Charlotte sat at her easel, humming as she worked. The sun filtered through the open bays of the converted garage, casting a warm glow on her canvas and the glistening strokes of her brush. The heady scent of oil paint, rich and slightly sharp, mingled with the sweet fragrance of what few late blooming roses Bessie hadn’t eaten. Bessie herself snuffled contentedly around the space, rooting through an overturned basket of apples with a determined snout.
Nearby, Fritz pretended to read a newspaper, though his eyes often wandered to Charlotte, confusion warring with amusement at her little exclamations of frustration. “You don’t get bored?” he asked, breaking the comfortable silence. “Working on the same patch over and over?”
“No,” she insisted, adding more burnt umber to the mix on her palette. “Never.”
Bessie snorted, seemingly in agreement, then flopped over onto her side.
Fritz issued a resigned sigh. “You’re not going to eat her, are you?”
Charlotte laughed, scandalized. “I can’t! She has a name.”
“All of ours had names, too,” he reminisced fondly. “One even came inside and slept under the table. Speck.”
“Speck?” Charlotte gaped at him. Speck, in German, meant bacon. “That’s terrible!”
He grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “No, that’s delicious.”
Charlotte returned to her canvas, dabbing her brush in paint with renewed vigor. The day was perfect, the air filled with a sense of promise and the simple joy of being alive. She felt a sense of calm and contentment, completely absorbed in her art, while the sun’s warmth and the comforting sounds of nature created a serene backdrop. Fritz, the younger brother she’d never had and always wanted, lent his own warmth to the scene. Months ago, she’d stared in disbelief as CNN played Nearer My God to Thee and went dark; for the first time since then, she was beginning to think that things—somehow—were actually going to be alright.
She’d been surprised when she’d told Klaus she loved him, surprised she’d meant it and surprised by how much she’d meant it. In his arms, the night before, she’d felt complete. This was more than attraction; she couldn’t imagine being with anyone else and didn’t want to. Granted, she’d thought her life would work out differently, but who cared? The only future she wanted was with him, whatever that future turned out to look like. He was her soulmate.
Of course, she had her hopes: children with his eyes and her smile, a simple life filled with love and laughter. Despite everything, despite the chaos and uncertainty, she believed in this dream with all her heart—and knew he did, too. She smiled a small, secret smile to herself, feeling a thrill of excitement as she imagined all the milestones to come. “What kind of wedding does Leni want?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Fritz said, scratching his head. “A legal one.”
“Is she religious?” Charlotte probed, tilting her head with curiosity.
He hesitated, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “What kind of religious?”
Charlotte laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Is there more than one kind?”
“Well,” Fritz leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I don’t really believe in this Odin stuff.”
“He kept his promise,” she pointed out, an impish grin spreading across her face. “There are no more frost giants.”
Fritz’s eyes widened in surprise before he realized she was joking. He let out a chuckle. “What about you?”
“What kind of wedding?” Charlotte mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Something fun. I hate those stuffy affairs where everyone sits makes awkward small talk, waiting for the bride and groom and watching their lettuce wilt. But as far as religion goes….” She shrugged. “Given what the world has been through, I can see why no one wants to believe in Jesus.”
As she said the words, a strange melancholy washed over her. Everything she’d cared about, before, was gone. Her old life, her old dreams, felt like they belonged to someone else— someone who didn’t have to confront the harsh realities she faced now. To believe in Jesus, to put faith in divine intervention or the promise of a better world, seemed naïve and pointless after witnessing such widespread destruction and suffering. How could she reconcile the idea of a loving, all-powerful deity with the horrors she’d seen? Dwelling on the past was too painful, too hopeless. She had to move forward, because going back wasn’t an option.
“Leni’s parents love Jesus more than the Pope does,” Fritz confessed with a grimace. “And absolutely despise me. This isn’t helping,” he added, plucking at his uniform. “Jan’s opinion is that I’ve joined a suicidal death cult, and I was worthless in his eyes to begin with. He told Leni to break up with me, that it was one thing to be stupid but another to be a fanatic willing to die for a cause that celebrates brutality and oppression.”
“The important thing is what Leni thinks,” Charlotte reminded him.
Fritz’s expression softened. “Leni knows that everything I’m doing, I’m doing for her.”
Putting down her brush, Charlotte turned to face him fully. “What’s her father’s issue with you, the man inside the uniform? Other than the fact that you’re stealing his daughter?”
“No career prospects, for one,” Fritz replied. “Soldiering, to Jan, doesn’t count. It was bad enough when I was in the Heer. Once my two years were up and I told her I was reenlisting, that’s when Jan told her for the first time to find a man who wanted a real job.” His shoulders sagged as he studied his hands. “Jan really does hate the SS, though, and…I understand, believe it or not. Cult might be a strong term but we do have some weird traditions, especially around weddings.”
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Charlotte had heard rumors, but the SS was as secretive as it was strange; SS men hid certain things, even from their spouses. “The whole Reich is weird,” she lamented.
“If I were a farmer, like him,” Fritz countered, irritation seeping into his voice, “he’d be upset that I couldn’t provide for Leni. His farm is always teetering on the verge of foreclosure, most farms are.”
“Jan will come around,” she assured him. “He must want grandchildren, although—ten?”
Fritz grunted. “That might be an exaggeration, but Leni and I really do want at least six and—oh, no.” Letting the newspaper drop, he gripped his stomach, his face contorting in pain.
Charlotte’s face fell. “Again?” Fritz had been racing off to the toilet all morning; even though he claimed he was feeling better, having expelled most of what was bothering him, he still looked like he should be in bed. His skin was clammy, sweat beading on his forehead, and he moved with a stiffness that spoke of deeper discomfort.
“Again,” he confirmed through gritted teeth, his complexion turning the alarming shade of sour milk. He doubled over, hissing sharply through clenched teeth. “You have to come with me.”
He meant, upstairs, where she’d be safe in case the world suddenly ended while he was having diarrhea. But she shook her head, fed up. She’d made too many trips already this morning, and she was on a deadline with this portrait. “Nothing is going to happen to me in the five minutes it takes you to use the bathroom,” she argued. “I’m not locking myself up like a criminal every time you try a new recipe!”
“I think it was the jam,” Fritz moaned. He’d gone back to the barracks earlier for a few things, stopping on the return trip for crêpes at a roadside stand. “Those blueberries didn’t taste quite right.”
She stood, vacillating between sympathy and frustration. “Fine, let’s go.”
Wincing again, he shot her a grateful look. “I don’t want the Hauptsturmführer to emasculate me before I’ve fathered even one child,” he grumbled, his knuckles white on the banister as he started up the stairs. Privacy was a basic human right, in her opinion, while Fritz seemed utterly convinced that even five minutes without her might constitute a dereliction of duty.
“I’ll cheer you on through the door,” she reassured him. “Again.”
Fritz pushed it open, stumbling into the tiny bathroom. “Five minutes is optimistic.”
Her back turned, she stared out the window. “Men are ridiculous.”
“All men?” he called, from behind her.
She nodded sagely, suppressing a smile. “All men.”
And then, in a flash of insight, she understood how to fix the issue she’d been wrestling with all morning.
Fritz whimpered and promised to never eat jam again.
She snuck back downstairs.
Her studio was her sanctuary, a place where the troubles of the outside world couldn’t reach her. The familiar scent of creation was comforting, blending with the hot, thick air of late summer in the city. There was a hint of the coming fall in its oppressive blanket, a faint promise in the breeze, but the present was still filled with the droning of bees. She was being irresponsible, but she couldn’t help herself—and she’d survived the invasion here, hadn’t she?
She slipped into her seat, palette in hand, and began thinning out more flake white. The dead layer, in any portrait, was always the hardest part and the highlights on Marie-France’s lower lip were wrong. Yes, there! She smiled at the portrait in satisfaction. Now her subject was finally coming to life, just how she’d pictured. Fritz would be furious, but he wasn’t an artist; he didn’t understand the need to tackle these sorts of challenges while her inspiration was still fresh.
Enthralled in the canvas before her, she almost didn’t register the crunch of shoes on gravel. It was a sound that didn’t belong, disrupting the serene, creative bubble she’d wrapped herself in. Her brush paused mid-stroke, a small frown forming as her mind caught up with her ears. She looked up, expecting to see Constance. Constance mostly treated her like a piece of furniture lately, but her friend couldn’t stay mad forever—not when she was finally getting her happily ever after. She started to say as much…then she looked up, and the words died on her lips.
It wasn’t Constance walking toward her, but Marta.
Suppressing a frisson of unease, Charlotte forced a smile. She knew there had been some kind of falling out between Marta and Zelda, though no one had bothered to fill her in on the details. Whatever had happened couldn’t have been too serious; Marta’s face was bright with enthusiasm as she waved. She was carrying a plate, too, covered in a checkered cloth. “It’s wonderful to see you again,” Charlotte began as Marta stopped in front of her. She gestured at the tray. “And with treats?”
Marta’s voice was strangely flat. “Yes.”
Charlotte took an involuntary step back, a sense of foreboding washing over her. She told herself she was being ridiculous. Klaus would have warned her if Marta was dangerous. He didn’t tell her much about work, knowing how she felt about it, but…. Feeling her smile slip, she plastered it back on. “Unfortunately, Zelda is still at work, but—
The plate smashed to the gravel, the checkered cloth flapping in the breeze. Before Charlotte could react, Marta lunged at her, the gleam of a knife catching the sunlight. She didn’t feel the pain at first, only a shocking cold as the wickedly long blade slid home. The pain came when Marta yanked the knife out and drove it in again, more forcefully.
Charlotte, mouth open, dropped to her knees, blood pooling around her. Marta pushed her down, and Charlotte twitched as the knife twisted inside her, tearing through muscle and sinew. Each stab brought a new wave of agony, her vision dimming with every heartbeat. Marta was screaming something, but Charlotte couldn’t hear anything as she stared upward at the perfectly blue sky. The world around her was a blur, a cacophony of colors and sounds that made no sense. Then Marta was gone, and Constance was there, her face pale with shock.
Charlotte tried to speak, to tell Constance that nobody could stay inside on a day like this, but the words wouldn’t come. Her mouth moved soundlessly, her thoughts fragmented and incoherent. Then Constance was gone, and Fritz was there, his face twisted in horror.
Why was Fritz there? She wanted to ask Klaus; he’d know. But she couldn’t find the words. Fritz started ripping at her clothes, trying to staunch the bleeding with his hands, his face a mask of desperation. It wasn’t that warm out, she thought hazily, for everyone to suddenly be naked. Why was he shouting, anyway? He should learn to relax. Where was Klaus?
Her vision narrowed to a tunnel, the edges darkening as she struggled to stay conscious. Everything was slipping away, the world reduced to a series of disjointed images and fleeting sensations. She could hear Fritz’s frantic voice, but the words were lost to her, drowned out by the roaring in her ears. With a final, shuddering breath, her world went black.