Charlotte twisted her hands in her lap as they sped down the lonesome ribbon of road, wondering where she was headed. Klaus had shown up an hour before, roaring up her driveway and sending Marie-France running. This was a different car than he’d picked her up in, the night of the infamous dinner dance; a futuristic pod that in her panic she’d mistaken for a starship, as she leapt from her easel, it’d turned out to be a Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing. Bundling her into it, over her objections, Klaus had ordered Marie-France in no uncertain terms to go home. Something was wrong, that much was clear, but he hadn’t volunteered and Charlotte knew better than to ask questions—including about how she was supposed to make this slight up to her client.
“What happens if it rolls over?” she asked, trying to mask her fear. “There’s no escape.”
Klaus drove like a maniac at the best of times, but his knuckles were white and his jaw set as he did easily double the speed limit. “Explosive bolts on the hinges,” he replied, glancing at her.
“This car blows up?” she squeaked.
But he only shifted gears, and didn’t respond.
The countryside spread around them, fields of rapidly maturing crops lush under the brilliant sun. Chickens fled the road as cows chewed their cud, watching this new and strange creature speed past. She should’ve been happy, out here with her boyfriend in such an idyllic setting, but a gnawing sense of dread coiled in her stomach. It wasn’t just Klaus’s tight grip on the wheel or the way his knuckles turned white—it was the tension radiating off him, palpable and suffocating.
“Klaus,” she ventured, “you still haven’t told me—
He slammed his hand down. “You’re not safe!”
Startled by his sudden outburst, she recoiled, her heart hammering against her ribs. Klaus’s eyes burned with a fierce intensity, his jaw clenched so tightly she feared his teeth might shatter. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him so agitated, so uncharacteristically volatile. “I was in the middle of a session,” she began, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Marie-France—
“To hell with Marie-France!” he snapped, his voice raw with emotion. “Bill Smith is targeting women who...” His words faltered, a pained expression crossing his face as he swallowed hard. “I understand his issue with the soldiers themselves,” he continued, his tone softer now, tinged with regret. “But these women did nothing wrong, and their children certainly didn’t.”
She knew about the attacks, everyone did, but fear couldn’t make a person stop living; she’d learned that, during the invasion. “I thought that was what Fritz was for,” she commented, trying to lighten the mood. “Bessie, too, she’s big and frightening, at least to the raccoons.”
Klaus glanced at her. “I’d be with you, if I could.”
“I’m fine,” she reminded him.
“What would’ve happened this weekend,” he pressed, “if you’d been alone?”
“The Gestapo is working with the local police,” she pointed out, more to reassure herself than him.
“August is as useful as a screen door on a submarine,” Klaus griped. “He should stick to playing politics and counting his precious pennies, the wastrel, and leave the real work to those of us with the stomach for it.”
“Advice I’m sure you shared,” she deadpanned.
Klaus’s snort came with a self-deprecating shake of the head. “He thinks I’m such a zealot, Lottie, and too simple-minded to grasp that serial killers are more dangerous than men with ideological failings. And I am difficult, I know that.” He stole another look at her, his expression softened by a rare hint of vulnerability. “But I love you. So I went straight from his office to mine, grabbed the car, and informed Heinz that he was covering my afternoon meetings. Because I’m teaching you how to shoot.”
“What?” Charlotte reared back, mortified. “No!”
“Yes.” Klaus’s tone was resolute.
A pair of boys with fishing poles paused in their tracks, one of them pointing in curiosity. The sleek car stood as a testament to its owner, its elegant exterior concealing something far more potent. Klaus had just confessed his love for her, yet it felt like a declaration tossed into the wind, lost in the vast expanse of their differences. She wanted to respond, to articulate the tangle of emotions within her, but the no words seemed adequate. She cared deeply for him, but the chasm between their worlds sometimes felt insurmountable. “I don’t think I can,” she admitted softly.
He fell silent until they reached a vast field, where unmown grass swayed gently in the breeze. As she struggled to extricate herself from the car, he popped open the trunk. Then, leaving her there, he trudged off to set up a target. She was still straightening her skirt when he returned, her gaze fixed on him with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. From the holster on his belt, he retrieved a rugged-looking firearm, its dull metal surface catching the light. “This is a Luger Parabellum,” he announced, his tone businesslike.
Some couples, she reflected ruefully, might’ve chosen this serene spot for a leisurely picnic.
“A Luger is a kind of pistol,” he told her, dropping into teacher mode. “This particular Luger is a recoil-operated semi-automatic pistol with an eight-round capacity, but what makes it unique—and what makes it a Luger—is this.” He demonstrated. “A toggle-lock action that uses a jointed arm to lock the weapon, as opposed to a sliding action.”
Nodding, she guessed that she’d understood about five words.
“Most other semi-automatic pistols use a sliding action,” he added, “including my own service pistol.”
She bit her lip in consternation. “How many guns do you have?”
“The Walther,” he continued, not answering, “is far less complicated. This matters to a soldier in theater, as he has to fieldstrip and clean his gun during battle. Home defense doesn’t present the same adverse conditions, and the Luger is much easier to aim and fire. It also has a lighter recoil.”
She blinked at him, incredulous. “So if someone breaks into the house I’m supposed to, what? Shoot them?”
“Yes,” he replied emotionlessly.
“No!” she cried, appalled.
“You can move in with me, then, and I’ll shoot them,” he offered, only half-jokingly.
“I can’t do that, either!” she protested vehemently.
He studied her from the shade of his cap, his expression a mixture of bemusement and curiosity. “Why not?”
They’d had this conversation before. “Because it’s too soon,” she repeated.
“Then take your new gun,” he said, extending it towards her. “I want to see how it fits in your hand.”
It felt cold, but somehow alive. He showed her how to hold the grip, which was walnut, lecturing her on what he called safe gun handling before moving on to the mechanics of what made it fire. There were too many rules to ever remember, but most of them seemed like rewordings of the same basic idea: never point a gun at anything she didn’t intend to kill.
“Remember,” he reiterated, his voice firm, “keep your finger outside the trigger guard, and always point the muzzle in a safe direction.” Demonstrating with precision, he pressed a small release button, ejecting the magazine. “This being a semi-automatic pistol, it’s important to check for bullets in the magazine.” He paused, emphasizing the gravity of his next point. “But even after removing the magazine, we must verify if there’s a round in the chamber. Every time. No exceptions.” Guiding her actions, he instructed her to pull the bolt back, prompting her to inspect inside. “Now,” he resumed, “let’s learn how to load the magazine.”
But Charlotte remained paralyzed, teetering between doubt over whether she wanted to pursue this path and fear that she might have to.
He relaxed his features, a hint of sympathy creeping into his gaze. “The woman who died last week, I knew her. Because, as her husband’s commanding officer, I had to give permission for them to marry. We met once at the interview,” he continued, “and again at the wedding.” He reached out, his hand briefly touching her shoulder, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of the situation. “He was on duty that night, and she was alone. She might have survived, if she’d known how to defend herself.”
“I don’t understand this.” Charlotte stared at the gun, torn between fear and frustration. “I know I’m supposed to, but I don’t.”
A shadow passed over his face. “Women pay for the sins of men.”
With a deep breath, she loaded the magazine.
He stood behind her, hands on her hips, guiding her into position. Then, placing his hands over hers, he showed her how to aim. “The toggle action gives it a straight pull,” he explained, “making operation very quick. You can shoot a high-powered cartridge with a small hand.”
She focused intently, determination replacing her initial hesitation.
“In a true combat situation,” he continued matter-of-factly, “you have to act before you have a chance to think. Even so, the challenge isn’t aiming but committing.” Stepping back, he gestured towards the target. “Now, give it a shot.”
As she squeezed the trigger, a sharp recoil jolted through her arms, causing her to emit a startled cry.
Quickly, he steadied her stance. “Again,” he urged, his voice calm and encouraging.
He didn’t allow her to pause until the gun was empty, guiding her through relentless instructions. “Ensure the barrel is clear before reloading, especially with a Luger,” he emphasized. “And if the gun fails to fire, maintain your shooting position for several seconds before unloading.”
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A shell casing bounced off her forehead, prompting another startled shriek. “This is a waste of ammunition,” she declared, exhausted and sore. “I need a break.” Despite her modesty about her marksmanship, she had managed to hit the target a couple of times, relying mostly on luck. But the sheer volume of rounds she’d fired made it feel like thousands, and the ground around her sparkled with spent cartridges.
Crossing his arms, Klaus fixed her with a determined look. “We’re doing this again.”
In response, she handed him the gun. “Your turn.”
“My turn?” he echoed, taken aback.
Her tone was prim. “The teacher should prove himself to the student.”
Surprised but pleased by her challenge, Klaus racked the toggle back, meticulously checking the chamber before reloading the magazine. He fired off eight rounds in rapid succession, hitting the target dead center each time. She assumed he’d finished, but instead of holstering his gun, he repeated the entire procedure with effortless precision—this time with his left hand. Splinters of plywood flew in all directions as his aim remained unwavering.
“Wow,” she breathed, genuinely impressed.
Klaus grinned in satisfaction, relishing the moment of connection.
Even in the late afternoon, the July sun maintained its strength. She sought refuge under a nearby tree, its branches offering a cool respite. Stretching out on the ground, she relished the gentle tickle of clover against her skin as a faint breeze whispered through the leaves. The earth exuded its comforting aroma and she closed her eyes, breathing it in. Klaus settled beside her and, for a while, they were content simply to find solace in each others’ presence.
“When did you learn to shoot?” she inquired eventually, breaking the tranquil silence.
“At six,” he said, his tone casual, as if discussing the most mundane of topics.
She blinked, astonished by his nonchalant response. “Six?”
The faintest ghost of a smile curved his lips. “My father taught me.”
Her mind raced at the revelation that Klaus’s father had been teaching him how to soldier at the same age she’d been hosting tea parties for stuffed animals; the greatest danger she’d encountered in kindergarten was mismatched cups and saucers. Oma Jeanette had howled when she’d walked too fast with scissors, and she’d raised Charlotte to abhor violence. She wondered, and not for the first time, what his childhood had really been like—and how had someone who so obviously saw the beauty in the world had gotten tangled up with the SS.
As she gazed at him, she found herself drawn to his commanding presence and to the enigma that it represented. The shadow cast by his visor added an air of mystery to his features, hinting at unknown depths. Beneath his meticulously tailored uniform, with its polished insignia, was someone who hid from the world. “Does it bother you,” she probed, “always being in uniform?”
He shrugged. “I’ve worn a uniform since I joined the Hitlerjugend, at ten. I feel strange in anything else.”
Delving into his past might expose her own fears, but facing the truth was the only path forward; for this relationship to have a chance, she had to be honest and so did he. So, steeling herself, she forged on. “When did you first shoot someone?”
“If you mean kill,” he answered, his voice slow and hesitant, “I was eighteen. And it wasn’t with a gun.”
She waited, sensing that this was uncharted territory for him.
“I served in Das Reich.” His gaze was distant, as he reflected. “In the 1st Battalion of the Deutschland Regiment. All able-bodied men are required to enlist, but I could’ve spent two years pushing papers somewhere.” He barked a short, mirthless laugh. “I have connections.”
Understanding, she nodded. “You wanted to prove yourself.”
He picked a blade of grass, twirling it in his fingers. “Deutschland held the line at Kursk, in 1943. That was a turning point, not just for us but for the entire Eastern Front. The Soviets threw everything they had at us, tanks, planes, you name it.” His frown deepened. “We fought tooth and nail, defending every inch of soil. The odds were overwhelming but we were determined, united in our purpose. The camaraderie among the men, the sense of duty, it’s what kept them going. And what kept us going,” he finished quietly, “in California.”
All she’d learned about California could be encapsulated in a few old news reels. “It must’ve been terrifying.”
“Terrifying,” he agreed, “but also exhilarating. In the chaos of battle, you find clarity.” He looked up. “You discover what you’re truly made of—and the importance of fighting for something greater than yourself.”
“And what was that,” she asked, “for you?”
“Brotherhood.” Still holding the blade of grass, he laid back and stared up at the clouds. “We were the first to land at Long Beach and, like the idiot I was, I dropped my rifle. So there I am, searching through hip deep mud in fog almost as thick when he materializes out of nowhere. Then, somehow, we’re on the ground and he’s drowning me in this sludge. I feel his fingers digging into my neck and, suddenly, I feel my own closing over this rock.”
Even knowing Klaus had survived, Charlotte felt her throat close with nervous tension.
“I manage to hit him with it, but he barely notices. He’s got his knife free now, I realize, then we’re wrestling again and somehow I get control of the thing. I still don’t know how,” he mused, almost wonderingly. “I stab him again and again, I can taste his blood mingling with the rain.”
As the last words faded from his lips, a new silence settled between them, filled only with the susurrus of waving grass and the distant droning of bees. She moved closer to him, her hand touching his in a gesture of comfort. He turned his head, his gaze searching hers for any sign of judgment or rejection. Instead, she leaned down and kissed him. His lips were cool against hers, his response hesitant but hopeful as the tension that’d gripped him began to unravel.
He pulled her down beside him, his embrace a wordless plea for reassurance and acceptance. She stroked his cheek, her head against his arm, feeling a rush of tenderness and empathy for the terrified teenager whose memory he’d entrusted to her care. And he, for the first time in a long time, allowed himself to simply be held. “I want you to feel safe with me,” he murmured.
She plucked a second blade of grass, and tied it into a bow. “I do.”
Propping himself up on an elbow, he fixed her with that searching look again. “Are you happy?”
“Yes,” she faltered, “but….”
His expression clouded. “But what?”
But words, once again, were utterly inadequate. “It doesn’t matter.”
He took her hand. “Tell me.”
It was a request, not a command, although in the end that didn’t matter. He’d been open with her, and she owed him no less. But the truth still tasted like ashes. “Constance hates me,” she confessed.
Klaus sighed. “No,” he said heavily. “She doesn’t.”
Charlotte wondered if his opinion would change, if he knew the names Constance had called her. Some things she really couldn’t share, though, because he was difficult. That he recognized his baser impulses wouldn’t stop him from acting on them. So, instead, she picked his cap up from where it’d fallen and studied the grinning Totenkopf. “She said that I’d become a stranger.”
Running his thumb over the back of her hand, he pondered her words. “It’s always been fashionable,” he said eventually, “to criticize women for choosing the wrong men. If he’s poor, she lacks ambition, but if he’s rich, she’s a parasite. If he’s attractive, she’s shallow, but if he’s unattractive, her standards are too low and she should think more highly of herself.”
She laced her fingers through his. “And if he’s a soldier?”
“Nothing stopped Constance from enlisting,” he pointed out, “on her own side.”
“What about the men who attacked Darlene?” she asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Is beating women in the street also fighting for a good cause?”
“In their own twisted fashion,” he suggested. “They sacrificed everything, their dreams, their futures, even their very lives, defending what they believed to be their home. Their blood is in this soil. And for what? In the end, they were left with nothing but shattered dreams and broken spirits.”
Outrage swelled in her chest. “Darlene’s never so much as stepped on an ant.”
“Men like them,” he began, “are humiliated by their own impotence. Which isn’t a justification for their actions, mind you,” he added firmly, “but rather an observation about their twisted mindset. They cloak their chauvinism in the guise of moral outrage, attacking what they perceive as a threat to their masculinity. Yet in doing so, they reveal their own weakness and insecurity—and had better hope they never cross paths with any real men.”
“The resistance could do a lot more harm, attacking a barracks.” Charlotte’s tone was thoughtful.
“And in some places, it is.” Sliding his hand down her back, Klaus moved it underneath her shirt.
She stiffened, a thrill of apprehension shooting up her spine. Their encounter at The Country Club had been spontaneous, fueled by adrenaline and desire, but this was different. In the cool of the shade, his breath tickling her skin, she had time to think about how inexperienced she was.
Sensing her sudden nervousness, he paused. “What?”
She averted her gaze, her face on fire from embarrassment. “The other night…was the first time I’ve done more than kiss someone.”
He threw back his head and laughed.
“We’re not all adventurous,” she scolded, indignant.
“I’d like to return the favor,” he encouraged, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I don’t mind waiting.”
“Good,” she replied, giggling in spite of herself. “Because cows are prudes.”
“I don’t want to upset the cows,” he acknowledged, with mock gravity, before his tone turned serious. “Or you.”
Leaning back slightly, she settled more comfortably against him. His uniform had a lot of sharp parts, which made that hard, but the hands around her waist were gentle. “What was your first time like?” she queried. “You’ve undoubtedly had dozens of lovers.”
“Not dozens,” he corrected her, somewhat chagrined. “But a few. And my first time was…clumsy.” His chuckle was tinged with self-mockery. “We—dated is not the right term. We were friendly, although she found me indescribably dull, and united in our desperation not to be virgins.”
“How romantic!” Charlotte teased.
“My first true lover was the wife of another officer,” he remarked. “She was bored, and wanted someone to entertain her. She was an excellent teacher, and I like to think I was at least an adequate student. We parted amicably, in the end. Neither of us wanted more than the other could give.”
There was genuine warmth in his voice, at the mention of this mystery woman, and also a strange sort of detachment. She didn’t care, honestly, how many women he’d slept with, but she ventured the next question cautiously. “Have you ever been in love?”
“With someone other than you, you mean?” He shook his head, a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips. “You?”
“No,” she conceded, her fingers tracing patterns on his uniform sleeve. “How’s the life of a soldier?”
He took the change of subject in stride. “Stressful. And the life of an artist?”
She groaned, discouraged with her own failure. “Michelangelo said once that the truest work of art is but a shadow of divine perfection. He talked about not creating it, but liberating it from stone or canvas or whatever, and I can’t! No matter how hard I try, this portrait just isn’t quite right.”
“Music expresses that which cannot be said,” he quoted, “and on which it is impossible to be silent. That’s Victor Hugo. I suspect, having spent considerable time now in your studio, that the same thought can be applied to all forms of art. The true struggle here isn’t with your materials, but against yourself. You’ll remain unsatisfied, long after everyone else is.”
Sitting up, she tried on his cap. “You might be right.”
“Then again,” he remarked dispassionately, “the difficulty here might simply be finding beauty in Marie-France.”