The dining room exuded a quaint charm as sunlight spilled through the windows, casting warm hues across the polished wooden surfaces. Fritz and Constance found themselves in an unexpected tableau, seated across from each other at the sturdy dining room table. Before Fritz, his cap rested alongside the bottle of Fanta that Constance had felt obligated to give him. He sipped the orange liquid while she crossed her arms tightly, exuding an air of reluctance. “I don’t want you here,” she declared, her words punctuating the uneasy silence that hung between them.

Fritz nodded in acknowledgment. “I’m used to not being wanted.”

Her scowl deepened. “What were you doing at that house?”

“Nothing,” he replied, with a casual shrug. “Me passing by like that was a coincidence. I had to drop something off at the office and then return here to wait for Charlotte. But I heard you screaming.”

Her brow furrowed at the mention of screaming; she hadn’t realized that she’d made any noise. “Obersturmführer Moritz,” she ventured, her tongue wrestling with the unfamiliar sounds. “Who is he?”

“He’s the executive officer of Einsatzgruppe C,” Fritz explained, straightening slightly. “He’s second in command, right after the Hauptsturmführer. Then there’s Untersturmführer Reiss and Oberscharführer Waltz. I don’t like either of them as much as Feldwebel Jost,” he added, somewhat apologetically. “But Moritz is alright, once you get to know him.”

Moritz was most definitely not alright, he’d ordered an execution with less effort than she ordered coffee. She’d heard the admiration in Fritz’s tone, even so; he was as indifferent to the man’s psychopathy as he was to Constance’s own disgust. Fritz had always been kind to her, if bumbling, and she’d almost come to think of him as a friend. She couldn’t stand to see him in that uniform, those thunderbolts around his neck like a millstone. In the colors of the Heer he’d been a farm boy, marveling at this brave new world; in the feldgrau of the SS, he looked more different than he should. “I see you’ve been promoted,” she remarked, her voice flat with resignation.

Fritz glanced down at the chevron on his sleeve. “I’m a Rottenführer, now.”

Her laugh was bleak. “Congratulations.”

“I can lead a Rotte,” he continued, his tone steady despite her evident unease. “That’s between five and seven men. Right now, I don’t have any under my command, which is a relief, to be honest. It’s a big responsibility.” She noted a familiar hesitance in his smile, a reminder of the earnest young private she’d first encountered what felt like a lifetime ago. “Hauptsturmführer Dassel thinks I have potential,” he acknowledged, his voice tinged with both pride and uncertainty. “He thinks I should pursue a commission.”

She studied the table as he spoke, a knot of revulsion tightening in her gut. The Fritz she knew seemed to fade with each new revelation, replaced by a stranger who spoke in glowing terms of evil. Somewhere deep inside of her a voice cried out, beseeching him to reconsider. Yet she remained silent, the words trapped in her throat by a mixture of disbelief and despair.

Fritz’s enthusiasm bubbled over, as he delved into the details. “The idea never crossed my mind!” he exclaimed wonderingly. “But according to Hauptsturmführer Dassel, I’m smarter than I give myself credit for. And Moritz seems to agree, I think.” He marveled at the thought, a low whistle escaping his lips. “The physical tests are manageable, but it’s the written exams and demonstrating leadership skills under scrutiny that worry me. Apparently, I’ve already impressed someone with that,” he added, disbelief creeping into voice. “But when and where, I wonder? And that’s all before potentially attending Junkerschule.”

“Junkerschule?” she repeated.

“Officer candidate school.” Leaning forward, his eyes widened. “Did you know, the Hauptsturmführer earned his first promotion in the field? He saw real action in California, as a private.”

Her response was curt, her fingers tapping impatiently on the hardwood. “Fascinating.”

Fritz’s tone turned reverential. “He could’ve been appointed directly to the SD, officers there sometimes are. But he chose to earn his rank, like the rest of us.”

Constance fought the urge to vomit.

Finishing his soda, Fritz stared into space. “I’m twenty-one,” he contemplated aloud. “So if by some miracle I do get accepted into Junkerschule, that means I’ll be finished by the time I’m twenty-four. I have to serve at least another six months before I can apply, and then Junkerschule is eighteen months at least. Then,” he added eagerly, “I can ask for permission to marry Leni.”

At this news, Constance arched an eyebrow. “Isn’t everyone in the Reich supposed to get married as soon as possible?” Replacement soldiers, after all, didn’t make themselves.

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Fritz chuckled ruefully as he picked at the label on the bottle. “Not in the SS. Hauptsturmführer Dassel has to grant permission, and he won’t until then. A man should have something to offer before proposing, he tells me. That and I’m too young, and should focus on my career.”

“And Leni?” she pressed, sensing his inner conflict.

A shadow crossed his face, but he managed a weak smile. “She’s proud of me, but she’s sad.”

Her gaze drifting to the window, Constance watched as Bessie rooted happily in the ivy outside. Sunlight filtered through the panes, revealing a sparkling galaxy of dust motes. “That woman,” she ventured slowly. “Who was she?”

“She was a Chassidic Jew,” he replied, after a reluctant pause. “Some group of Harvard students, we think, has been issuing new papers. Her birth certificate had the right signatures and seals, her license was even printed on the right kind of plastic.” His sigh carried the weight of resignation. “We never would’ve known, but someone ratted out the clerk.”

Constance’s eyes flashed with accusation. “And you’re a part of this?” she demanded. Fighting for the Reich was bad enough, but he’d had to serve; he’d chosen to join this sick cult, to trade life as a grunt for hunting down defenseless civilians, and he didn’t even seem to know it was wrong.

Instead of retorting defensively, Fritz only looked thoughtful. He settled back into his chair, the lines of strain in his face softening as he digested her rebuke. “Whoever those people were, who helped her,” he began carefully, “I hope we don’t find them.” His gaze drifted to a distant point, as if seeing beyond the confines of the room, to a moral landscape painted in shades of gray. “They’re who the resistance is supposed to be,” he concluded, his tone tinged with a grudging admiration. “Bill Smith acts like he’s all about the resistance, but really, he’s just out for payback, not freedom. He’s an idiot who’s tricked a bunch of other idiots into thinking he’s some kind of Ted Hood. But whoever’s making these IDs, they’re not in it for themselves. They’re trying to help folks out, pure and simple, and I respect that.”

Constance’s eyes widened in horror. “Then why the hell are you in the SS?”

“Because I’d never have this kind of opportunity in the Heer,” he confessed. “Or anywhere else.”

“This isn’t a social club!” she snapped, her hand slamming down on the hardwood with a resounding thud. “It’s a cesspool of hatred and brutality disguised as authority and order. And you’re fine with that?” she challenged, her tone shifting from anger to incredulity as she processed his words. “Because naked ambition justifies committing war crimes?”

Fritz locked eyes with her, his face expressionless. “I shot men just like me, in Maine,” he said sharply. “What’d they do, other than be born on a different farm? My CO’s, no matter who they are, they get their orders from their CO’s. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to be doing half the time, and neither do they!” He gestured in frustration, his movements tense. “Soldiers, all soldiers, have the same job. All that changes is the prize we get for doing it.” He fell silent, his eyes fixed on Bessie now snoring contentedly in her makeshift sty, lost in contemplation.

The case clock in the hall chimed, marking the hour with a somber toll. Fritz shifted, the creaking wood loud in the ensuing silence. “Growing up, I had to slaughter cows,” he confided, his voice laden with weary acceptance. “I hated it.”

She blinked, taken aback by his sudden vulnerability. “You did?”

“Cows are intelligent creatures.” He hesitated, his gaze drifting to a distant point as the past unspooled before him. “They chew their cud with their best friends, and you can even teach them tricks. But for good eating, you’ve got to slaughter them young, no later than two years.” Turning, he studied her. “Whenever I came to collect one, the others knew what I was doing.”

She gave a sharp snort, her head jerking back slightly as if recoiling from the words themselves. “Comparing Jews to livestock must make it easier, packing them into those cattle cars.”

His smile thinned, a trace of sardonic amusement flickering across his features. “Because people are people, but cows are just cows?” He leaned forward, some of his old earnestness returning. “Every time you eat, you decide that some beings matter more than others. I felt like the worst person in the world back then and I still do, remembering what a Judas I was. But I also didn’t want to starve. Farming teaches you hard truths, Constance. If you really love your family, sometimes you have to make choices that harm someone else’s. It’s not fair, and it’s not right.” he hesitated, his eyes meeting hers with a challenging glint. “But it’s how the world works.”

Searching his face felt like looking through the depths of a frozen lake, trying to reach the man she’d once known. The old Fritz had to be down there, somewhere, people didn’t just disappear. But with each word he was slipping, further and further, until eventually he’d float beyond her grasp. Did he even realize where he was? Could he still see the surface, glimmering somewhere far above, or had it faded along with so much else? Telling him to go back to his farm was like asking a ghost to reclaim its shadow—hopeful, yet so painfully futile. But she had to try, for the Fritz who’d laughed under the sun, not the shell who hunched before her. “Go,” she whispered, the plea slipping from her lips. “There’s nothing here, not now.”

She saw it, then: that spark of awareness. Fritz opened his mouth to respond and for a split second, he almost said something else. Then his shoulders sagged a little, as he shook his head. “There’s nothing left for me in Popice—not anymore. Farming might look idyllic from the outside, but up close, it’s a hard, unforgiving life. Mucking around in manure, knowing that one bad storm can wreck your entire season. The constant raids. It’d be bad enough for me, but I couldn’t condemn Leni to it, or whatever children we might have. Not if I could give her something better.”

Hands clasped together, knuckles turning white, Constance considered her next words carefully. “How much do you tell Leni, about what it is you’re doing?”

“I tell her nothing,” he replied evenly. ‘Nothing at all.”