When Fritz arrived, Zelda was standing by the clerk’s desk in the hall, feeling the familiar sense of unreality wash over her. How had this become her life, working at the Gestapo as if it were normal? Fritz, the dark side’s other latest recruit, appeared to have no such qualms; he was smiling brightly, as usual, all but skipping through the door with an envelope. “Good morning!”
“Good morning,” Zelda grumbled. “Again.” She’d just seen the dolt at breakfast.
“This uniform was not meant for this heat.” He tugged at his collar, looking uncomfortable.
“You mean wool in late summer isn’t practical?” Zelda’s tone dripped with sarcasm, as she held out her hand. She was in no rush to either receive or deliver whatever the latest nonsense was from Klaus’s office, but the hall was full of bright sun and felt like an oven.
Fritz shook his head. “This information is for Sturmbannführer Voight only.”
She arched an eyebrow. “And you’re supposed to be babysitting my sister.”
“It’s not babysitting,” he replied defensively, “and Charlotte’s out. There’s some kind of reception…about art, I think?” He pursed his lips, as he tried to remember. “At one of the museums, Boston seems to have a lot of those. She’s there with Frau Dassel and—oh!”
Zelda tapped her fingers on the desk, resisting the urge to ask Fritz if thinking hurt.
Reaching into his pocket, he produced a piece of paper that’d been folded and refolded dozens of times. “I finally got a letter from Leni! The last three didn’t arrive, because someone was throwing mail bags into the harbor.” He chuckled, embarrassed at his own enthusiasm. “I was worried she’d forgotten about me,” he admitted, a blush creeping over his face.
Zelda kept her own face carefully neutral. “How is Leni?”
His gaze dropped to the floor. “She wants to know if she should start saving her pennies.”
Zelda tried to muster some enthusiasm for him, and failed. Here she was, exchanging pleasantries in the heart of enemy territory, as if her life hadn’t been turned upside down; it was almost laughable. He was talking about an old German tradition and he, like everyone else, kept telling her that she was German but she wasn’t. She was American and she wanted to be American; she didn’t care about hopeful brides saving their spare change for a year, then buying wedding shoes. She didn’t care about any of the things that she was supposed to, but she’d gotten so used to acting that sometimes she forgot. So, instead of cheering for the saboteurs, she fixed a smile onto her face. “And what did you tell her?”
His expression grew rueful. “That some girls save for longer than a year, and have really beautiful shoes.”
“What a romantic,” Gretchen teased, appearing from wherever she’d been hiding. She was always lurking nearby, ready to ruin any conversation. “Give me that,” she added, swiping at the envelope.
“No!” Fritz clutched it to his chest in mock offense. “Do neither of you understand top secret?”
“No wonder Klaus sent it with you.” Gretchen peered up at him with an amused glint in her eye. “Fritz,” she asked seriously, “can you read?”
His mouth dropped open at the insult. “Quite well, actually!”
Gretchen reached for the envelope again, and Fritz held it over his head, grinning like the village idiot. Zelda, watching the Reich’s two biggest fools play pickle, thanked the gods of genetics that they had no interest in each other. Gretchen regarded Fritz as something of a slightly more intelligent older brother, while Fritz had seemingly fallen in love with the first girl he’d ever beheld. Her patience wasn’t infinite, however, and she’d just about reached her limit. “Enough!” she snapped, snatching the envelope. “I’ll attempt to avoid being set upon by spies, between here and the Sturmbannführer’s office. Unless you’d like to accompany me?”
Fritz sagged at the rebuke, his grin fading. “No, that’s alright.”
They watched him go and then Gretchen turned to Zelda, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “If I got a soldier for sleepovers,” she purred with a wicked grin, “I’d request Obersturmführer Moritz.”
“Ugh.” Zelda wrinkled her nose in disgust. “He’s as gross as Klaus.”
Gretchen’s grin widened, clearly enjoying the banter. “I bet he’s a riot in the sack.”
Zelda shot her a skeptical look. “How many men have you slept with?”
“In general, or since moving here?” Gretchen tilted her head thoughtfully. “I’m looking for lucky number thirteen.”
Zelda rolled her eyes. “You should try harder.”
Gretchen winked, unfazed. “I know! You?”
Zelda’s tone turned grim. “Two. And they were both mistakes.”
“Mistakes can be fun,” Gretchen countered, her voice light. “Speaking of which, is the Sturmbannführer one of them?”
“What?” Zelda’s mouth dropped open in genuine shock. “No!” She felt a wave of defensiveness wash over her, as if Gretchen had somehow seen something she shouldn’t have. Nothing had actually happened between her and Voight, of course, but the funny feelings she had whenever he stood too close weren’t—visible, somehow, were they?
Gretchen snorted, clearly unconvinced. “Something’s going on. He waits on you hand and foot.”
Zelda crossed her arms, as if to ward Gretchen off. “I wait on him hand and foot.”
“He looks at you like he’s hungry,” Gretchen smirked, advised.
Zelda smacked her lightly with the envelope, feeling herself turn the color of an eggplant. “Gretchen,” she assured the other girl, “you’re blind. And nobody’s doing anything weird with Fritz, either! He’s sleeping on our couch, because my sister’s boyfriend is insane.”
Clearly enjoying Zelda’s discomfort, Gretchen chuckled. “I’m going back to the mailroom.”
And Zelda hoped that while she was there, she’d lick enough glue to make herself sick and have to go home, where she wouldn’t be able to see anything she shouldn’t—not that there was anything to see. But as she watched the city’s most eligible bachelorette sashaying away, curiosity overcame her. “Wait,” she called out. “Lucky number thirteen in general, or since moving here?”
Gretchen did a little wiggle, clearly relishing the attention. “Ask Fritz if his executive officer wants my number.”
Zelda, who wanted to stab something, rolled her eyes and stalked back to Voight’s office. She was absolutely certain that Moritz, in point of fact, did not want Gretchen’s number; she doubted that Klaus’s revolting sidekick knew the difference between men and women, or cared. He fixed everyone with that same blank stare, a chilling mix of aggression and boredom that made her skin crawl. His eyes were sharp, like a predator’s, always scanning the room as if looking for his next target. He had an unsettling sense of humor, too, as though he found amusement in others’ fear—and relished the power it gave him. Was Gretchen hoping to bed a snake, next?
Shaking off her disgust, she opened the door to Voight’s office. He was standing at his desk, tagged and bagged evidence spread out before him. The fragments of Thomas Müller's life lay preserved in plastic, each piece a silent witness to the child’s tragic end. Voight’s brow was furrowed in concentration, as if by staring at these remnants he could connect a thread that had so far eluded him. She stopped, her hand on the door, watching him. He was, at the end of the day, a cop trying to catch a killer—regardless of the evil regime he served.
What’d gone wrong with the world, she wondered, that she hoped he did?
He looked up as she entered, his expression shifting from concentration to a more neutral, professional demeanor. “This is for you,” she said, handing him the envelope.
“Thank you.” He took it from her, his fingers brushing hers for just a moment longer than necessary.
She felt a jolt at the contact, quickly withdrawing her hand. “Do you want more coffee?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
“No, thank you.” He opened the envelope, his eyes scanning the contents.
She hesitated, watching him. “When Moritz found Bill, why didn’t he just shoot him?”
“Because,” Voight explained, without looking up, “we need to avoid accusations that Herr Smith is a stooge, that we’ve set him up in order to discredit him. We won’t win the hearts and minds of our newest citizens if they think we’re more concerned about closing the case than producing justice.”
“If you want anyone to equate the Gestapo with justice,” she pointed out, “you’ve got an uphill battle.”
“The man is guilty, which now we can prove.” His tone was matter of fact, as his gaze returned to the documents.
“At trial?” she prompted, plainly incredulous.
Expression souring, he sat down on the edge of his desk. “Our evidence against him is concrete and overwhelming. His associates are all being held separately, and their confessions match.” Gaze fixed on a scrap of little Tommy’s pajamas, he sighed heavily. It was a long time before he spoke again. “The real problem is that we don’t have all of them. Heinz went to arrest Marta last night, at the apartment she’s holed up in, but she wasn’t there. She hasn’t been home since.”
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His gaze shifted to Zelda, the unspoken question hanging in the air.
Whose side was she on?
Wordlessly, she returned to sorting evidence—or tried to. The room felt charged, as if a storm were about to break, making it hard to concentrate. The soft rustle of papers and the occasional creak of the floorboards only heightened her unease. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation, a sense of something foreboding hanging over them. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Damocles’ sword was poised above her head, waiting to drop. Where was Marta?
If she knew, she’d tell Voight. Wrong was wrong, and the fact that he was wrong didn’t make Marta right. People got so caught up in picking sides, they lost sight of the fact that sometimes both sides stood for nothing. The boundaries between right and wrong had blurred beyond recognition. It was maddening how often ideals and principles were overshadowed by the pettiness of human nature. As she buried herself in the mundane task of sorting evidence, she couldn’t help but feel a profound sense of disillusionment. In this world, where morality had become a casualty of war, she wondered if there was any side worth fighting for at all.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” Voight said, breaking the silence again. “About Alex.”
“I don’t want to know,” she fumed, her voice sharper than she’d intended.
“Why not?” He sounded surprised, although he hid it well.
Resting her hand on the nearest box, she turned to face him. “Because I don’t care about Alex.” The name alone twisted like a knife in her gut, conjuring a wave of rage and revulsion. He’d accused her of being a spy when she wasn’t, a betrayal that’d shattered her trust, then had the audacity to paw at her like she was his personal property and blame her when she disagreed. She’d cared about him, once, but that care had curdled into something dark and furious. The disgust and rage overshadowed any lingering affection, poisoning the memories of their friendship. He was a living reminder of everything she’d lost, a monument to hypocrisy she now saw as vile and repugnant. She didn’t want to hear his name, much less any news about him.
Voight made a noncommittal noise and let the matter drop.
She opened her mouth, and shut it again. She knew there was more going on than anyone told her, and she was learning to live with that, just like she was learning to live without friends. Part of her wanted to confide in him, like he’d confided in her before, but she hesitated. Working with him was a grueling ordeal—demanding, isolating, and emotionally draining. His relentless focus was suffocating, his obsessive nature making him a tyrant who never seemed to acknowledge the humanity of those around him. His aloofness was a fortress, impenetrable and cold, and his rigid expectations were nothing short of tyrannical; he was inflexible and demanding, expecting a level of perfection that felt impossible to attain. His air of superiority was even more infuriating; that he somehow met his own high bar only made it worse.
Sitting on the floor, surrounded by other people’s personal effects, she wondered why she was still working for him. She was supposed to be anti-Nazi, not some simpering collaborator! Just because her former friends had kicked her out of their little group didn’t mean she had to abandon her values. She could’ve joined a different resistance cell, somewhere, someone actually fighting the good fight. Turning over the license in her hand, she studied the face staring back at her. Someone was reissuing identification; this Jewish woman from Brookline had been given new life as a French Canadian Catholic from Lowell—and she would’ve passed, too, but for the human refuse at city hall who’d cared more about money than morals.
Zelda dropped the license; was she different?
She’d imagined herself leading this glorious rebellion, but how easily she’d folded. Everyone dreamed that they’d be Ted Hood, or like whoever this person was turning Jews into Catholics. They were risking their life, and with no hope of reward other than doing the right thing. But most people hid at home, pretending nothing bad was happening…just like they always had. At the end of the day, people wanted to live—wanted their families, their friends to live. Most people were cowards. That was really why those men had attacked Darlene; she made them see something in themselves that they didn’t want to acknowledge.
Her sister hadn’t come home the night before; Fritz had been waiting, just the same, frying eggs in bacon grease and singing a song so off-key it made her ears bleed. Voight had lingered in the kitchen, ignoring the relentlessly cheerful Rottenführer, his gaze probing as he’d asked if she was alright. She’d hesitated, almost telling him the truth: that she was overwhelmed and scared and needed a shoulder to sob into. Instead, she’d nodded and he’d left.
What was wrong with her, that she hadn’t kicked him in the shin?
She shouldn’t have wanted to confide in him—and she shouldn’t be helping him with his research! She shouldn’t have been coming into work at all, unless she planned to blow the whole place up. He was the enemy, she castigated herself. This was wrong.
Charlotte…she understood why Charlotte was with Klaus. He might be a mass murderer, but he didn’t judge her for her mistakes. For too long, the entire world had expected her sister to be perfect. She’d expected it of herself, and she’d wound up eating rats. They’d all come out of the invasion as different people, but where everyone else saw surviving as a victory Charlotte saw it as a failure. She couldn’t look at herself in the mirror, not without seeing someone who disgusted her, and she couldn’t be with someone who expected her to. Zelda, the perennial screw-up who couldn’t even graduate from high school, had no such standard to live up to…so what was her excuse?
“Gretchen thinks there’s something going on,” she said suddenly. “Between us.”
Voight stilled, the document in his hand forgotten. His gaze locked onto hers, intense and searching. “Is there?” His voice was calm, but his breath seemed to catch on the words as he spoke them.
Her heart skipped a beat. “You tell me.”
For a moment, the silence was palpable, each breath they took seeming to echo in the room. It was as if the air itself was charged, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. She could almost feel the tension between them, a fragile thread that could snap at any moment. His heartbeat seemed to match her own, a rhythmic reminder of their shared uncertainty. Then, breaking the stillness, he asked, “Would you like to have lunch with me? Somewhere that isn’t here?”
She swallowed, her pulse quickening. “Only if you stop ordering for me.”
His lips quirked. “Left to your own devices, you’d subsist entirely on candy.”
At least she didn’t put it up her nose, she thought wryly. Voight’s drug addiction was an open secret, though he managed to maintain an air of impeccable professionalism. And his reputation as a sexual sadist with…extremely dark tastes wasn’t exactly hidden either; people thought she didn’t know, and Voight had certainly never brought it up to her, but she’d have to have carrots for ears not to hear the gossip. Even so, what made her far more nervous than the idea of him being into pain was the possibility of rejection. Despite everything, she was drawn to him; there was a part of her that knew he understood her in ways no one else could. She wanted to tell him everything, to lay bare her soul and see if he’d care. But the fear that he wouldn’t, that he’d remain the cold, demanding figure he always was, terrified her.
Swallowing her fear, she steadied herself. “Alright,” she replied, after a moment. She sounded surprisingly composed, she thought with detached amusement, although she felt like throwing up. “But you’d better bring your whip,” she added, in a careful tone. “Marie-France got something right last night. You really do love cracking it.”
His expression grew appraising as he studied her. “Whoever allows themselves to be whipped,” he stated coolly, “deserves to be whipped.”
She met his gaze, a rebellious glint in her eyes. “Are you sure? Because I’m fairly certain that I have no choice in being here and serving you.” Her voice remained steady, but she felt increasingly lightheaded with each word. “Or should I call myself, not a servant but a slave?”
“No one can make you a slave unless you let them.” His tone was quiet, but there was an intensity behind his words that sent a shiver down her spine.
Scoffing, she stood and walked over to the bookshelf. “Are you seriously telling me that everything I’ve done since we’ve met, I’ve done of my own free will?” She turned to face him, challenging him with her stare, the air feeling like it’d been stripped of oxygen.
He left his desk and walked to the window, his movements deliberate. “I’m asking you what you are, to yourself,” he asserted, his voice carrying a note of challenge.
“I don’t know,” she confessed, her eyes following him. “All I do know is that I feel like I’ve been tied up. The rope is there, but it’s invisible. I’m not happy about it, I’m not unhappy about it, it’s just become a fact of life.” Her voice wavered slightly, revealing the turmoil beneath her composed exterior. That rope had been there, from their first meeting; she’d tried to tell herself that she didn’t want it, that she needed to escape, but she’d only clung tighter.
He turned to face her, his gaze piercing. “Some might argue that a woman’s power lies in a man’s passion,” he stated, testing her.
“A woman’s power,” she shot back, her eyes flashing defiantly, “lies in herself.” She took a step closer, her posture challenging.
His lips curled into a faint, enigmatic smile. “So, not a slave,” he mused, tilting his head slightly.
“To serve doesn’t always mean to follow, does it?” she replied, her tone firm. “Sometimes,” she continued, “a slave must rescue her master.”
He took a step towards her, his eyes never leaving hers. “Don’t you want to be worshipped?” he asked, his voice a low, seductive murmur. “A goddess and not a slave?”
She felt like Alice, falling down the rabbit hole, her mind swirling with the implications of his question. “No,” she corrected him, the word escaping her lips almost involuntarily. “Putting someone on a pedestal is still forcing them to be something. I don’t want to be gazed at, from afar, held to impossibly high standards and stripped of my humanity, just another possession.”
Something flashed, deep in his eyes—recognition, perhaps, or respect. “No?” he echoed, his voice soft but intense, as if he were truly seeing her for the first time.
“I want to be in love, and I want it to be dirty and disgusting and real.” Her voice was raw with honesty, each word quivering in the air. She studied him, and thought again that he was perfect—not just because he was so hot it made her weak in the knees, or because he was brilliant, but precisely because he drove her insane. He challenged her like no one ever had, like she'd thought no one ever would, and she couldn’t believe she was actually saying this to him. It was as if the words were coming from a part of her that she had no control over, one buried for so long that she’d forgotten it even existed. “I think the only man I could permanently love would own me,” she finished, her words fading to little more than a whisper. “Would have to own me, and would let me own him in return.”
Voight closed the space between them in an instant, grabbing her and throwing her against the wall. Books thudded to the floor as his lips crashed onto hers, fierce with urgency. He was every drug in the world, every sin, and she didn’t care if she couldn’t breathe. Her blood boiled in her veins, and she tasted him like blood on her tongue. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her mouth opening under his as he consumed her, destroying her in the most perfect, the most beautiful way possible.
His hand against her face, he withdrew slightly, his breath ragged. “I need to know if this is real,” he demanded, his voice low and trembling with intensity.
Her brow furrowed, a mix of confusion and apprehension clouding her gaze.
“Tell me the truth,” he insisted, his eyes boring into hers, harsh and desperate. “Do you feel anything for me, anything at all?”
“I love you.” The statement was barely audible.
His fingers dug painfully into her flesh, as if he were trying to anchor himself in reality. “Don’t tell me that if it isn’t true,” he grated, his voice harsh.
“If I could control how I felt,” she managed, “I wouldn’t feel like this.”
But she’d loved him forever, she realized now, with a clarity that was almost painful.
He kissed her again, harder this time, and she twisted her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.
The door banged open.
They both turned, still in each other’s arms.
Moritz blinked, his surprise momentarily breaking through his usually stoic demeanor. He recovered quickly, though, throwing his arm up in a crisp salute. “Heil Hitler.”
Voight stepped back, releasing her, the officer once again. “Heil Hitler.”
Moritz’s eyes flickered between them before settling on Voight. “We have him.”