.
Darlene’s face bore streaks of blood from the wounds on her scalp, although the wounds themselves appeared to have stopped bleeding. Zelda fetched a bowl of water and started cutting up a towel, her movements purposeful as she dropped back into what Charlotte thought of as battle mode. At the sight of the scissors, both Darlene and her daughter recoiled. Handing them to Charlotte, Zelda knelt down in front of Cassie. “You look like a girl who wants a sandwich,” she remarked, her posture radiating a warmth she rarely shared with adults.
Cassie regarded her with childlike gravity. “Why is that?”
“Because,” Zelda replied seriously, “a sandwich is the only thing I know how to make. But I can put chicken in it, lots of chicken. And cheese. And tomatoes, and mustard, and mayonnaise, and even lettuce if you’d like.” She paused. “Then you can meet our new pet pig.”
“Wow,” Cassie breathed.
Charlotte watched them head toward the kitchen, a lump in her throat, before returning her focus to Darlene. Then, carefully, she began to tweeze gravel from Darlene’s scalp. It was painstaking work and she wasn’t much of a nurse, but she’d learned the basics during the invasion. They all had. “I’m going to have to shave your head,” she confessed, her tone apologetic. “Otherwise, hair might get trapped in these cuts.”
Darlene nodded, her gaze on some far point that Charlotte couldn’t see.
With a steady hand, Charlotte picked up a bottle of peroxide, its acrid scent filling the air as she poured some onto her makeshift gauze. Gently, she daubed it over the channels that’d been riven into Darlene’s flesh—suppressing the urge to steal a glance across the street, as she did so. This wasn’t her fault, she reminded herself, and neither was the occupation. “It stings,” she agreed, at Darlene’s sharp intake of breath, “but we don’t have anything else.”
“I know,” Darlene said, her voice distant. “You’re not living much better than we are.”
Charlotte thought of pointing out that she was an American, too, and didn’t.
“He talked to me through the window,” Darlene continued suddenly. “I was sitting in it, working, to get the light.” Her laugh was a hollow sound. “I expected him to be some monster, but he was so polite. The next time he came, he brought something for Cassie. Then, later….” The end of her sentence dissolved into silence, as her gaze dropped down to her hands. “When he kissed me, I didn’t stop him. I’ve been so lonely, since my husband died.”
Laughter drifted in from the kitchen.
“His English is getting better.” Darlene sniffed. “Sometimes, he talks to me about life back home, his hopes and dreams. And then, when we’re together, I wonder if he’s the man who—
Fritz cleared his throat. “Dr. Haas is here.”
With a guilty start, Charlotte looked up to see the two men standing in the doorway. She couldn’t gauge how long they’d been standing there, listening, but she felt like she’d been caught in the act. Dr. Haas shuffled in, offering her a reassuring touch on the arm as he greeted his patient. Forcing a strained smile in return, Charlotte hurried out, a sudden sense of suffocation overwhelming her. She longed for the fresh air outside where Zelda and Cassie were enjoying their sandwiches. Instead, she settled for watching them through the dining room window. Cassie was chewing contentedly while Zelda talked, and Bessie looked on hopefully.
Fritz joined her, wordlessly offering his support.
She clasped her hands together, her fingers twisting anxiously. “Were those men from Bill’s group?”
“No,” Fritz replied, his gaze fixed on the world outside. “I don’t think so.” He smiled as Cassie, done with lunch, scratched Bessie behind the ears. “Bill is ruthless,” he noted, growing serious again. “But he’s a planner. This was a crime of opportunity.”
“Maybe,” Charlotte allowed, unconvinced. Klaus or no Klaus, she wanted the resistance to be the good guys—but Zelda’s revelation about that Müller boy had made her wonder. War ruined everything, for everyone, and the idea that there even were good guys seemed increasingly naïve.