Constance wiped a bead of sweat from her brow, longing for the cool relief of air conditioning. But at least the atmosphere inside Sage’s was pleasant, a welcome change from the stifling heat outside. And she was going shopping! It’d been months since she’d last had the opportunity. Even before the stores closed, the shelves had been bare, devoid of any fresh produce or essential items.

As she perused the meager offerings, her heart lifted at the sight of cucumbers and carrots, albeit slightly wilted and undersized. Food was slowly making its way back into the stores, and they were a hopeful sign amidst the sea of cans and boxes. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of excitement, mixed with apprehension, as she contemplated the strange brands with their foreign labels. Learning enough German to read them was a daunting task, and she seethed at the necessity of it, this latest burden thrust upon her by her new overlords.

Glancing at the other customers, she forced a brittle smile onto her lips; she should be grateful for the food and who cared where it came from, but dark thoughts brewed like tempests inside her skull. She loathed the thugs who’d brought her world to its knees, and the collaborators who’d averted their gaze from their atrocities, but most of all she detested herself for losing control. She’d crossed a line, tearing into Charlotte like a frenzied beast—but she couldn’t shake the searing fury coursing through her veins, the sense of shock that her best friend would be so morally bankrupt, the gnawing frustration that she alone saw the danger lurking beneath Klaus’s beguiling veneer. Why couldn’t Charlotte understand what was so glaringly obvious?

Someone tapped her on the shoulder and she whirled around, heart hammering, before laughing in nervous relief; it was only Meg, the stock girl. “Hi,” she said shakily. “You startled me.”

But Meg didn’t return her greeting. Instead, her lips pressed into a tight line, a furrow deepening between her brows. “Put the food back,” she demanded, her tone sharp yet strained. “Please.”

Constance looked down at her eggplant, trying to process what she’d just heard. “Is it rotten?”

Meg hesitated, her fingers twitching nervously. “It’s…the eggplant’s fine,” she stammered.

“What’s going on?” Constance asked, worried.

Meg took a shaky breath, her cheeks flushed with discomfort. “I’m sorry, but….” Her eyes darted toward her manager. “You have to leave,” she finished, finding her conviction.

The words hit Constance like a slap, her voice rising in disbelief. “Leave?”

Meg reached out and grabbed her precious produce. “We don’t serve your kind.”

Constance recoiled, her stomach dropping as a whirlwind of emotions swept through her. The familiar surroundings of the store suddenly felt hostile and unwelcoming, and a surge of indignation overcame her searing hurt. With steely resolve, she squared her shoulders. “My kind?” she repeated, her gaze boring into the other woman. “What kind is that?”

An uneasy silence hung between them, broken only by the distant hum of refrigeration units. Meg’s jaw clenched, and her eyes narrowed in disgust. “You know what kind.”

Constance did, but she wouldn’t let this spineless coward break her spirit. “Where,” she grated, “am I supposed to shop?”

“You’re not starving,” Meg snapped, glaring at her former friend as though she’d been caught red-handed stealing panties. Even so, in Meg’s eyes Constance saw the truth: the other woman was scared. She didn’t want this fight, but Klaus and his cronies were hardly welcome in polite society.

Still, the answer wasn’t regressing to separate drinking fountains—or becoming a puppet of anyone’s system, blindly following orders without questioning their morality. “Charlotte’s done nothing wrong,” she stated firmly, acutely aware of what a hypocrite that statement made her. “And I’ve shopped here since I was a child. Now, let’s forget this nonsense.”

Meg’s eyes flashed. “Shop wherever Charlotte shops.”

Constance’s fingers dug into the eggplant, her knuckles turning white with the force of her grip. She couldn’t let go—not now, not when this simple vegetable felt like her last tether to the life she once knew. But Meg wasn’t backing down either, her own hands clutching the other end of the eggplant with a surprising strength. Their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills, the air crackling with tension as humiliation surged within her, fueling her defiance. This wasn’t just about an eggplant—it was about everything she’d lost, everything she refused to surrender.

The manager, Liz, strode over; her grip was firm as she forced Constance back. “Stop giving Meg a hard time.”

Constance almost collapsed from shock as Meg stole the prize from her nerveless fingers. “Stop giving her a hard time?”

Liz jabbed a finger at her basket. “Just give me that, and get out.”

“You’re all screwing murderers!” Meg spat, brandishing the eggplant at her.

“I’m not!” Constance roared, her voice filled with righteous anger. “Now, as God is my witness, give me that stupid thing or—

“What?” Liz challenged. “You’ll turn us in?”

Constance gasped, appalled at the suggestion. “I would never.”

Liz wrenched her basket from her hands. “My son died, in the Battle of Boston Harbor.”

Hearing those words, Constance’s heart plummeted, a crushing weight pressing down on her chest as a profound sense of alienation enveloped her. It felt as if the ground had crumbled beneath her feet, leaving her suspended in a void of isolation and despair. Looking around the store, once a familiar haven where she’d bought ice cream after school, she found only hostile stares that pierced her soul. She could almost hear their their thoughts, condemning her for the traitor she was. She didn’t belong here, among decent people—but who wanted her at home?

She turned and strode toward the door, as the audience of onlookers held their collective breath. Crossing the threshold, she fought the urge to glance over her shoulder at this place she’d never go again. Instead, with each leaden step, she felt the void within her expand. The concrete stretching out before her remained a featureless gray as she let her feet take her wherever they wanted; there was nowhere left to go, not really, nowhere that mattered. She was adrift in a world that no longer felt like home, a solitary figure navigating the bleak landscape of her own despair.

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The familiar cobblestones of Harvard Square now echoed with the harsh cadence of military boots, replacing the lively chatter of students. Gone were the vibrant fliers for university plays and local concerts; in their place hung posters warning her against degenerate art. It was a twisted mirror image of the place she’d grown up; the landmarks remained, yet they seemed to leer at her. Every corner turned revealed a new perversion of the familiar: the bookstore she frequented now bore a sign bearing a foreign name, its windows adorned with copies of Mein Kampf. It was as if the essence of the place had been warped, contorted into a grotesque parody of its former self, leaving her feeling like a stranger in her own skin.

Her words, once filled with conviction and hope, now caused only pain. Nothing she said could bring Liz’s son back, or make Charlotte see the truth about Klaus. She couldn’t bring Alice back, either, or stop the cattle cars trundling up to that new camp in Vermont. Turning onto Hilliard Street with its Victorian architecture, all her mind’s eye saw was the ghetto. Overcrowded rooms, illness, and the constant threat of starvation plagued its inhabitants. Desperate measures had become commonplace; children braved sewers to smuggle in food, while others risked their lives scaling the wall or bribing guards for a chance at penicillin or even soap—and Charlotte went on joyrides with the architect of it all.

She argued that Klaus was one of thousands, tens of thousands, as though that absolved him of responsibility for his own evil deeds. But to Constance, her best friend was dancing in the shadow of evil. Blinded by her own infatuation, Charlotte talked about Klaus’s brilliance and his charm and who cared that the leader of a death squad liked Bach? Klaus was a delicious-looking custard, made with spoiled milk; Charlotte should’ve been repulsed, but instead she wanted more.

Somehow, Constance found herself standing outside the American Repertory Theater. It belonged to Harvard, and Harvard remained closed until further notice. The garden, once alive with the chatter of students on smoke breaks, now sat deserted. Driven by a desperate need to escape, she slipped inside, allowing the silence to wrap around her like a shroud. The air carried a noticeable sense of anticipation, as if awaiting the return of actors who’d never come, ready to practice works that’d never be performed again. Seating herself on one of the oversized prop rocks, she gazed through the fence at the president of Radcliffe’s house. But the president of Radcliffe was no more, and the house stood silent, haunted with still more ghosts.

She’d refused to bend to hate, and Constance hoped she’d be remembered, like Sophie Scholl. To both women, following their conscience had meant more than anything else, even in the face of insurmountable odds. It was a solitary path, one that led to isolation and despair, yet they’d chosen it willingly, unable to compromise their principles even to save themselves. Ultimately, faith meant more than life itself; they weren't willing to live if that meant betraying who they truly were.

Charlotte had a conscience, too, albeit buried beneath denial and misplaced loyalty—or hope. She’d commiserate with Klaus, if Constance told her what’d happened, because she trusted him. And Zelda would storm into work, brimming with righteous indignation; she’d aways mistaken dissatisfaction for activism. Voight’s uniform, though, wasn’t some costume; whatever doubts he’d voiced to Zelda, they hadn’t stopped him from committing atrocities.

Zelda was smart, but she was also little more than a child; she thought she was absolving her boss, and thus herself, but Constance knew better. Klaus’s fanaticism at least afforded him the delusion of righteousness; Voight knew that what he did was wrong, and didn’t care. Evil, she reflected, wasn’t always draped in the cloak of malevolence. Sometimes, it wore the guise of bureaucracy and obedience, well-mannered men who complimented their assistants on their shoes.

Constance rose from her seat, a knot of apprehension tightening in her stomach; she couldn’t put off going home forever. So, with a last long look around the garden, she emerged from its safe confines, unsure of what awaited her within her own four walls.

Fuller Place stretched toward Ash Street, the narrow lane a tranquil oasis nestled amidst the bustling city. Sunlight filtered through the verdant canopy overhead, dappling the cobblestones with patches of golden warmth. Each step she took seemed to carry her deeper into a world removed from time itself, where burdens eased and nature reigned supreme.

As she strolled past a charming cottage adorned with colorful blooms, the idyllic scene was shattered by a sudden eruption. The door of the quaint abode burst open with a resounding bang, startling her from her reverie. Two ominous figures clad in helmets emerged, dragging a woman between them with brutal efficiency. The woman’s eyes widened with fear, her pleas for mercy echoing through the tranquility, but the goons’ faces remained impassive—as though she was nothing more than an especially burdensome couch.

Constance’s throat closed as she watched the harrowing scene unfold. The air crackled with tension and every instinct screamed at her to run, but her limbs wouldn’t obey her—and then a last man stepped from the shadows. His gait was relaxed, almost leisurely, as though he were strolling out of his own front door. She remained frozen in place, unable to tear her gaze from his chillingly composed demeanor. His officer’s cap was askew on his head, obscuring his face; glinting in the filtered sunlight, though, was the grinning death’s head of the SS.

The air thickened with unspoken dread as more doors creaked open, only to hastily shut again, their occupants retreating into the safety of ignorance. Each peek was met with a hasty withdrawal, a collective refusal to bear witness to the unfolding horror. It was as if a silent pact had been made among them, a tacit agreement to to shield themselves from the encroaching darkness.

The woman’s screams pierced the air, a desperate plea for mercy that fell on deaf ears. Constance felt her own heart hammering in her chest, each beat echoing the woman’s frantic fight to escape. The officer watched impassively for a moment, his demeanor detached and almost…curious. With a casual flick of his finger, he signaled to his men, who moved with the precision of well-trained automatons. In a swift and practiced motion, the woman was forcibly turned around and brought to her knees, her sobbing silenced by a gun blast.

Constance jumped as the woman slumped forward, lifeless.

As one of the soldiers lit a cigarette, his companion chuckled at a joke she couldn’t hear. Neither their low conversation nor the twirling plume of smoke seemed real, drowned out by the static buzzing in her ears. It felt as though she were watching herself on television, but no matter how she tried she couldn’t change the channel. In eerie soundlessness, the officer’s lips moved, forming words she couldn’t decipher, before he abruptly turned and pointed—directly at her.

Their eyes locked, shattering the spell that’d held her captive. A surge of adrenaline surged through her like a wave as she instinctively turned to flee—only to collide with a fourth soldier, as solid as a brick wall. His fingers dug into her shoulders, anchoring her in place. “Let me go!” she shrieked, lashing out with a desperate kick to his shin. “Let me go!”

“It’s me!” the soldier hissed urgently. “Constance, it’s me!”

Looking up, she felt her knees weaken. “Fritz?”

His arm slid beneath her shoulders, offering support as he guided her to lean against the fence, allowing her to catch her breath. Beneath the field cap that now bore the grim insignia of the SS, concern etched his features. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice still low. “It’s not safe.”

Instead of answering, she could only stare, disbelief warring with terror.

Fritz hesitated, as if on the verge of saying something more, before turning away and approaching the officer—his officer. She watched in stunned silence as he threw his arm up in a crisp salute. The officer’s response was a lazy half-wave; in the SS, officers acknowledged their inferiors. Fritz seemed to be explaining something, and she detected a hint of nervousness in his demeanor. After a tense minute, however, the other man gave a curt nod.

Meanwhile, Fritz’s new comrades began the grim task of disposal.

“I’m walking you home,” he declared upon his return.

Constance recoiled. “Leave me alone!”

His expression hardened. “Do you want Obersturmführer Moritz to walk you home?”

She shook her head, defeated.