“Constance would hate this,” Charlotte murmured, rubbing her temples. She and Zelda were in the family room, watching an endless parade of strangers through the half-open door. This room, meant for families to gather before their big events, felt stifling and alien…and so, so empty. Her father should’ve been here, sitting on one of these chairs, along with Oma Jeanette and so many others. Instead, she and her sister were alone in this church full of strangers. There’d been unfamiliar faces at her father’s funeral, too—patients and their loved ones. They’d clasped her hand and sobbed about how much he’d meant to them. Sometimes it felt like he’d been gone forever; other times, she was so certain that he’d walk in any minute. Her life had become unrecognizable in the last thirteen months; even the crisp September air outside felt different.
She’d worn this same outfit then, back when the world still clung to some semblance of normalcy. The once well-fitting coat dress now hung on her thinner frame, and beneath her hat’s veil, her face was gaunt. Months of privation followed by weeks in the hospital had taken their toll. There hadn’t been time to take in her dress or find a new one, in the rush to get her home and settled. Without thinking, she shifted her weight, and a jolt of agony shot through her abdomen. Her face contorted in a grimace as, knuckles white, she gripped the edge of her seat for support. She took a few shallow breaths, willing the aftershocks to subside, her eyes squeezed shut. She shouldn’t even be out of the hospital, but she’d insisted; no matter how bad she looked or felt, she wouldn’t be denied this chance to say goodbye.
No one expected her to be cheerful, she reminded herself, or to make things better for them; for once, she could allow herself to be taken care of. Still, she felt like she was on display at the lowest point in her life. A single square of netting made a flimsy barrier against all the curious stares. There’d been plenty, earlier, when Klaus had lifted her out of the car and carried her inside. She hadn’t seen him since; he was in the foyer with his parents, greeting mourners who couldn’t have picked Constance out of a lineup.
Scowling, Zelda gestured towards the altar, just barely visible from where they’d been parked until needed. “It’s only a matter of time before they replace that crucifix with a gigantic Hitler.”
“Keep your voice down,” Charlotte hissed, her eyes darting toward the door.
A stout woman, moving with the throngs outside, shot them a surreptitious glance.
Zelda ignored her, leaning in closer to Charlotte. “A sword on the altar,” she whispered, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe some pertinent literature.”
Charlotte fixed her with a look and didn’t respond. Constance had been a Catholic, if not an especially religious one, although finding a church at all had been a struggle. The Catholic Church had never buckled under Hitler’s pressure like its Protestant cousins; many priests would only hear Party members’ confessions out of uniform, and others refused to hear them at all. St. Paul’s was what Klaus derisively referred to as a tame church, adopting what could best be described as a…non-confrontational approach. Now, she thought dourly, if only Zelda would do the same. But Zelda had been in a horrible mood all morning, lashing out at everyone when she wasn’t locking herself in the bathroom. Reaching out, Charlotte touched her hand. Everyone mourned in their own way, and Zelda had lost Constance, too.
Quietly, Zelda returned the gesture.
Charlotte knew that she and her sister were thinking the same thing: in death, Constance was surrounded by everything she’d been desperate to escape. Even the most somber suits were marred with red the color of blood, hundreds of swastikas mocking all that Constance had stood for. Constance had called Charlotte a traitor; either Charlotte was turning a blind eye to Klaus’s crimes, or she wasn’t and that was worse. Constance herself had refused to adapt, choosing death over the betrayal she saw in survival. She’d ended her own life rather than become like Charlotte.
Zelda’s brow knitted in concern at the anguish on Charlotte’s face. “You didn’t do this.”
Charlotte stared at her lap, her heart heavy with doubt. “I’m not so sure,” she muttered, unable to meet her sister’s gaze. The memory of their last, bitter argument played on a loop in her mind, each harsh word twisting her soul. How could she not be to blame?
“How bad’s the pain?” Zelda’s voice was soft, concerned.
“I’m on drugs,” Charlotte reminded her, her tone flat.
At that smallest hint of humor, Zelda smiled. “If you want more,” she advised, “August can give you some.”
“You’re not supposed to get high with your boss,” Charlotte admonished.
Zelda’s indignation was immediate. “I’m not!”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on with him?”
“Nothing,” Zelda mumbled, suddenly finding the program in her lap fascinating.
At some point, he’d become August, in place of Voight or that idiot. Charlotte had noticed, in the hospital, just like she’d noticed Zelda’s new earrings. Zelda had offered no explanation for the sudden familiarity, or for the cushion-cut tanzanite stones in her ears, pretending that neither one existed. Charlotte wanted to press her on both issues, but she literally didn’t have the strength. So her mind wandered back to Constance, unable to resist the pull of her own guilt. “Klaus,” she ventured haltingly, “thinks suicide can be a brave act.”
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Zelda’s sniff held a world of disdain. “Think for yourself.”
“That’s rich,” Charlotte snapped, “coming from you.” She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “All I mean is that not everyone agrees with the Christian concept of an afterlife.” She didn’t know if she accepted any afterlife, at this point, although she and Constance had both been raised to believe that taking one’s own life was the ultimate sin. In their upbringing, suicide condemned one to Hell, an unforgivable moral failing. Meeting Klaus had shattered that certainty. He saw death not as an end, but as a transition. In his Asatru faith, a person’s worth was measured by their deeds and honor among their peers, not by a singular moment of despair. This perspective, radical and foreign to her, suggested that Constance might not be suffering eternal damnation but should be celebrated for the courage she’d shown in life.
“I can’t stop believing in something, because it’s inconvenient,” Zelda griped, her voice tight.
“Wouldn’t you rather think that she died a warrior?” Charlotte pleaded. “That she went somewhere good?”
Zelda threw up her hands. “I don’t want to hear about your boyfriend’s lame religion!” she hissed, her frustration bubbling over. Then, shoulders sagging, she shook her head. “This Pagan stuff is weird enough, but the SS is weirder. August talks about their ceremonies and rituals at work. You know,” she added with a wry chuckle, “in between our drug-fueled orgies and trips to outer space.”
Charlotte blinked. “What?”
Zelda patted her knee, her expression turning sympathetic. “Okay, I believe you about being high.”
Charlotte watched people mill around in the nave, her gaze distant. The low hum of conversations, mixed with the solemn organ music, created a surreal backdrop for her thoughts. She wished she were more sedated, enough to dull the relentless ache in her chest and the questions gnawing at her mind. She loved Klaus, and he loved her. To her, that fact alone was proof that hope still existed, that the world wasn’t entirely bleak. But her own compromises, her own desire to bridge the gap, had made Constance feel even more isolated and alone.
She felt lost, trying to reconcile her brave best friend with the woman who’d seen death as her only option. Constance had always been so fiercely principled; had she felt that living in such an oppressive regime compromised her ethical beliefs so profoundly that death was the only way to preserve them? Or maybe it’d been desperation, like Klaus had suggested. The world had become so dark and cruel that the very act of drawing breath had felt like collaborating.
In death, Constance had reclaimed what the invasion had stolen, making the first—and last—choice that’d been entirely her own. Her suicide had been a final act of defiance, a message to Charlotte about what she herself was giving up. What they all were. Living under the Reich’s boot was worse than death, something Charlotte would see eventually, even if she didn’t today.
Klaus returned, looking profoundly uncomfortable. He loathed Christianity, especially Catholicism, and this was not his natural element at all. Father Kennedy, the priest, approached with a strained smile. He held out a hand, waiting for Klaus to engage in the required pleasantries. Klaus eyed it with trepidation, as though being asked to unclog an especially revolting toilet. Awkwardly, Father Kennedy transformed the gesture into one of welcome. He turned to Charlotte and Zelda, trying to mask his discomfort with a supportive demeanor.
The poor man looked like he wanted to run screaming from his own church.
Even so, he propelled himself forward with determination, taking Charlotte’s hand instead. “Constance is with God,” he assured her. “Please, don’t doubt this.” Clearing his throat, he spared a glance at Klaus before continuing. “Someone who makes a choice like this is…not in control of their own actions. For something to be sinful, by definition, it must be willful.”
Charlotte could do without the scriptural analysis, but she nodded. “Thank you.”
Zelda stood abruptly. “God is cruel.”
“God is all things and is outside of time,” the priest intoned. “He sees how we suffer, and—
“Does nothing.” Zelda’s voice cut through his useless platitudes. She held his gaze for a moment, then moved to stand by the door, distancing herself from the conversation.
Charlotte wished she could do the same, but striding purposefully was impossible when she couldn’t even stand unaided. The God of the Old Testament, she’d noticed, had a lot in common with Hitler—unjust, unforgiving, and prone to wiping out entire populations. It was no wonder Zelda had no time for this so-called comfort. Where had the church been when Constance was alive and desperate for help? In this moment, the hypocrisy of it all felt like a slap in the face.
Father Kennedy, in response, realized that he needed to be elsewhere.
Klaus helped her to stand, and she leaned on him. “I’m sick of being an invalid.”
“I know,” he said, putting his arm around her.
They moved to the front pew, the pressure of so many eyes suffocating. Her sister and his parents flanked them, all scrutinized by this sea of important strangers. The Reichskommissar and his family occupied the next row, their expressions a farce of solemnity—boredom poorly masked by feigned grief. Constance’s pallbearers, too, were strangers to her, with Fritz the only one who’d ever even exchanged a word. The pain in Charlotte’s insides flared, a searing reminder of her fragility. She gritted her teeth, the introductory rites blurring into a haze of discomfort.
As she fought to stay composed, her eyes scanned the room. The church was a patchwork of incongruities: serene saints gazed down on Nazi regalia, the dove of peace flying over emblems of war. Most of Constance’s friends were already dead, rotting beneath the waves of the brackish harbor. Others had fled, melting into woodland encampments, leaving Constance here with strangers.