Charlotte grappled with her painting, her arms barely able to reach around its massive width. She’d arrogantly stretched the canvas to grandiose proportions, envisioning a masterpiece that now seemed more like a cumbersome burden. Barely able to lift it, she felt like she was dragging a door down the drive—one that also quite effectively blocked her view. As the merciless midday sun beat down on her, adding insult to injury, each step felt like a precarious dance with disaster. She was cursing herself for the fool she was when her foot caught on a loose stone, sending her careening forward. With a yelp, she braced for impact with the gravel and instead felt a pair of strong hands encircle her waist and pull her back from the brink.
The painting fell face down with a soft thud as she whirled around, as if expressing its own chagrin at being forgotten.
“Madame, are you alright?” A voice, polite but insistent, broke through her daze.
She glanced up, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the man standing before her. He was tall and imposing, his uniform pristine against the backdrop of the sun-drenched street. She forced herself to meet his dark brown eyes, her own filled with wary suspicion. “I’m fine, thank you,” she replied tersely, wrapping her arms around herself in a protective gesture.
“You almost took a tumble,” he said, sounding concerned. He gestured to her fallen prize. “May I help you with that?”
She hesitated, then nodded curtly. “Alright.”
As he bent down to retrieve the fallen artwork, she couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that washed over her. Her eyes traced the elegant arc of his movement, noting the fluid grace with which he stooped and the lithe strength in his frame. With each motion, he exuded a quiet confidence, his every gesture seeming to command attention. He could’ve stepped straight out of Hollywood, she thought, but beneath the charm lay a coldness that made her throat close up. She knew the mask could crumble in an instant, revealing the true face behind those handsome features.
One misstep, and it would.
He brushed at the painting with his hand, his presumptuousness setting her teeth on edge. The fact that he’d taken over her city didn’t grant him the right to touch her belongings, regardless of his rank—and he was some kind of officer, according to the silver braid on his cap. The infernal skull and crossbones above it gave her more than enough information, about him and what he stood for. “Oh, no,” he said sadly. “So much dirt.”
She fought to keep her tone neutral. “I can clean it.”
He began to study her paintings, each one in turn. She’d been bringing them outside to cure when she’d tripped, figuring she might as well make some use of this infernal heat. His expression was intent as he moved from canvas to canvas, as though he knew what he was looking at. She wondered if he’d ever been inside a museum, the thug, or even knew what one was. After what felt like forever, he straightened. “Your work is quite remarkable,” he said, breaking the silence.
Caught off guard, she stiffened. “They’re just paintings.”
He watched her from underneath his cap, with those features that could’ve been carved from marble. “I beg to differ.” His voice was soft. “Your technique is impressive, of course, but that can be taught. You have something else, something more.” He smiled, then, although there was little warmth in the gesture. “There’s a sense of wonder, here, of life.”
She bristled; she didn’t want his compliments. “I paint what I see.”
He nodded, unperturbed by her sharp tone. “And what do you see, madame?”
Her gaze flickered to the portrait of her sister, Zelda, who thank God was at work. “The truth.”
His expression turned thoughtful, as he took in this statement. “Have you painted the Führer?”
“No.” She presumed he meant the new Führer, the one installed after Hitler’s death, she wasn’t about to ask. She couldn’t be any ruder, not without risking arrest, but she wanted him to take the hint.
“A shame.” He shrugged.
He might be oblivious to their respective positions, or pretending to be, but she wasn’t. Despite the ease with which he carried himself, there was an unmistakable aura of command about him; this was a man who liked getting what he wanted. Her pulse quickened, knowing the risk she was taking, but she forced herself to maintain a veneer of calm. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice steady but laced with tension. “I’m afraid that I have to get back to my studio.”
“Yes, of course.” He hesitated, his gaze lingering on her. “Madame?”
She felt a thrill of fear. “Yes?”
“Might I have your name?” His tone was polite but, even so, she knew that this wasn’t a request.
Soldiers had the right to ask for identification at any time and the SS, in particular, was always bothering people. Reaching into a pocket, she produced a small folder and handed it to him. “I’m registered,” she said, acutely aware of their isolation in the deserted street and praying that he wasn’t about to demand more. Any potential witnesses were at work, or dead.
Accepting her identification, he studied it intently. “Charlotte Wahl,” he read aloud. “What a pretty name.” His eyes flicked up to meet hers. “Born in 1973. That would make you twenty-one,” he added, in his stilted English. “Considering that it is now 1994.” He frowned, his expression thoughtful. “Young to live alone. Do you share your home with siblings? Parents?”
She swallowed, feeling her blood run cold. “What does it matter?”
“Because I wish for us to know each other better,” he replied smoothly.
“I don’t,” she shot back, her resolve hardening.
His eyes widened, but then the pleasant façade returned. “I apologize,” he said, his gaze intent under the shade of his cap. “I am, I fear, being rude.” Drawing himself up, he held out his hand in an oddly formal gesture. “Please, allow me to present myself. My name is Klaus Dassel. Hauptsturmführer Klaus Dassel. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
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“I don’t need to know your name,” she insisted.
“But you do,” he countered. He gestured to the house across the street. The Excelsior Estate loomed behind a high wall, its gothic architecture casting a pall over their conversation. “I am moving in next week,” he continued. “You and I, Fräulein Wahl, are about to be neighbors.”
She fought back a sob. “So you’ve just commandeered the place.”
He hesitated, a shadow of uncertainty crossing his features for the first time. “I understood the Excelsior Estate to be unoccupied. Is this not in fact the case?”
It was unoccupied, she wanted to shout at him, because everyone who’d lived there had starved to death. She took a deep, shuddering breath instead. “Are you done with my identification?”
He returned it to her without a word, his expression inscrutable.
She stared at him, in wordless challenge.
Touching the brim of his cap, he nodded. “You have obligations. I know.”
“Goodbye,” she said firmly.
Somewhere, a bird chirped.
He favored her with another one of those unsettling smiles. “I look forward to seeing you again, soon.”
Her studio had once been the garage, hidden behind the main house like a secret sanctuary. Each step back to its comforting confines felt like a marathon, every tortured breath echoing the dread that consumed her. She forced herself to maintain a steady pace, resisting the urge to break into a panicked run. As she pushed open the creaking door, a shaft of pale light spilled onto the concrete, illuminating the space. Her easel stood in the center, a silent witness to her struggles and aspirations. She couldn’t bear to face her own unfinished creations, not right now; the canvases littering the room felt like ghosts of her artistic dreams.
Ascending the stairs to the cozy living area above, she found a semblance of solace amidst the familiar surroundings. The warmth of the overlapping rugs beneath her feet and the comforting presence of her own belongings offered a fleeting sense of security in the midst of chaos. Glancing out the window, she caught sight of Dassel still lingering on the sidewalk below, a sinister figure silhouetted against the fading light. Their eyes met briefly before she leapt back.
She contemplated hiding in the bathroom, locking herself away from the looming threat outside. Instead, with trembling hands, she reached for the bottle of vodka, seeking relief in its numbing embrace. The sharp burn of the liquid did little to quell the rising tide of despair that threatened to engulf her, however; tears welled up in her eyes, cascading down her cheeks in silent torrents as she crumbled against the wall, consumed by desolation. She should’ve known; they all should’ve known that the evil empire would one day come knocking.
Drawing a shaky breath, she brushed away the tears with the back of her hand, her mind wandering down the dark corridors of uncertainty and fear. The Reich’s suffocating control had cast a shadow over their lives, forcing them into a desperate struggle against tyranny and oppression. If only fate had taken a different turn—if President Roosevelt hadn’t been assassinated—if America had heeded the call to arms in the forties, the world might now be a peaceful place.
She found herself ensnared in a relentless cycle of what-ifs, unable to escape the haunting allure of speculative thoughts. Despite the warnings from others, she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that history might’ve taken a different course. They cautioned her against dwelling on the past, insisting that the Reich’s victory had been inevitable—the culmination of a relentless war machine that’d spread over the world like a plague. Yet, she found herself captivated by a divergent path, where hope might’ve triumphed over despair. Everyone spoke of Hitler’s regime with a mixture of dread and awe, highlighting technological marvels that bordered on the realm of sorcery. War didn’t improve economies, they said, the Great Depression would’ve gotten worse. Better to focus on their own struggles; Hitler didn’t want America, regardless.
What a laugh.
The seismic shock of Hitler’s demise in 1972, a man who’d menaced the world like a dark specter, reverberated through the nation’s consciousness. Yet, despite the foreboding whispers of potential invasion swirling among the corridors of power in Washington, the President summarily dismissed them as preposterous. The idea of full-scale war, especially on American soil, remained inconceivable. However, as container ships vanished without a trace and rumors of sabotage circulated, the President stubbornly insisted these were mere accidents, refusing to acknowledge the looming threat. But the President was wrong. The Reich’s invasion of California rocked Charlotte’s world when she was just in middle school, plunging her into a nightmare.
She wiped her nose on her apron, casting a weary gaze around the room. The bedlam that’d ensued when the first boats landed in Long Beach left everyone stunned and unprepared. California fell swiftly, followed by Arizona, while life in Boston carried on as if the events on the distant coast were inconsequential. Her neighbors all seemed convinced that vast expanse of America shielded them from the encroaching darkness. Even her father, the smartest man she knew, clung to the belief that the Reich’s appetite for conquest would be surely sated by the West Coast. The notion of tanks traversing the unforgiving desert, after all, was preposterous at best.
Texas sued for peace when she was in high school.
It was a jarring wake-up call, transforming war from an abstract threat she heard about on the news to the ravening wolf on her doorstep. But before she could process what was even happening, the Reich invaded again—this time landing in Delaware, and a week later in Maine. By the time she started college, still reeling from the shock, the relentless march of war was as familiar as her own heartbeat.
Then, last July, she’d woken to the grim news of battleships looming at the mouth of Boston Harbor. Rebuffing the President’s desperate pleas for peace, the Führer ordered a blockade. The siege, however, didn’t escalate in earnest until the fall. By then, with nothing coming in or out of once bustling Mystic Seaport, the shelves were bare and desperation set in. Cancer medications vanished first, followed by penicillin. By Christmas, the value of ibuprofen surpassed that of a Rolex—yet the escalating scarcity paled in comparison to the brutality unfolding on the streets, where survival was measured in cans of beans and people were stabbing each other for scraps. By March, Charlotte’s family had dwindled down to a mere two.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she wiped her nose on the back of her hand, the lingering aura of fear and desperation permeating the air around her. The mere thought of beans made her stomach growl, a grim reminder of her and her sister’s meager existence in the gloom of their Nazi-occupied world. It’d taken decades, but now Charlotte found herself with a Nazi for a neighbor. His robust appearance stood in stark contrast to the fate of his new home’s previous residents, who’d been too old and feeble to endure the hardships Charlotte faced—although she’d tried to share what food she could scrounge, with them, when she could.
She’d had her sister to think of, too. Together, she and Zelda had fought tooth and nail to survive the siege, resorting to extreme measures to stave off hunger. The memory of rats scurrying in the darkness haunted her, their sharp little teeth gnawing at her resolve. It was astonishing what a person could learn to consider as food. Desperation had driven them to cook the vermin on the burner, their squeals of agony echoing in the once warm and happy confines of their kitchen.
Things were better now, if not much.
With a sigh, she rose from her makeshift seat on the floor, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on her weary shoulders. Stretching out the kinks of tension, she couldn’t shake the fear that Dassel’s visit had instilled. Another day outlasted, but tomorrow promised more of the same.
With a determined exhale, she wiped away the last traces of tears and set about fixing herself a simple meal, the ritual of survival grounding her in the present moment. As she took each deliberate step, a quiet resolve settled within her, a silent promise to persevere despite the odds stacked against her. By the time she mustered the courage to peek outside once more, the once bustling street lay deserted, the stillness of the night whispering secrets of what the future might hold.