“I saw myself, earlier.” Charlotte forced a wan smile, hoping to downplay her distress. “When they got me up to take a bath.” Before that, she’d had to settle for being wiped down like a credenza. Nurses were all sadists, but the positive aspect of this was that they understood pleasure as well—and how to deliver it. She knew the nurses liked her, which was why she’d gotten the good stall and help with scrubbing the grime out of her hair. She couldn’t lift her arms above her head.
“And?” Klaus prompted.
She looked at him, stricken, her façade crumbling. “And I’m hideous.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing against hers. “No,” he murmured. “Never.”
“You don’t know how bad it is,” she insisted, tears welling up. She turned her head on the pillow, staring at nothing. His searching gaze was as impossible to face as her own reflection, both a brutal reminder of everything she’d lost…and knew she could never regain.
He squeezed her hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “Scars are a mark of character.”
She fought desperately to keep her composure, but the tears were relentless, spilling over and threatening to become a flood. Everyone expected her to be strong, depended on her to be. She couldn’t give in now, however much she wanted to. Because she knew that once Klaus knew the truth, he’d leave. Before…this, there’d been such a divide between them, but she’d clung to hope. Love, somehow, was bridging the gap, and the world was becoming brighter again. Now, her dreams for the future felt like a cruel joke, slipping away with every beat of her aching heart.
The scars on her body were nothing compared to that wound. She was devastated, not just by the physical pain but by the looming certainty of losing him. The future that might’ve been had vanished with her attack, leaving her to grapple with the unbearable weight of impending loneliness. Klaus would move on, find a woman who could give him the family he wanted and that the SS commanded him to have. He came from a world where motherhood was a woman’s defining feature—a world in which she now had no place.
He knitted his brows, concern etched across his face. “What’s wrong?”
She swallowed hard, her throat tight. “The doctor tells me…. I can’t give you a child, Klaus. Ever.”
The world of the hospital continued on around them, an indifferent backdrop to her crushing despair. He absorbed this news in silence, his expression unreadable. She couldn’t curl into a ball like she wanted, so instead, she bit down on her lip and willed herself to vanish. Soon would come the inevitable apology, the excuse. Bearing children for the Reich was a man’s sacred duty, he’d remind her, especially a man who’d devoted his life to its tenets. Victory in the field couldn’t come without victory in the cradle.
“You should have some water,” he advised, holding out a glass.
“I’m not even twenty-two and my life is over,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
“Nothing is over,” he replied with quiet determination. “There are solutions to certain problems.”
She took the glass with trembling hands and drank, the cool water soothing her parched throat but doing little else. She wished his words could reach the deep, hollow ache inside her, but he was just being kind. Except instead of leaving, he handed her his handkerchief, his eyes never leaving hers. She blew her nose and handed back the glass, feeling utterly defeated.
He leaned forward, his expression softening with understanding. “You’ve told me about your mother. Now, let me tell you about mine. Not Ingrid,” he clarified. “Julia.”
Klaus almost never mentioned the woman who’d brought him into the world. Charlotte felt a twinge of surprise—she sometimes forgot that Ingrid was in fact his stepmother. The sudden shift in topic caught her off guard, too, but she found herself curious just the same. There was a sadness in his voice she rarely heard, and it made her heart ache in a whole new way. She could see the shadows of old memories flickering in his eyes, and she was eager to learn more about the part of his life he seldom shared…even if, she suspected, it wasn’t entirely positive.
“She was a musician, too.” His lips curved in the ghost of a smile. “My father met her, when he attended one of her performances. She was first violin of the Berlin Philharmonic, but she retired when she found out she was having me.” He paused, letting his statement hang in the air. “I don’t know how she felt about her decision, but she was a wonderful mother.”
Charlotte heard sadness in his voice and…guilt?
“She was always reading to me, singing to me.” Pouring Charlotte more water, he adjusted her coverlet. “We played games for hours, in the breakfast room, Mau-Mau and Elfern and whist. And then,” he added, “when I was four, she introduced me to the violin.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Four?”
He nodded, as though this were the most normal statement in the world. “At five, she hired me my first tutor. Later, too, I learned the piano.” The soft noise he made was almost a chuckle. “That’s an immediately satisfying instrument, but the violin is different. Producing a beautiful tone, or even a bearable one, takes years. Most serious students start before kindergarten.”
“When I was five,” Charlotte admitted, “I was using finger paints on the dog.”
Klaus laughed out loud at that. But then his expression grew pensive again. “One afternoon,” he began slowly, “my father came home early. That was a treat, I hardly ever saw him. I remember begging him to play with me in the garden, before noticing the look on his face and noting that my mother, for whatever reason, hadn’t yet come home from shopping.”
Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat; he’d never told her how Julia died. Her memories of her own mother were dim—she’d been four when Oma Jeanette sat her down to have the same conversation. Emma had died in the hospital, having Zelda, but Oma Jeanette had filled the void…until the siege. What should’ve made her hate Klaus had only drawn her closer to him, knowing that here was someone who understood. Acknowledging their shared grief had been the first hesitant step in forging a bond, which transcended the conflict between their worlds.
She touched his cheek, offering silent support.
“He sat me down,” Klaus continued, “and explained that I must be brave. She wasn’t ever coming home.” His gaze shifted, looking into the distance as if seeing the scene again in his mind’s eye. “She’d been hit by a car, while crossing the street. Stupid, senseless, and over in a minute.”
“How horrible,” Charlotte breathed.
A deep sadness settled in Klaus’s eyes. “My father and I didn’t talk much after that. He was around even less and, even when he did come home, I didn’t want to leave my room. So when Ingrid arrived….” His shrug was rueful. “I knew I’d been replaced.” He fell silent for a moment, after that, and then the strangest thing happened: a small, real smile curved the corners of his lips. “I tried to solve the problem by poisoning her,” he continued. “Putting things in her coffee, like that. I was quite determined but, somehow, she always caught on.”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Charlotte blinked, certain that she couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly. Equally as shocking as his admission, he seemed so nostalgic. Her pain medication was strong, but…. “Poisoning?”
“She cornered me after one particular incident, with strychnine,” he replied earnestly. “And announced that we were having a talk. I discovered that we could talk—that I had an ally and, more, a friend.”
Still working through her shock, Charlotte traced a pattern on the rough material of the coverlet. That Klaus could recount such a story, and with such fondness, was beyond unsettling. He’d been, what—eight when Ingrid married Adolf? He’d attempted his first murder in the third grade. “But Ingrid never told your father?” she ventured. “About the…incidents?”
“No,” he confirmed. “She told me that I’d suffered enough.” He took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. “Ingrid was the one who endured my endless recitals, who counseled me through rejection after rejection. Later on, she was the one who mediated between my father and me during our…difficult period.” His eyes searched Charlotte’s, as he grew quiet again. “I should tell you that I love both women equally, Lottie. Julia gave birth to me, and so much more. I am, inarguably, her child. And I do love her. But the truth is that I love Ingrid more.”
Charlotte held her breath, afraid to hope. The silence stretched, amplifying the pounding of her pulse in her ears as she forced out the next question. “So you aren’t…?”
“No,” he stated firmly, his voice filled with quiet conviction. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her lower lip trembled, and she sniffed. “But I thought….”
Klaus shook his head. “Love is what makes a family, Lottie.”
She smiled tremulously, feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion wash over her.
He leaned down, pressing his lips gently against her forehead, and for a moment, everything felt perfect. Then he straightened and grimaced. “Speaking of family, though, you need to come home soon so my parents will leave.” Picking up one of the dozens of cards on her table, his glower deepened. “I know you’re the one in the hospital,” he deadpanned, “but I am also suffering.”
She started to laugh, then hissed in pain.
“Some of these arrangements are from them,” he offered, gesturing offhandedly towards the extravagant display of flowers crowding the room. More and more had been arriving daily, until she felt like she was camping out inside a florist. “The most expensive ones,” he clarified.
“Who sent the others?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
He scowled at another card, the corners of his mouth turning down. “People who want to impress me.”
Which was all of Boston. She smirked. “I’m surprised Fred isn’t here, using his mouth as a vase.”
Klaus gave her a flat look, his eyes narrowing. “Not his mouth.”
She groaned, wincing as she adjusted herself slightly. “You can’t be funny,” she complained, trying to stifle a laugh. “My staples are pulling loose.”
“I’m not funny,” he assured her. “I’m never funny. You’ve been mainlining morphine, so you’re confused.” His tone was light, but his eyes were somber. He reached into a riot of purple hydrangeas and retrieved a card. “But for a change of topic, here’s a note from your sister.”
“She definitely doesn’t want to impress you,” Charlotte teased.
Taking the card, her heart warmed. In it, Zelda had quoted a line from Emily Dickinson, her favorite poet: hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul. Zelda had been here almost as often as Klaus, although Charlotte had had an equally difficult time staying awake for both of them. When she could manage to keep her eyes open, Zelda entertained her with stories about everything from life with Adolf and Ingrid to Bessie’s ridiculous antics.
Most of the time, Zelda brought Voight along, to lurk in the corner. Which, Charlotte supposed, made sense; he had a car, and she didn’t. Even so, Voight seemed like a very understanding employer. Perhaps he had a softer side, she mused, although Lord knew where he hid it. She was still wrapping her mind around him being a doctor. Zelda had explained, after she’d awoken one afternoon to find him frowning at her chart. He also really did seem quite familiar with her sister, but that had to be the drugs talking. Zelda had been through so much herself, and she was only eighteen; of course her boss was supportive, just like any responsible adult would be.
Dr. Bennet rapped on the door frame before stepping into the room.
“Hello,” Charlotte greeted, pleased to see the woman who’d saved her life.
Dr. Bennet returned the smile, her expression softening. “I’m glad to see you awake,” she remarked, her tone professional yet warm. “You’re making excellent progress.”
She glanced at Klaus, her eyes narrowing slightly, making no effort to hide her loathing. Then, with a determined shift, she redirected her focus entirely back to Charlotte. Moving to the bed, she gently palpated Charlotte’s stomach before putting on her stethoscope. Charlotte felt a surge of frustration and helplessness as endured yet another examination. After what felt like an eon, though, Dr. Bennet sat down, crossing one leg over the other. “I’d like to keep you for another two weeks,” she explained. “You’re sitting, and that’s good, but we need to get you up and walking.”
“Two weeks?” Charlotte tried to keep the whine from her voice and failed.
Dr. Bennet nodded. “You can go home after, but you might need a nurse.” With that pronouncement, she shot a contemptuous glance at Klaus. “Of course,” she added grimly, “that depends on how much your…friend is willing to do.” Her tone suggested that she didn’t think it’d be much.
“Whatever she needs,” Klaus replied, “isn’t a problem.”
Dr. Bennet fixed him with a dark look, which he returned, before ignoring him once again. “Wherever you are,” she admonished Charlotte, “you can’t have exertion. And I mean that. We need you out of bed and on your feet at least once every three hours, for a minimum of five minutes each time. Otherwise you’re risking a clot. You can’t shower alone, either. No kind of bathing activity at all, not without supervision. Hot water might drop your blood pressure.”
“I believe,” Klaus informed her, “that we can manage such a challenge.”
Dr. Bennet opened her mouth, then shut it again, her frustration palpable. “Hauptsturmführer, do you know how to give an injection?”
His glare turned challenging. “Yes.”
Sighing, Dr. Bennet stood. “I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose.” She patted the bed rail with that strange double tap common to all doctors, signaling that this interview was at an end. “Let’s see how you do, Charlotte, this afternoon. Then, tomorrow, we can revisit the issue.” She strode toward the door, stopping with her hand on the knob. “Regardless, no sex for another six weeks.”
Charlotte bit her knuckle, trying in vain not to giggle. The situation was both mortifying and absurd, but at least it was one that she and Klaus could face together. Klaus, for his part, seemed torn between gratitude to Dr. Bennet and the desire to poison her also. Then, when she’d finally gotten herself under control, he stuck his tongue out. She’d just finished scolding him, and he’d just started sharing his less-than-flattering opinions on this hospital, when Voight arrived.
This time, he was alone.
He nodded at Charlotte before gesturing that Klaus should join him in the hall. That was abrupt, even for him, but the set of his mouth suggested that something was seriously wrong. Watching Klaus stride out to join him, she felt a thrill of unease. Voight started speaking in a low tone, and Klaus stiffened, his expression hardening. He must’ve asked something, in response, because Voight shook his head solemnly. Then, holding up his hand, he mimicked placing a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger, the motion both swift and precise. Charlotte’s breath hitched, her blood freezing in her veins as she comprehended the horrifying truth.
Klaus returned, his face pale and his posture rigid. Charlotte’s heart pounded in her chest, her fear escalating. She gripped the coverlet tightly, her knuckles turning white. The room felt too small, the air too thick. It couldn’t be Zelda, she told herself; anything but that.
Voight’s boots were loud as he retreated down the hall while Klaus stood there, steeling himself.
“Who is it?” she managed, her voice the barest rasp.
He took a deep breath. “Constance,” he said softly. “It’s Constance.”