Zelda’s fear lingered, a palpable tension in the air as she anticipated the soldiers’ next move. In the presence of the Sturmbannführer, they seemed to restrain themselves, their compliance perhaps more out of fear than respect. Either that or her would-be attackers were simply biding their time, saving the loss of virtue they’d joked about earlier for when the boss wasn’t around. Regardless, the two soldiers who grabbed her by the arms showed an illusion of discipline as they half dragged, half marched her out of the tavern and toward a waiting car.
The scent of stale smoke assaulted her senses as she was shoved unceremoniously into the backseat. The thick, suffocating odor made her stomach churn with revulsion, and she fought the urge to retch. Huddling in the cramped space, she pressed her face against the window, desperately trying to catch a breath of fresh air. But the acrid stench seemed to cling to her like a suffocating shroud, a stark reminder of the captivity she found herself in. Her mind reeling in disbelief, she struggled to understand what’d even happened. Ten minutes ago, her life had been normal.
As the car lurched forward, she gazed out at a world she might never see again. People disappeared all too often now, swallowed by the Gestapo’s ruthless grip or condemned to the horrors of distant camps. Among the rubble-strewn sidewalk, where the remnants of a once-proud bank lay like shattered teeth, her fellow prisoners toiled under the watchful eye of yet another soldier. He wielded a whip, its cruel lash cracking through the air, the same one used on elephants to command and subdue. Zelda felt a pang in her chest as she watched them, their faces etched with exhaustion and despair. In that moment, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she, like them, was just another animal—subjected to cruelty by some, observed with detached disinterest by others, but never deemed more important than the work she’d been assigned. Yet, amidst her own plight, she couldn’t help but share in their silent suffering.
A few minutes later, she arrived at a place she knew well: Longfellow House.
The neoclassical masterpiece boasted grand columns and ornate detailing that whispered of its storied past. As a child, Zelda had often visited the house on school trips and family outings, captivated by its grandeur and the tales of its famous former residents. She fondly remembered wandering through its halls, wide-eyed with wonder, as her teachers regaled her with stories of the poet who once called it home and its brief stint as George Washington’s headquarters. Now, as the car pulled up and stopped, a surge of conflicting emotions washed over her.
Long, narrow banners hung ominously from the upper windows, a chilling reminder of the house’s new occupants. Despite its transformation into Cambridge’s Gestapo headquarters, Longfellow House retained an air of majestic allure, a beacon of calm amidst the tempest. Stepping out of the car, she marveled at the intricate details of the architecture, each column and archway a testament to the craftsmanship of a bygone era. Lush growth surrounded the house, the low drone of bees and the scent of growing things contrasting sharply with the somber ambiance. Everything felt so peaceful, she could almost believe that the war had never happened.
Inside, though, the house had become a stranger.
The entrance hall was dominated by a desk, its imposing presence signaling authority and control. A tired clerk conferred quietly with her captors, their hushed voices echoing in the cavernous space. Feeling a knot of apprehension tighten in her stomach, Zelda was led behind the stairs into what seemed to be a waiting area. The soldier who’d led her there gestured bluntly toward a bench, before turning on his heel and stalking off to more important matters.
For a long time after that, there was no sound in her makeshift dungeon save for the incessant click-clack of fingers on a keyboard and the occasional ringing of a telephone. Each noise reverberated off the walls; this might be her last afternoon on earth, but it was business as usual for everyone else in the building. Her senses were overwhelmed by the sterile atmosphere, the faint scent of ink and paper mingling with the stifling stillness. She shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench, her mind racing with unanswered questions and fears of what was to come.
Blood pooled in her mouth, metallic and acrid against her tongue as she probed the tender spot with the tip of her tongue. A sharp pang shot through her jaw as she felt the unsettling wobble of a loose molar. The Sturmbannführer’s blow had been brutal, the force enough to dislodge the tooth and leave her jaw throbbing with pain. It wasn’t broken, she told herself; that was something.
On the opposite wall, framed posters shared a sickeningly idealized vision of life in the Reich, each image a carefully crafted façade of prosperity and unity. The smiling faces of Aryan families mocked her from their glossy frames, their pristine perfection a stark contrast to the grim reality outside. It ignited a fire within her, a burning defiance against the oppressive regime that dared to mask its atrocities with false promises of a better life—for the chosen few. Every glance at those deceitful images fueled her determination to resist, to fight against the tyranny that sought to crush her spirit. Even so, beneath her simmering rage lay a chilling fear, a nagging doubt of whether her defiance would only lead to more suffering.
And what about her sister?
The clerk’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Your papers, please.”
“Here,” she said curtly, handing over her Kennkarte.
The clerk took the document and saluted. “Heil Hitler!”
Zelda remained silent. His words might be a pro forma salutation, the Reich equivalent of good morning, but she still refused to acknowledge what they represented. The clerk hesitated, unsure of how to take this defiance, then retreated to his desk. He was a recent arrival, his English not as good as the Sturmbannführer’s; she doubted that he’d ever encountered so much free thinking.
Her stomach churned with hunger, a gnawing ache that seemed to consume her from within. It’d been hours since her last meal, and the emptiness left her feeling lightheaded and weak. Thoughts of Charlotte, of Alex, flooded her mind, wondering where they were and if they were safe. Just last year, Alex had been studying tirelessly to become a nurse while Zelda navigated the challenges of high school. The memory brought a bittersweet pang to her heart, a reminder of the bond they’d shared for so long—and of the uncertain fate that now hung over them both. Afraid that she was about to have a full-blown panic attack, she went back to studying the propaganda.
Alex was her best friend; he couldn’t be dead.
All ten-year-olds into the Hitler Youth, one poster commanded, though brainwashing typically started even earlier. By six, state-sponsored activities ensnared most kindergarteners, chaining them to a lifetime of loyalty. Parents risked arrest if they dared miss their own meetings, while fifth graders played the role of mini-Gestapos, encouraged to snitch on any dissenters. God forbid that dad should mutter anything against the Reich during dinner; what was one child’s need for a parent, compared to the Führer’s need for total adoration?
Her eyelids drifted closed as she waited for the clerk to return, the minutes stretching into eternity as she fought the oppressive weight of exhaustion. Suddenly, a tap on her shoulder startled her fully awake. There stood the clerk, thrusting her Kennkarte back at her. “Come,” he grunted, his tone as cold and mechanical as the regime he served.
As she followed the clerk further into the house, she couldn’t shake a growing feeling of dread. Each step echoed loudly in the silent corridors, amplifying the pounding of her heart and the clammy sweat on her palms; this temple to reason had become a funhouse, where every creak of the floorboards might mean someone jumping out and dragging her off to the guillotine. The clerk halted at a door, rapping once before swinging it open. A cavernous space loomed beyond, cloaked in shadows that seemed to dance ominously in the dim light. What had once been Longfellow’s favorite room retained most of its original furnishings, each piece rich with sentimental value and the memories of the symposia he’d held here. The musty scent of old books mixed with the crispness of paper, creating an unsettling aura that seemed to suffocate her senses.
And at Longfellow’s desk sat the Sturmbannführer.
He made a slight, elegant gesture, indicating the chair opposite. “Please.”
The walk felt endless, each step too loud as she approached him. She lowered herself into the seat, her body tensed, her nerves raw with anticipation of what he’d inflict on her next. But the Sturmbannführer remained motionless, watching her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. He held out a cigarette case, the scent of expensive tobacco already thick in the air.
She shook her head.
Stolen story; please report.
He lit one of his own with a practiced motion, the soft click of the lighter breaking the silence. “You don’t smoke.”
“No,” she said sharply.
“A drink, then.” He waved at the sideboard, which had been outfitted as a bar.
This false courtesy set her teeth on edge. “No.”
Taking a long drag, he studied her. She studied him back, trying to ignore the tendrils of smoke curling upward. He wasn’t as old as she’d first thought; if she had to guess, she’d put him somewhere in his thirties. His features were angular and severe, but somehow they suited him. It was unsettling, to find any trace of attractiveness in a man so loathsome.
Knocking ash into an ashtray, he switched languages. “So. You speak German.” His piercing blue eyes bore into hers. She fought to keep her expression neutral, hating how composed he seemed beside her own racing thoughts. “I am Sturmbannführer August Voight,” he continued, when she didn’t answer. His pleasant tone was a chilling contrast to the mood in the room. “And you are?”
Desperate to avoid his penetrating gaze, she looked around.
“Don’t have such a difficult attitude.” Voight exhaled a plume of smoke, his expression indulgent. He leaned back in his chair, exuding confidence with his relaxed posture. “We have much to discuss,” he added, his words carrying a veiled threat. “Like your friends.”
Zelda’s eyes met his with a defiant spark. “Zelda. Zelda Wahl.”
Voight smiled like he practiced in front of a mirror. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he remarked, with a hint of amusement.
Suppressing the urge to show him what a loose molar felt like, she forced a smile. “What gave it away?”
“Your eyes.” His casual tone, like his answering smile, was a learned response. “When one of the men I’d borrowed made that rather…crude comment.”
Being reminded of the disgusting encounter was like enduring it all over again. “You’re no different,” she shot back, her hostility masking a spike of fear. “You just hide it better.”
He inhaled again, disregarding her retort. “Was your father German, or your mother?”
The mention of her parents struck a nerve, dredging up memories she’d long buried. “Both,” she responded tersely, her voice carrying a hint of challenge. She’d been an orphan since her father’s death in March, but she’d be damned if she’d let this monster see how vulnerable that made her feel. Locking eyes with him, she silently dared him to push further, determined not to show any weakness in the face of his probing questions.
Tilting his head, he considered her admission. “But they came here.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “To escape.”
“You associate with a dangerous crowd, Fraulein Wahl.” The words came out in a sibilant hiss. “People who would threaten our people.”
She made no attempt to hide her disgust. “Your people, not mine.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the polished hardwood. “You should be proud of who you are,” he advised, with more of that same false warmth. “Even if your parents aren’t.”
“They’re dead.” Her voice was cold. “And I’m an American.”
His eyes narrowed, betraying a flicker of surprise. “How old are you?” he inquired, his tone carefully controlled.
“Seventeen.” She met his gaze head-on, refusing to yield an inch.
He hesitated, a barely perceptible pause before he responded. “I see.”
Despite his efforts to conceal it, she’d caught the glimmer of realization in that glacial gaze: she wasn’t the mature adversary he’d assumed. It gave her a perverse thrill. “You thought I was older.”
Voight stubbed his cigarette out in a sharp gesture. “Felons usually are.”
She refused to let the jibe shake her resolve. “People crushed by laws have no hope but to evade power,” she recited carefully. “If the laws are their enemies, they will be enemies of the law.”
Exhaling, he leaned back in his chair again, his expression unreadable. “You’re quoting Edmund Burke, the British statesman.”
He sounded surprised. He also apparently expected his intimidation tactics to work. She curved her lips in a patronizing smirk, showing what she thought of that. “So you can read.”
“An odd choice,” he mused, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered her response. “As Burke opposed democracy.”
“He supported the American colonists,” she countered.
“But not the American Revolution.” Voight’s grimace betrayed his annoyance. “Burke might’ve been sympathetic to certain of his countrymen’s complaints, but he valued peace. Order. And he knew that for those things to be achieved, all men must learn to accept their place.”
She sniffed. “Burke was never beaten, for speaking out.”
Voight’s mouth firmed into a thin line. “He never betrayed the king.”
“I betrayed no one!” she shouted, overwhelmed with frustration.
Voight’s hand slammed down on the desk, the sudden noise echoing through the room. “Where is Herr Smith?”
“I don’t know!” Her voice wavered, her resolve faltering as tears threatened. “And neither does Marta.”
His frown deepened, a shadow of concern crossing his face. “What do you mean?”
She swallowed hard, her throat tight with fear. “Is Alex still alive?”
With the mention of Alex, Voight’s expression turned triumphant; he’d regained the upper hand. “You really should be more cooperative, Fraulein,” he commented, his tone satisfied.
“It doesn’t matter what I do,” she retorted. “You’ve already decided my fate.”
His shrug was the merest gesture of acknowledgment. “True,” he admitted. “Although you might enjoy your remaining time more if you gave me what I wanted.”
Her glare deepened into a scowl. “No mouse mistakes a cat’s attention for affection.”
He studied her for a long moment, before responding. “Your lover is alive.”
“He’s not my lover,” she snapped, before she could stop herself.
“He and I spoke,” Voight continued, his tone laced with mockery. “Shortly before this little chat. He seemed quite concerned for your welfare, far more than for his own.” His eyes glittered with amusement, as he shared this information. “In fact, Fraulein, he begged me not to hurt you.”
Zelda’s mind raced with possibilities. Her tormentor appeared unchanged since their earlier conversation, with not a single hair out of place. His manicure was still perfect, too, and it wouldn’t be if he’d spent the past hour finishing what those soldiers had started—would it? “You can’t,” she argued hotly, “beat information out of us that none of us have.”
Voight’s response came with chilling calmness. “Herr Woods might lose an eye, without a surgeon’s attention.”
She knew what Voight was telling her: give him the information he wanted, or he’d let Alex bleed to death in some hole. Her hands trembled in her lap as she prayed silently that she wouldn’t start screaming. “Bill and Marta are separated,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “They’ve been having problems for a long time, and live separate lives. He moved out last month.”
Voight’s lips curled into a disdainful sneer. “I don’t believe that.”
“It’s the truth!” Zelda’s voice cracked with emotion, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I don’t care what you believe.”
His eyes danced with a predatory gleam. “Even so, Herr Smith remains a key figure in your little…rebellion.”
“There is no rebellion,” she insisted. “We just don’t like you.”
“Regrettable,” he remarked, his tone ripe with disinterest. “But hardly relevant. When is your next meeting?”
Zelda’s heart pounded in her chest as she fought to maintain her composure. “The only meetings we have are about how to find vegetables,” she spat, her words laced with bitterness. “And even if I did know something, which I don’t because I’m just a teenager, I wouldn’t tell you.”
He traced the edge of the ashtray with a fingertip, the movement sensuous with evil promise. “You’ll tell me everything I want to know,” he said quietly. “Sooner or later.”