“Fritz calls it latrine rumors.” Charlotte’s tone was thoughtful. She’d had worse Saturdays than this, but she couldn’t remember them at the moment. “The gossip about women like Darlene, I mean.” And herself, she added silently. An icy finger touched the base of her spine when she thought about what might’ve happened—to both of them—if Fritz hadn’t been there to intervene.

“A latrine.” Zelda picked at her chicken, as though examining an especially large cockroach. “Is that where you found this recipe?”

“If you’d prefer to eat dinner across the street,” Charlotte teased, “that can be arranged.”

Zelda made a show of considering the offer. “Does Klaus know what pizza is?”

Charlotte chuckled, the release of tension like a balm after their shared ordeal. “I can barely remember what pizza is.”

Grimacing, Zelda pushed her plate across the table. “Speaking of insufferable idiots, you can tell him that I’m not happy about this job.”

“He told me he had nothing to do with it.” Charlotte poured herself some Schnapps, the taste reminiscent of apricot-flavored floor polish, but any port in a storm. Darlene had only left an hour ago, accepting one of Charlotte’s scarves and another sandwich for Cassie before disappearing into the night.

Scoffing, Zelda reached for Charlotte’s drink. “And I’ve got a piece of the Brooklyn Bridge for sale, right out back. You can’t so much as buy me buttons without Fritz tagging along, thanks to your new boyfriend.” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “He has to keep tabs on everyone in your life! It’s like you’ve signed up for someone to dictate your every thought and action, although God knows why, but the rest of us still enjoy free will.”

“I’m glad I had Fritz this afternoon,” Charlotte admitted, sighing ruefully as she leaned back in her chair. “Besides, August really did request you—for some mysterious reason, probably to spite him.” Klaus and the Sturmbannführer were like oil and water, their interactions always tense and unpredictable. “What’s Klaus supposed to tell him, no? Your life really isn’t any of his business, which he does know. Regardless,” she added, “August outranks him.”

Zelda uttered a doubtful grunt. “Klaus is constantly in Voight’s office.”

“And you’re the expert on his schedule now?” Charlotte countered. “You’ve barely been there a week.” Although Klaus could be spending every afternoon with Voight for all she knew; he wasn’t exactly an open book. Not that, if she was being honest with herself, she really wanted to press him for details on his daily activities. The harder she fought against her forbidden feelings, the more they seemed to blossom—and the worse her guilt became. “The SD and the Gestapo are supposed to operate as a team,” she concluded, feeling inane. “The SD has no direct arrest powers.”

“Luckily for the resistance,” Zelda deadpanned, “they spend more time competing than actually cooperating.”

A fierce gust of wind assaulted the windowpane, its howl drowning out Charlotte’s thoughts. The rain had returned with a vengeance, pelting the glass in relentless waves. Each drop was heavy with the taste of brine, and carried a chill that penetrated her very bones. As she got up and walked over to the counter, she couldn’t shake the sensation that someone was lingering just out of sight; she turned, half-expecting to see Constance, only to be confronted with her friend’s empty chair. Its vacancy seemed to mock her, a silent accusation in the dimly lit room.

The lingering taste of the lukewarm chicken turned sour in her mouth, echoing the unsettling atmosphere in a house that felt almost as alien to her as Constance had become. Leaning against the counter, staring down at a bowl of mashed potatoes, she castigated herself for being such a coward. Her closest and oldest friend had left the house one morning, and someone else had come home in her place. Oh, she looked like Constance, but a stranger was staring back at her from behind those eyes and what had she done about that except hide?

She’d convinced herself that she had her own problems to deal with, hoping that whatever was troubling Constance would blow over. However, in the weeks since, things had only worsened. Constance, once known for her caustic humor, had transformed from a bright presence to a wraith who slinked off the moment Charlotte’s back was turned—and now, food from the crates Fritz brought over had begun disappearing without explanation. Apples, preserves, even the Dutch oven, all gone without a trace. She hesitated to say anything, for fear she’d only make matters worse, so instead she let Constance believe her actions had gone unnoticed.

Beyond the worry, Charlotte felt a deep sense of isolation. She couldn’t confide in Klaus; he’d undoubtedly take matters into his own hands, making the situation ten times worse. And what if Constance had become involved with the resistance, following in Zelda’s footsteps? Charlotte’s suspicions lingered as she glanced over at her sister, who was fidgeting with a fork. Sharing her concerns with Zelda might lighten the burden, but she was under Voight’s thumb at work and might let something slip the next time he provoked her.

“I’m not allowed to wear pants,” Zelda announced abruptly.

Charlotte’s head whipped around, her eyebrows shooting up in alarm. “What?”

Zelda couldn’t contain her grin as she nodded. “There’s a dress code,” she clarified, with an ill-suppressed laugh. “Skirts only, for the office girls—and below the knee, like we’re a pack of grandmothers!” She stuck her tongue out in a playful gesture before dropping her head to the table, mirth collapsing into defeat. “I don’t know why I’m complaining,” she mused, her voice muffled. “Sexist idiocy is, and I feel strange saying this, the least of my problems.”

Sitting back down, Charlotte listened to the rain drumming against the windowpane while Zelda absentmindedly traced the pattern on the tablecloth. “Your job seems to mostly involve bringing August his lunch and sulking,” she pointed out, her tone equable. “Which isn’t all that different from being a waitress. Except the Gestapo, unlike Marta, can cover payroll.”

Zelda let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders slumping with the weight of her thoughts. “I feel like a traitor.”

Charlotte’s heart ached for her sister, knowing that Zelda’s turmoil matched her own. Despite Voight leaving her no choice, Zelda couldn’t shake the guilt of being complicit in the oppressive machine steamrolling over the freedom she held so dear. Each day she spent as a cog, no matter how small, she became more and more the thing she hated. There were no words that could ease this burden, so Charlotte reached out and squeezed her hand.

The door creaked open, admitting Constance with a gust of rain-laden wind.

Zelda straightened in her seat. “Where have you been?”

“Out,” Constance replied curtly, shaking off her umbrella.

“Thanks for the detailed update,” Zelda retorted, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “I feel like I was there.”

Constance shot Zelda a venomous look.

Confusion furrowed Zelda’s brow. “What’d I do?”

But Constance only seized her plate, slamming it down on the table as peas leapt and scattered. Charlotte watched one roll onto the floor as her friend, once seated, shoveled in food with a mechanical intensity. Exchanging a glance with Zelda, she poured herself a third finger of Schnapps, the splash of liquid against glass too loud in the uneasy quiet. With each clink of silverware against porcelain, the the air seemed to grow more taut, until Charlotte’s nerves themselves felt like overstretched bowstrings. She was rambling before she knew it, desperate to diffuse this unknown crisis with inane stories about Marie-France and their sessions together and anything else she could think of that might convince them all that life was normal.

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“That’s our girl,” Constance interrupted acidly. “A real advocate for what matters.”

Charlotte blinked, unsure of how to respond, while Zelda looked skyward with exasperation. “You don’t have to talk about things, to care about them,” she chided. “But maybe you’d prefer to discuss the latest home invasion? That’s what I’m dealing with, at work. Four more people are dead.”

Constance’s jaw tightened but she didn’t respond, only stabbed more forcefully at her chicken.

The words caught in Charlotte’s throat as, slowly, she described their encounter with Darlene. “They only left here a little while ago,” she finished, sounding happier about that than she felt. “Fritz walked everyone home, then went back to the barracks.”

Constance’s tone, and expression, remained flat. “Oh.”

Charlotte pressed on. “He asked after you. He misses seeing you around.”

Zelda, grasping at the same straws, nodded a little too enthusiastically. “His English is amazing,” she gushed, with a forced smile. “Almost better than mine.”

Constance recoiled. “What does it matter?”

Zelda cocked her head, puzzled. “Because it’s cool?”

“His mother is from London,” Charlotte interjected hurriedly. “His father’s German but Fritz and his siblings were all born in the Sudetenland, which means that technically he’s Czech. Uwe, his father wanted his own farm, so he talked Martha into joining the resettlement program.”

“Generalplan Ost.” Constance spat the term like a curse.

“Fritz grew up drilling for raids,” Charlotte persisted, her voice strained with the effort of deflecting the building conflict. “Which is what made him think that this attack was random. He told me—

Constance’s snort felt like a slap. “I didn’t think your new friends allowed half-breeds.”

Zelda stiffened, her shock palpable. “Constance, are you serious?”

Constance’s eyes flashed and Charlotte instinctively tensed, bracing for a storm matching the one outside. Instead of shouting, though, Constance only slumped. “I had a bad day,” she muttered, her words dwindling into nothing as she studied her plate. Charlotte felt the strain in her shoulders ease; she’d almost allowed herself to believe that the worst was over when her friend emitted sardonic chuckle. “Not that you’d understand,” she clarified, her voice low and laced with contempt. “Miss I Sit Behind an Easel While the World Burns.”

Charlotte took a deep breath, refusing to be provoked. “What happened?”

Ignoring her like she hadn’t spoken, Constance swiveled her head toward Zelda. “Or you,” she scolded, “Miss My Biggest Problem Is How to Flash My Ass at My Important Boss.”

Zelda raised her hands in a placating gesture. “Whoa, back off. Nobody asked me if I wanted to work for the goddamn Gestapo. I’d love an excuse to quit, if you have any ideas.”

Constance gaped, incredulous. “Have you tried saying no? Or have you both forgotten that word?”

Judging from Zelda’s expression, Constance might as well have suggested flying to the moon with umbrellas as wings. “Do you know what happens when someone says no to August Voight?”

“Do you?” Constance shot back. “I saw Alex, and he told me what happened.”

“Cholera fried his brain.” Zelda wrapped her arms around herself protectively.

Her lip curling in a disdainful sneer, Constance shook her head. “Nothing you do should surprise me, at this point,” she sniffed. “You’ve always been a loose cannon, acting first and thinking later and who cares who gets hurt, so long as you’re having fun! But screwing around with the man who almost killed your ex? That’s a new low, Zelda, even for you.”

“Alex and I never technically dated,” Zelda faltered, her voice small.

Constance shoved the table forward with a primal scream, sending dishes crashing to the floor as her rage boiled over. The bottle of Schnapps exploded into smithereens, drenching Charlotte, but Constance either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. “You’re supposed to be the resistance!” she shrieked, jabbing a finger in Zelda’s face. “This madman beat Alex half to death with his bare fists, something apparently he’s infamous for doing! He held Alex’s head underwater after that, again and again, until he passed out! He whipped him with a bullwhip next and none of that’s a problem at all, but God forbid that anyone should use the wrong term to describe your fling!”

Zelda’s mouth worked, as she searched for the words to defend herself. “I didn’t have a choice!”

“There is always a choice!” Constance wiped Schnapps from her chin with a trembling hand, her chest heaving. “Alex is a good man, even if you can’t see that, and he deserves better than to be sold out when he’s no longer useful.” Then, deliberately, she faced Charlotte. “And you. You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Flaunting your little Nazi beau around like some sort of prize.”

Zelda swallowed. “I think it’s time for all of us to go to bed.”

Charlotte knelt and, not knowing what else to do, started stacking broken dishes. The silence stretched and, for a minute, she dared to hope that Constance was finally done. But instead of going upstairs, she started pacing. “Oh, Charlotte,” came the singsong ridicule. “You’re such a hopeless romantic, aren’t you? Falling head over heels for a man who gets off on oppressing your friends. You think those crisp uniforms make him some sort of gentleman? Wake up, sweetheart, Klaus is nothing but a cold-blooded killer in fancy dress. And you? You’re just another naïve little girl who’s fallen for the twisted charm of a fascist pig.”

Zelda gasped into the sudden silence.

Constance brought her foot down with a resounding blow and Charlotte flinched, slicing her thumb on a piece of glass. Blood welled out in a fat, glistening drop; she stared, transfixed, as shoes paced across the linoleum. “Do you honestly believe Klaus gives a damn about you? He’s a psychopath! He’s probably laughing behind your back while he goes about his day, rounding up Jews and Slavs and anyone else he doesn’t like and shipping them off to God knows where. But hey, as long as he gives you presents, right? You’re pathetic, Charlotte. Truly pathetic.”

A strangled sound escaped Charlotte’s lips, as her hands clenched helplessly in her lap. That was more than scorn in her friend’s voice, more even than disgust; that was hate. “People kill each other,” she mouthed, the words barely audible. “That’s what war is. On both sides.”

Picking up the Hummel that Oma Jeanette had brought from Lindau, a smiling shepherd girl, she smashed it into the wall. “You’re nothing but his little whore! Opening your legs for him while he’s out there terrorizing innocent people!” She frowned at Charlotte, as though unsure of what she was seeing. “Do you get off on his brutality?” There was no heat left in her tone, only disbelieving curiosity. “Or are you just too spineless to stand up for what’s right?”

Zelda’s slap reverberated throughout the room, a sharp crack that sounded like a gunshot. Constance’s head snapped to the side as she staggered, reeling from the impact. Slowly, she straightened, her eyes glittering with malice as she touched her cheek. A cold smile curled her lips as she nodded, almost in approval. “You’re a good student. Voight would be proud.”

Charlotte felt as though she stood at the edge of an abyss, watching helplessly as the person she loved vanished before her eyes. With each fresh denunciation the chasm between them widened, until the shattered remnants of their evening matched the shards of her decimated trust. Constance’s words were like daggers, each syllable delivering a pain so searing it almost had a taste.

Looking her up and down, Constance seemed almost smug. “I’m glad your father isn’t here,” she gloated. “So he can’t see what you’ve become.”

And Charlotte, in that moment, felt something within her snap. Standing, she wiped her hands on her skirt, leaving a vermillion smear across the threadbare cotton. “So I’m supposed to feel guilt,” she reasoned, her voice deceptively soft. “Is that it? My father is dead, and I’m supposed to bring him back. My friends are dead, too, and I’m supposed to bring them back—along with everyone else trapped under the rubble, or charred to ash, or clogging the storm drains. Wave a magic wand,” she suggested, with a sweeping wave. “Make everything like it was before.”

Constance’s expression faltered, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. “I didn’t mean that,” she replied shakily.

Charlotte’s lips firmed into a thin line, a silent challenge in her gaze. Her whole body shook with the effort of keeping her fury in check, but her voice remained eerily calm. “No,” she agreed. “You mean that I’m supposed to die, to prove how sorry I am. Men go to war and whatever atrocities they commit, however they abase themselves, they’re celebrated for being tough enough to survive. They get counseling, clubs, parades.” An image of her father’s face, warm and kind, flashed in her mind; then she saw him lying in his casket, not the man who’d raised her but a crudely molded waxwork. “Klaus is going to do whatever he’s going to do, you sanctimonious hypocrite, with or without me. And he is one of thousands. If I broke things off with him tomorrow, tell me, would he and the rest of the Reich pack up and go home?”

Constance bit a quavering lip. “We’re supposed to be family.”