Gretchen climbed out of her window, onto the porch roof, the cool night air brushing against her skin. A groan of exasperation escaped her lips. If she were a boy, she’d get to do things—real things. Instead, she had to settle for marrying someone who did things. The very thought made her clench her fists. She didn’t want to be stuck at home, or in some stuffy office, wasting away. She wanted to be in the field, commanding troops, making decisions that mattered. She’d be a fantastic officer, but all anyone would let her do was iron something. The unfairness of it all gnawed at her, simmering frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.
She shimmied down a conveniently placed tree, branches rustling under her weight. Even her father might notice this commotion, but her parents were out. They were always out. Her father had lost the chance to impress Adolf, and she found a bitter satisfaction in that. The Reichsminister and his wife had flown home after Constance’s funeral, leaving his underling scrambling. Gretchen was, she had to admit, relieved. Adolf watched her father maneuver through life the way she sometimes watched ants, with a cold, detached interest. She relished the thought that her father had made a fool of himself, feeling a dark sense of absolution in his failure.
Dropping to the ground, she smoothed out her blouse. Then, after a moment’s consideration, she undid an extra button. American women had real lives, not just some dull existence in the shadow of a man. Charlotte’s doctor was a woman, and scarier than most men Gretchen knew. Things were already changing around here, though, becoming more like home. In April, she and her parents had landed in a war zone. Seven months on, rubble was transforming into construction sites, and almost every pub sold Schnapps. Boston, like Fritz, was getting stuffier by the minute.
She skipped down Mt. Vernon Street, her shoes clattering on the cobblestones. The rising breeze was invigorating, making her feel more alive with every step. Her thoughts raced as she moved, her mind a whirlwind of frustration and longing. She wanted love, that was what her parents didn’t understand. But, more than love, she wanted life. The most wonderful suitor in the world would only romance her, like some knight from a fairytale, then lock her up in his castle and leave. She couldn’t resign herself to that, not at nineteen. She wanted adventure, excitement, to feel the blood pounding in her veins—not settle for being a decorative trophy.
Her father looked at her mother like Adolf looked at Ingrid, or Fritz looked at pie. But she also saw how her mother looked at her father, with a mix of resentment and resignation. It was a look that said she’d given up on her own dreams long ago, replacing them with gin and snark.
Gretchen shuddered at the thought of ending up like that.
Reaching the intersection, she stopped and took a deep breath. This was the hidden part of Boston where she hoped to find something more, something real…or at least something to distract her from the sucking void of nothing that was her life. Fritz arrived soon after, with his friend.
“Those are jeans!” he exclaimed, unable to hide his mortification.
His friend smiled, an easy grin spreading across his face. “They sure are,” he agreed, in English.
Fritz, ever the prude, pretended not to hear. “Gretchen, meet Rottenführer John Anderson.”
John held out his hand, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Yes,” she managed, her voice lost somewhere in her throat. “You, also.”
Fritz’s friend was spectacularly hot, every girl’s fantasy of the blond-haired, blue-eyed Viking.
He was also clearly American.
Fritz gave him a shove. “John’s German is terrible,” he explained, rolling his eyes, “but so’s your English.” John asked him something, then, and he replied. John laughed, and Fritz fixed her with a meaningful look. “Don’t ask me to translate anything gross, Gretchen. I mean it.”
Gretchen didn’t care what languages John spoke, or if he spoke any at all.
They started walking, the subdued night filling with the sounds of their footsteps.
“John,” she ventured in halting English, tilting her head, “that’s such an exotic name.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and inviting. “Not in Minnesota.”
“Minnesota?” She looked up at him, knitting her brows together. “What’s that?”
“Minnesota, sweetheart, is the ass end of nowhere.” John leaned closer, his eyes alight with amusement, as if he found her curiosity utterly charming.
Well, she wanted to tell him, so was Boston. Honestly, any place without a decent café might as well be the wilderness. “Are there bears?”
“More bears than you can shake a stick at,” he assured her, in that friendly tone of his. He went on to explain that he and Fritz had bonded over hunting, among other things. Fritz had to translate that part, while Gretchen wondered where the sticks came in. “Mainly though,” he finished, “we’re both hoping to blow this berg. In the spring, for Officer Candidate School.”
“Junkerschule,” Fritz corrected, his tone a blend of pride and impatience. “John was an Oberleutnant with the Americans.”
“First lieutenant,” John clarified, flashing her a rueful grin.
Her own smile deepened, eyes sparkling with intrigue. “Oh?”
“I guess they didn’t think my training amounted to much.” John’s confession was somewhere between a joke and an apology. “Told me I’d have to join up as a corporal.”
A statement that, Gretchen knew, most of the men in her life wouldn’t have the courage to make. She admired his honesty and self-assuredness, although she had to admit that it did throw her a little. “Was that hard?” she probed, interested in his problems despite herself.
“Not really.” He shrugged, his nonchalance almost disarming. “I knew this wouldn’t be the easiest thing I’d ever done.”
Fritz muttered something about their training being the literal worst.
“That’s what I told Moritz!” John exclaimed, a flicker of vindication crossing his face. “I feel about as ready to be in the SS as I do to dance with the Rockettes!” Running a hand through his hair, he shook his head. “Instead of making me a corporal, they should’ve made me a bathmat.”
A man on the other side of the street stopped and leered. “If you want dick, sweetheart, mine’s bigger!”
“Then whip it out!” she urged, waving him over. “And let’s compare!”
He blanched, she flipped him off, and he wisely decided to walk elsewhere.
“What?” she called after him, feigning disappointment, “leaving so soon?”
John whistled appreciatively. “She should be a corporal.”
She beamed, feeling a warm rush of satisfaction. Most men she knew, again, would either freak out or tell her to be ladylike. But John actually admired her sass! It was like finding out that her crush also loved her favorite obscure band. She liked that he saw her moxie as a strength, not a flaw.
Their destination appeared: a dimly lit basement club that reeked of stale beer and sweat. The walls were lined with posters of musicians and memorabilia, while a haze of smoke lingered in the air. The sticky floor, a mix of spilled drinks and grime, squelched under their shoes. Colored lights flickered in sync with the music, casting eerie shadows around the room.
Fritz froze in place. “Negro music!”
John’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t have rap where you’re from?”
“We don’t have anything,” Fritz lamented.
They made their way to a small, wobbly table near the back. Gretchen glanced around, taking in the eclectic mix of people—dancers, drinkers, and those just lost in the music. The pulsating energy of the club was unlike anything she’d ever experienced in Berlin, where the culture felt trapped in a bygone era. Here, in this chaotic mix of neon lights and thumping bass, everything so alive.
In Berlin, everything was rigid and controlled, with a heavy emphasis on tradition and propriety. The music was classical or militaristic, the dances formal and staid. But here, people moved with wild abandon, bodies swaying and gyrating to the beat. Everything was loud and raw, with a rhythm that seemed to vibrate inside her very bones. She loved it. The freedom, the energy, the sheer audacity! This was a world where anything was possible, where she could be anyone she wanted to be without judgment. It was intoxicating, and she couldn’t get enough.
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They got a few looks as they sat down, but no one said anything. Of all the girls at Flavor, Gretchen was the only one who’d brought soldiers. Their uniforms stood out starkly against the backdrop of casual and eclectic clubwear, drawing curious glances. However, once it became obvious that they weren’t there to cause trouble, people returned to their own activities. A waitress in a skirt even shorter than some of Gretchen’s came over, her bright smile and confident demeanor fitting right in with the lively atmosphere. “What’ll it be?”
“I’ll take a beer,” Fritz told her, his eyes scanning the room with competing curiosity and caution.
John flashed that amazing smile at the waitress. “And I’d like an old fashioned.”
“An old fashioned what?” Gretchen asked, genuinely puzzled by the term.
John snorted and gestured to the waitress. “You know what? Get her one, too.”
Their drinks arrived, and Gretchen was delighted to find that hers had fruit! It was colorful and exotic, unlike anything she’d seen before. John, who seemed to have expected her reaction, plucked out a cherry and sucked on it, his expression naughty. “I won’t be an officer again if I’m caught in a place like this,” he announced, his tone half-serious, half-joking.
Fritz sipped his beer, calmer now. “They’d have to admit that they were here, too.”
Negro music, as Fritz put it, was forbidden—along with everything else fun, at least for the men of Einsatzgruppe C. The stories he’d shared made it sound more like he’d been sentenced to a penal battalion than promoted. Moritz evidently thought his men should spend their nights doing calisthenics or something equally joyless; if he caught them here, Fritz’s nonchalant attitude notwithstanding, he’d probably flog them himself. For a while, she had been interested, wondering what Moritz’s reputation as a disciplinarian might reveal about his bedroom habits. He was also smoking hot, although he couldn’t hold a candle to John—and John actually smiled.
John caught her staring at him, which was embarrassing, but he only winked. “When Fritz first told me that there was someone he wanted me to meet,” he admitted, “I wasn’t sure what to expect.”
Fritz looked offended. “I talk to you, don’t I?”
“We’re roommates,” John pointed out, unmoved. “You have to.”
“No, I don’t.” Fritz kicked him under the table, his expression sour.
“Fritz is alright with a pistol, but his social skills leave something to be desired,” John offered, by way of apology.
She patted Fritz’s arm consolingly. “He’s from a farm.”
“I’m from a farm,” John countered.
Fritz’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re going to insult me,” he muttered, “find another translator.”
Ignoring him, she sipped her drink thoughtfully. “What grows on your farm, John?”
He fished out an ice cube, sucking on it, next. “Turkeys.”
Frowning, she tried to remember if she’d heard that word before. “A turkey is a…?”
Folding his arms, John flapped them like wings.
A third man joined them with a bemused look. “I’m just going to ignore whatever…that is.”
She introduced them, still giggling. “John, Fritz, this is Raheem.”
Fritz gaped, like a dinosaur had just wandered out of a nature show. “You haven’t been deported.”
Raheem blinked slowly. “And a warm welcome to you, too, brother.”
“All I meant was, I’ve never met one of….” Fritz swallowed. “I’ve never met a Black person before.”
“I didn’t think you meant a computer programmer.” Raheem’s tone was bland.
John, in response, looked pained.
Producing his work card, Raheem held it in front of Fritz’s face with a flourish. “Look here, SS man. I’m an essential employee, not to mention proud future citizen of New Afrika. I’m learning your fancy new operating system that we developed so I can teach it back to all of your dumb, uneducated asses.” He made an unflattering noise. “Do you even know what a gigahertz chip is?”
“You speak German?” John’s tone was wondering.
Raheem turned sharply. “You don’t?”
“He called me racist,” Fritz explained, looking a bit defensive.
John made a pacifying gesture at Raheem. “He’s from a farm.”
Raheem pointed at Fritz, still clearly offended. “Is he escaped livestock?”
“You’re not scared of me,” Fritz noted, his tone somewhere between pleading and relieved. “I mean, that’s good! I don’t want people to be. They are, I get that. Especially now.” He plucked at his uniform, looking frustrated. “I’m not really clear on what to do about it.”
Raheem digested this statement. “Have you, at any point, seen a mirror?”
Clapping him on the shoulder, John flagged down the waitress. “Let’s get you a drink, man.”
Raheem gave John a once-over, then shrugged. “Sure thing, chicken man.”
“Turkey,” John reminded him.
Leaning back in his chair and folding his arms, Raheem nodded. “You said it, I didn’t. But while we’re on the subject,” he continued, “since when do they let Americans into the SS?”
“Since this summer,” John told him, trying—and failing—to disguise his own discomfort.
“Wait.” Raheem held up a hand. “You turned your back on your country to hang out with him?”
Fritz sniffed, raising his chin defiantly. “Leni thinks I’m charming.”
Raheem fixed Fritz with a skeptical look. “Is Leni your dog?”
Fritz’s face flushed. “Leni is my sweetheart.”
“Yes,” Raheem agreed, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “but is she human?”
Fritz frowned, apparently sincerely puzzled. “I think so.”
“This, this is who conquered us.” Raheem sighed in exaggerated disbelief.
Gretchen changed the subject. “How’s Charlotte?”
“Thank God she’s alive.” Fritz stared at the table, his expression morose.
“I’m surprised that you’re alive,” she acknowledged.
“I am, too.” Fritz sipped his beer, his shoulders slumping as he remembered his ordeal. “Charlotte doesn’t like it when he hurts people. The Hauptsturmführer, I mean. That’s what he told me, when we met…after. Plus, the SS has already invested a lot in my training, so it’d be wasteful.”
“Well,” she managed, “that’s a relief.”
Fritz nodded, some of his natural confidence reasserting itself. “otherwise, he would’ve skinned me alive.”
Raheem leaned forward, concerned. “Metaphorically?”
Fritz shook his head. “No, literally.”
Raheem did a double take. “What?”
“I don’t believe that.” John waved a hand dismissively. “You saved her life.”
“I wouldn’t have had to,” Fritz replied, his voice heavy with regret, “if I’d done my job right. I should’ve made her use the toilet with me, then none of this would’ve happened.” He pushed his glass across the pitted and stained wood with a grimace. “Plus, what’s wrong with American beer?”
“Who is Charlotte?” Raheem inquired, looking puzzled.
John helped himself to Fritz’s discarded dregs. “The captain’s girlfriend.”
Raheem’s head whipped around so fast, this time, that Gretchen thought it’d fall off. “What were you doing, jerrycan, trying to mess around with your CO’s woman in the bathroom? I am a peaceful man,” he insisted, “but even I would feel compelled to harvest your balls in that situation.”
“No,” Fritz protested, holding his hands up. “I had orders!”
Raheem’s mouth dropped open in shock.
Gretchen, sick of men and their drama, stood. “This is boring. Let’s dance.”
She loved everything about American dancing; it was actually fun. She took Raheem for a spin first, his hands on her hips as she moved against him. He had a great sense of rhythm, and, happily, one particular rumor turned out to be true. She’d thought about confirming it to her father, but that…not so little tidbit really would kill him and she wasn’t quite as murderous as she pretended.
Then, she told Fritz it was his turn.
“Leni wouldn’t approve!” he objected, blushing so hard his ears were almost quivering.
Gretchen pulled him upright with a grin. “Leni isn’t fantasizing about the pole up your ass.”
Fritz, once he relented, proved teachable. He might just get those children yet. Gretchen caught John watching her, and wiggled her hips. Maybe he wasn’t so polite after all, waiting his turn. She danced with him after that, until she felt like she’d run a marathon, then decided it was time for some real fun. “Where are we going?” he wondered aloud, as she guided him into an open stall and pushed him into the chipped, graffitied tile. “And what are we doing?”
She reached for his belt. “What do you think?”
He hesitated, his hands hovering. “You’re sure?”
Her eyes met his, filled with determination and excitement. “Aren’t you?”
He nodded, his expression darkening.
“Lift me up,” she instructed, placing his hands on her rump. “Like this. Then kiss me.”
His fingertips dug into her flesh as he spun her around. “Yes, ma’am.”