Constance went to see Charlotte.

She almost didn’t. She felt undeserving, and the people in Charlotte’s new life intimidated her. Lately, everything did. But none of the soldiers at the hospital gave her a hard time, either downstairs or in the hall. They only checked her identification and waved her on.

She arrived at Charlotte’s room. Charlotte looked like a saint lying in state, except for the slow rise and fall of her chest. Instead of flowers, there were beeping machines and bags dripping fluids into her prone form. Klaus was reading to her, an old and well-loved book open on his lap. He was the lone supplicant, his voice low and steady, as if his words could will her back to consciousness.

He glanced up, saw Constance, and kept reading. She paused at the foot of Charlotte’s bed, surprised to find him here. The idea that Klaus cared enough to visit at all, let alone stay, was a shock. She listened as he finished the chapter, the foreign words flowing smoothly from his lips. She had no idea what the story was about—she never had managed to learn much German—but it was clear he’d been sitting in that chair for a while.

Closing the book, he placed it gently on the table beside him. “Hello, Constance,” he greeted, his tone neutral.

She tried to summon a polite response but couldn’t. “Charlotte doesn’t know you’re here,” she said, her voice tinged with a mix of accusation and sadness.

“But I know I’m here,” Klaus replied softly, his eyes never leaving Charlotte’s face.

Constance heard the faint rebuke in his tone, and found herself at a loss. She lowered herself into the other chair, her movements slow and deliberate. “How is she?”

“Healing,” he replied softly.

She studied Klaus’s face. When he looked at Charlotte, a warm light kindled in his eyes, one that spoke of emotions Constance hadn’t thought him capable of possessing. This more human side of him was disconcerting; it didn’t belong, just like she didn’t. She wanted to bolt from the room, both because he still terrified her and because she couldn’t bear seeing Charlotte so frail and helpless.

But she forced herself to stay and ask the question she’d come here to ask, even though she’d initially thought she’d be asking a nurse. “No one knows when she’ll wake up?”

His shake of the head was the merest negation. “No.”

Constance absorbed this news in silence.

The only sounds were the beeping of the machines and the rhythmic hum of the ventilator, as her mind drifted back to simpler times. She remembered the laughter, the shared moments of joy, and the unspoken bond she’d had with the girls who’d become her sisters. Her thoughts wandered to a day she’d never forget: the day she learned about her parents. She was about to graduate from middle school when the principal delivered the news, his face solemn as he studied her across his desk. Her father, drunk, had driven both himself and her mother into a telephone pole. The words were a blur; she’d watched his lips move without comprehending a single word. An aunt from Vermont, a complete stranger, was called—there was no one else. Sitting there in a daze, she’d turned to Charlotte and asked what she should do.

Come home with me, Charlotte had directed, with unwavering certainty.

And she had.

Charlotte had been her rock since then, younger but so much wiser. Constance had been certain that, after the invasion, nothing could threaten their bond; starving together, cowering in the basement as the bombs rained down—it had all only brought them closer. With spring, invasion had transformed into occupation, and Constance had imagined Charlotte guiding her and Zelda through this new phase as well. She’d make them feel safe, like she always had. Instead, Klaus had appeared, standing there in the sunshine like he belonged in this world and not in Hell.

Constance had been terrified for Charlotte, with this SS man all but stalking her. Then Charlotte had smiled and mentioned cake, and Constance had understood that her friend was gone. In her place was someone who cared more about having a full stomach than being a decent human being. As Charlotte spent more and more time with him, Constance’s anger grew—at her friend’s lack of morals and at her own weakness. Whenever she ate something from one of those Reichsadler-stamped crates, she wanted to vomit; starvation was better, so why couldn’t she force herself to say no? She tried to mitigate her own sin by giving away as much as she could, but it was never enough…and the situation in the ghetto kept getting worse.

She’d never seen the girl again, from that first visit.

The image haunted her. Every time she thought about it, a fresh wave of guilt and helplessness washed over her. There were so many times she’d almost told Charlotte, but what did Charlotte care? Klaus might’ve been friends with those rapists; attacking defenseless teenagers was heinous, but it paled in comparison to leading a death squad. Charlotte didn’t seem to find fault with that! So Constance had gone back to the ghetto, time and time again, each visit more heartbreaking than the last as she found more of the people she was trying to help had died or been deported. The weight of their suffering pressed on her, an unbearable burden she couldn’t shake.

Then Marta had shown up.

She’d sworn she only wanted to talk to Charlotte. Constance hadn’t been that naïve; she’d assumed that “talk” meant shaving Charlotte’s head, maybe slapping her around a little. Other women had gotten the same treatment, after all, and they’d been fine—they’d just started wearing wigs. Charlotte would suffer a few moments’ humiliation, and Constance would get to feel superior at dinner. Most importantly, though, Charlotte would finally come to her senses. She’d dump Klaus, realizing he wasn’t worth it, and everything would go back to normal.

But Marta had lied.

When she’d mentioned poisoning Fritz, Constance had hesitated. Yet Marta had argued, quite persuasively, that Charlotte’s babysitter had to be removed from the equation—otherwise, he’d kill Marta just for showing her face. Sure, Constance liked Fritz, but as she’d read in The Free Man, he’d been infected. People put down rabid animals—and soldiers put each other down in war. Fritz was no child; he was a man who’d willingly and knowingly aligned himself with hatred. He’d assured her during their last conversation that rounding up Jews was no different than slaughtering cows!

Looking back on it, Constance could only explain her actions as a result of being too numb—too numb to feel anything but anger. Fritz, like most extremely stubborn people, had a strong constitution; if the belladonna hadn’t killed him by now, it wouldn’t. Remembering how he’d smiled when she’d offered to buy him a crêpe, she felt a fresh wave of nauseating shame. He’d trusted her, just like Charlotte had trusted her, and she’d betrayed them both. Even the Butcher of Marblehead, despite his many failings, understood the importance of loyalty.

In all the times she’d railed at Charlotte in her mind, she’d never pictured them loving each other. Until this moment, Klaus hadn’t truly been a real person. He fought for a cause she knew was wrong, but he didn’t; he thought he was doing the right thing, like all soldiers everywhere. The chief evil of war was never the soldiers, but war itself—more evil perpetuating more evil.

She’d laughed in Charlotte’s face when Charlotte had told her that, calling her a quisling and worse. But Charlotte wasn’t a Nazi and never had been, she was just an idealist in a world where idealism wasn’t possible. Staring at her friend, her heart clenched with a pain that was almost physical. Charlotte hadn’t chosen Klaus because she’d morphed into some shallow and grasping collaborator or from some sick sexual fascination with the uniform. She’d chosen the man, whoever he was under there, in spite of everything that made them so different.

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Charlotte stood for love; what did Constance stand for?

Unless she told the truth now, she’d never know.

Steeling herself, she took a deep breath. “Marta did it. Marta Kaczynski.”

Klaus turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “You know this how?”

“I saw her,” Constance replied, her voice trembling. “From the window. Detective Harrison was right, she hid the knife under the plate.”

His gaze darkened, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “And you did nothing,” he said, his tone dripping with contempt.

Constance looked down, struggling to find her voice. “I’m doing something now,” she whispered.

For a moment, Klaus said nothing, the silence stretching between them like a chasm. Then he nodded, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Tell me the rest, then.”

Her words caught in her throat, the guilt suffocating. She wanted to touch Charlotte, to offer the comfort of her presence, but she’d lost that right when she’d betrayed her friend for only being human. “Marta stabbed her again and again,” she wailed, her emotions overcoming her. She hid her her face behind her hands, as though to hide her failures. “It was so horrible.” She truly hadn’t thought Marta was capable of doing what she’d done—or that there’d be so much blood.

Klaus’s reply was grim. “Anyone,” he assured her, “is capable of anything.”

“I met Charlotte in second grade,” Constance began, compelled to explain something she knew she couldn’t. “She came up to me on the playground, because I was alone. I’d staked out a certain spot on one of those funny climbing domes, and that was my spot. She introduced herself, and I told her I hated her and to go away. But instead of telling me off, she sat down next to me and asked if I wanted to see her sticker collection. After that, we were inseparable.”

Klaus stroked Charlotte’s cheek, his touch tender. “I’d just acquired my home,” he replied, in his stilted English, “when I saw her for the first time. She was smiling. She saw me and stopped, of course.” His expression changed, his gaze clouding. “I’d scared her, although I hadn’t meant to. But I wanted to see her happy again, to hear that beautiful laugh.”

Constance reached out, touching Charlotte’s foot, a lump under the coverlet. A single tear rolled down her cheek, as she studied Klaus—the man who, despite everything, had loved Charlotte better than she ever could. “Charlotte is my sister,” she told him, her voice quavering with the thousand things she’d left unsaid. “She always has been and always will be. The best sister I could have ever imagined having. You’re…you’re going to take care of her, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Klaus said simply.

Constance stood. “I need to go home now.”

Klaus nodded, his eyes returning to Charlotte’s face, but there was a tension in his posture that hadn’t been there before. Constance walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the handle. An unspoken understanding lingered in the air between them, that this was her farewell. “I’ll tell her,” he said, his voice low and solemn. “That you were here.”

Her throat tightened, and she had to swallow hard before she could speak. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice breaking.

He nodded once, a gesture filled with finality. “Goodbye, Constance.”

She turned to look at Charlotte one last time, her eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. “Goodbye,” she whispered, her heart aching with the knowledge of what she was about to do.

As she walked home, the streets seemed to embrace a serene stillness, the usual city noises muted in a respectful hush. She felt an unexpected, profound sense of delight in these familiar surroundings. The air was warm, tinged with the first hints of autumn, and the late summer sun bathed the city in a golden glow. Every step she took felt lighter, her heart lifting with the simple joys of the day. The rustling leaves, the distant hum of life, the way the light played through the trees—everything felt in perfect harmony. She let herself bask in the moment, feeling truly at home and at peace with nature. The world, for once, felt just right.

There were soldiers on Ash Street, guarding the Excelsior Estate, but her house was deserted. She made herself a cup of tea and went to sit in the dining room. The last time she’d been at this table, she’d been with Fritz. It seemed impossible that he’d changed so much, or maybe that he’d never really changed at all. The boy who claimed that pigs could be taught to do tricks was the same boy who spoke worshipfully of Obersturmführer Moritz. He didn’t believe everything, now, that the SS taught…but he would.

And if he lived long enough, and was lucky enough, he’d look in the mirror one day and see Moritz’s clone.

She sipped her tea, feeling the warmth spread through her. The sun cast a gentle glow through the window, highlighting the garden where Bessie, having eaten all the lilacs, began nibbling experimentally at the fence. Bessie’s antics were a small, comforting distraction from the storm inside her. But the negative thoughts persisted, creeping in like shadows at the edges of her consciousness.

She stood up, moving to the window. She’d always been strong, or at least she’d tried to be. But standing here in the fading light, that strength felt like a distant memory, something she could no longer reach.

Fritz might’ve moved on from Feldwebel Jost, but she hadn’t. The morning after her first fateful visit to the ghetto, she’d returned. Jost had been there again, warning her once more that she wasn’t allowed in. Driven by desperation, she’d offered him sex in exchange for looking the other way. He’d humiliated her by refusing, stating bluntly that he wasn’t the kind of man who’d sleep with a woman who found him repulsive. Sensing her bone-deep embarrassment, he’d offered to take her out somewhere, suggesting that if they got to know each other better, perhaps they could come to some sort of arrangement. In response, she’d asked if this arrangement would include letting her see Alice. When he’d questioned if that was her only interest in him, she’d scoffed. What other interest could there possibly be?

The Americans hadn’t been so picky.

The man she’d thrown the apple at, the one who’d called her names, hadn’t wanted much. All she’d had to do was follow him into an abandoned apartment, then get down on her knees and bury her nose in his disgusting, unwashed crotch. Others had wanted different things, some of them painful and all of them unpleasant. She’d preferred the sadists, however, to the guileless fools who’d tried to be her friends. Some of them had even acted like they were taking her out on a date. Most of them paid her, out of decency, almost always in tins of sardines and other non-perishables.

Alone with her thoughts in the quiet, she watched Bessie digging in the ivy, blissfully unaware of the complexities of human suffering. She envied the pig’s simplicity, its ability to live in the moment without the burden of memory or conscience; her own mind, lately, felt so crowded. The remorse and self-loathing were ever-present, gnawing at her soul, but so was the flicker of defiance. Each time she degraded herself, she’d done so with a singular purpose: to help those who were even more helpless than herself. The sardines, the stolen goods, they’d been her currency of resistance, her way of fighting back against a world that had stripped her of dignity.

Her thoughts turned to the children who’d drawn shapes in the mold on the walls, their innocent fingers tracing patterns in the decay. They’d looked at her with wide eyes, asking for chocolate. She’d failed them, just as she’d failed Alice, Charlotte…and herself.

She wanted to hate.

People gassed on about how soldiers only fought to protect what lay behind, as though the reasons mattered. Then they looked to love for salvation, praising its omnipotence while castigating any who dared bow before its unutterable truth: that it was just another impulse, like the need to eat and sleep and defecate, only the poets liked it more. Love couldn’t conquer where every other impulse failed, and it couldn’t read lines on a map. But in this moment, standing in the aftermath of her decision, she felt a strange clarity: she could turn into the person she was becoming, molded by a world gone mad, or she could take one last stand against the encroaching darkness—impulsive, self-destructive, and riddled with regret, but resolutely herself.

She went upstairs, each step a farewell to the world she was leaving behind. She knew how to shoot, at least better than Charlotte did. Charlotte’s things hadn’t been moved across the street yet, and no one had taken her new gun. It wasn’t as though the Reich had a shortage. She racked the toggle back and checked the chamber. Empty. She popped out the magazine. Empty. That was smart, if not practical; leaving bullets in a magazine could weaken its spring mechanism. She’d learned that from her grandfather. She searched for, and found, a box of ammunition.

A few minutes later, she walked back downstairs and into the dining room. She took a deep breath, feeling an eerie calm settle over her. Pressing the muzzle of the gun into the roof of her mouth, she closed her eyes. Her final thoughts were of Charlotte, Klaus, and the future she’d never see.

She fired.