The stench of the coffee was overpowering, hitting Zelda like a wave as she approached August’s desk. She hadn’t minded it so much a moment ago, but suddenly the room was spinning as an unseen hand clenched at her stomach and squeezed. She barely managed to avoid dropping the entire tray on her boss’s head before stumbling out of his office and down the hall. The sound of rattling china shot spears of agony through her head, each step feeling like she was on a rocking boat, each shallow breath amplifying the roiling storm in her stomach.
As soon as she shut the bathroom door behind her, she gave out. Collapsing in front of the toilet, she gripped the sides of the bowl, watching as what little she’d managed to gag down earlier came rushing back up. For the first time in her life, food felt like a punishment, a cruel torment she couldn’t escape. And how could she explain any of this to August? He wouldn’t get it, obviously. No one would. Her life was spinning out of control, and all she could do was try to hold on.
She heard the door open behind her, then close again with a soft click. Panic set in as she recognized the sound of August’s boots clicking on the tile, stopping just behind her crouching form. “When were you going to tell me?” he demanded, his voice tense, almost accusing.
Curling up into a ball, she pressed her face into the cold tile and focused on not dying. “Soon,” she mumbled, wishing she could disappear.
“Soon?” His tone was skeptical.
“I wasn’t sure until last night,” she admitted. And that was true, too…more or less. She’d considered the possibility, or rather would’ve if she’d allowed herself to, but there’d been too much on her mind! The symptoms that couldn’t be explained by exhaustion could clearly be attributed to disgust. Her sister’s psychopathic nitwit of a boyfriend mentioning a ring the week before had also made her want to vomit. Charlotte had always wanted to be a housewife, but as Zelda hid the test—from Charlotte, Heidi, Ida, and ultimately, herself—she had to face the truth: that she didn’t want to be in a relationship at all. That she couldn’t be. The idea of settling down, of losing her independence, was suffocating. She’d always envisioned a different future, one filled with adventures and possibilities, not diapers and domesticity.
Groaning, she grimaced as another wave of nausea crashed over her. She wasn’t a toddler; she knew how people got pregnant…other people. Her sister was the grown up one, settling down; she’d been having an adventure. Charlotte’s health had been as much an excuse to keep her own affair with August hidden as her increasingly hollow assertion, to the mirror, that skulking around somehow made things more exciting. In truth, she was…embarrassed? Alex hadn’t been wrong in most of his accusations; August was her boss, and he was almost twice her age. What was she doing with him—and what was he doing with her?
She’d expected a lecture; her lover was good at those, and this was certainly the time. He’d castigate her again for being a child, and she’d conjure up some last dregs of bile for that perfect uniform. Instead, he sat down, leaning against the opposite wall. The silence stretched between them, the weight of his gaze bearing down on her until she sniffed and straightened.
He looked exhausted, came her initial thought. Dark circles had been etched under his eyes, like at that first fateful lunch what seemed like a lifetime ago. Her second thought was that she didn’t know if he was sober—or if he ever had been, during their time together. Making her laugh with those dry witticisms, even making love, she couldn’t tell and she didn’t know how to tell, and that terrified her. This man, whatever she felt for him, was an addict: to Pervitin, to cocaine, to whatever else he could get his hands on. He wasn’t stable enough to be anyone’s partner.
The realization twisted her stomach into knots all over again, leaving her breathless and reeling. She gripped the edge of the toilet, trying to steady herself. This was a nightmare; at any moment she’d wake up, safe and secure in her own bed…but he was still studying her, waiting for something. Even more terrifying than the idea of this man as a partner was him as a father. The Reich’s Marquis de Sade wasn’t about to push his child on a swing.
Her own naïveté made her want to bash her head into the porcelain. She had to tell him the real truth, the whole truth: their being together was a mistake and had been from the beginning. He’d pulled her like a moth to a flame, but in the end, she had no one to blame but herself—and now, much bigger problems than ill-advised obsession. The unknown was scary, sure, but she’d lived through an invasion! She had family support and, even if she didn’t, she was a modern woman and she’d come this far. Opening her mouth, she shut it again, not trusting herself to tell him what she needed to: that, despite her love for him, the chasm between them was just too great.
She was steeling herself to try again when he cleared his throat and spoke. His tone was matter of fact, almost businesslike, as though she’d presented him with a scheduling conflict on his calendar. “I can ask Adolf for help pushing through the paperwork. The minimum recommended lead time is three months, but we can be married within two weeks.”
Her heart skipped a beat. She blinked, struggling to process his words. “What?”
The faintest ghost of a smile twisted his lips. “It seems we’re operating under a deadline.”
At that, she couldn’t help but grin back. She longed to tell him yes, that all she fantasized about was being with him, that everything might seem impossible right now but it wasn’t. Change was a part of life, and what was life, after all, except one grand adventure? He could rise to this new challenge, and so could she. Nothing was promised, sure, but nothing was set in stone—and if the war had taught her anything, it was that life was too short not to love.
Except love couldn’t conquer all, and it couldn’t overcome reality. Being with August meant giving up everything: her ambitions, her autonomy, her very identity. Charlotte wanted this life: she’d become an officer’s wife and then a politician’s, trading her palettes for plates of canapés and withering into nothing as she made polite chitchat with her husband’s admirers. She might look back and wonder what if, or she might teach herself not to, but that was her risk to take—and one that, deep in her heart, Zelda knew she couldn’t.
Alex had tried to warn her, and now Alex was gone, fled to who knew where. The choice never had been between him and August, whatever he believed; the choice had been to follow her own heart, or not. Now, though, for the first time in her life, she needed to follow her head. What she’d had with August had been some kind of delirium, an inexorable pull that defied common sense and that they’d been equally powerless to resist. But was that love?
He’d thought he was in love before; he’d proposed before, to Anna, and had been married. Because, according to him, it’d seemed like the right thing to do. This wasn’t different, she recognized miserably. Anna hadn’t been pregnant, but societal expectations were a bitch and August did care about those, if not much else. How long before he repeated the same cycle all over again, growing bored and resentful, cheating, and then transferring to a whole new continent?
Slowly, she shook her head, her voice trembling. “No.”
“No?” The shock in his voice was plain, his eyes widening in disbelief.
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They faced each other across the tiny space, the air thick with tension, every unspoken word adding to the strain. “You’re only asking because of this,” she accused, unable to conceal her bitterness.
“I’m asking you now because of this,” he corrected her, his tone firm and insistent.
She wiped her mouth with some toilet paper, the act feeling strangely symbolic, and dropped it into the wastebin. “There’s no difference.”
“There is.” He studied her for a long moment, his expression difficult to read. “I always intended to marry you,” he stated eventually. His voice was softer than usual, warmer, delivering a quiet confession that felt almost out of place given their history. “Or,” he continued, a note of chagrin creeping in, “if that wasn’t possible, at least prevent you from marrying someone else.”
Clutching at her knees, she fought to suppress a curling tendril of hope. “Always?”
He seemed amused—and bemused—at her surprise. “Since our first conversation.”
At that, she managed a small chuckle. “Because I was so rude?”
“You had no fear,” he murmured, his voice tinged with admiration. “You looked at me and in that moment…I knew.” Pausing, a sour smirk twisted his lips. “Then, of course, I found out how old you were.” He let out a hollow laugh, running a hand through his hair as if trying to scrub away the memory. “I was disgusted with myself, which changed nothing. Revulsion is rarely an impediment to desire.” He glanced away, a flicker of self-loathing crossing his features. “I also knew that no one in your position could ever return my feelings. I’d attacked you, I’d arrested you, and let’s not forget that I was—and am—old enough to be your father.”
She’d lain awake at night, too, tormented by images she couldn’t banish.
“Indifference I could teach myself to accept,” he added, sounding resigned. “Even hate.” He let his words trail off, a frown creasing his brow as he looked at the floor. “But then I began to suspect that you might not feel either of those things and that was worse. Hope was worse.” His gaze clouded, then, the mask of control slipping for a moment. “I almost told you how I felt so many times,” he finished, his voice barely audible, “but I couldn’t bring myself to.”
Which, after his proposal, had to be the second most astonishing statement he could’ve made. “How come?”
His eyes met hers again, filled with a concentration that made her heart ache. “I couldn’t risk so much, and find out I’d been wrong.”
“I wanted to exasperate you,” she confided, her fingers twisting in her lap as she reviewed the catalogue of her own misdeeds. “I told myself it meant nothing, that wanting to shove you through the window because you’d uncapped your pen wrong was perfectly normal.” She scoffed. “Or that you’d ordered the wrong kind of sandwich for lunch, and then eaten it wrong, and that having an opinion one way or another was just part of my job.”
“I should never have forced you to work here.” He shook his head, his shoulders slumping. “It was incredibly selfish, which I knew when I approached Klaus about hiring you, but I had to keep you with me. Whatever the cost to you, I didn’t care.” His expression hardened for a split second, before he issued a self-deprecating snort. “The thought of you somewhere else, with someone else, was unbearable. I’m not proud of this, but if you’d fallen for some idiot in the office I would’ve done everything I could to sabotage it and probably killed him.”
She hugged herself, seeking some semblance of comfort, feeling sore both inside and out. “I didn’t want to be somewhere else.”
Someone knocked on the door, waited, and left.
“I love you.” His statement held a raw, unguarded edge.
Her throat tightened, and she bit back her response, hesitating and then finally deflating. “I need more time.”
His mouth firmed into a thin line as her words settled in. “Time for what?”
Dropping her head into her hands, she fought back the tears that threatened to spill over. “To think.”
“About?” he prompted, his jaw tight. “You told me you loved me, too, that this was what you wanted.”
“I wanted to be in love,” she sniffled, her voice quavering. “Not to be pregnant. I’m not ready.”
He took a deep breath, clearly making an effort to remain calm. “I can be a good husband,” he replied. His measured tone was like a glassy smooth horizon, stretching into distance, the illusion of peace masking the chaos that roiled below. “And a good father.”
She didn’t doubt his sincerity, at least not in that moment, but she knew deep down that the future he envisioned wasn’t one she could bear. That shared life loomed before her, endless and oppressive. “We might move into your house,” she allowed. “Or you might be generous and decide that we can find a new one together, that I can even pick the curtains. Regardless, you’d expect me to give up everything and have that be my world.” Gesturing helplessly, she willed him to understand. “It would mean the end of all my dreams and I’m…I’m eighteen.”
“What about new dreams?” he suggested, eyes turning searching.
“I don’t know.” Sniffing again, she blew her nose. “I just don’t know.”
He stared at her, incredulous. “The idea of a life with me is really this repulsive to you?”
She winced at the raw pain in his voice. “No,” she corrected him softly. “In this world.”
“This world is the one we have.” His tone was bleak.
“I’ll tell you what I do know,” she ventured, her voice fragile, almost breaking. “You make me feel things I’d never even known a person could feel.” She averted her gaze, her thoughts disturbing and conflicted. He also stood for everything she loathed, a fact that she’d conveniently ignored for far too long and couldn’t ignore any longer. They weren’t on the same side and never had been. “But I do not and will never believe what you believe, not about what families should be and not about the Reich, and I just can’t become June Cleaver.”
Longing lit deep within in his eyes. “Isn’t it enough that we want to be together?”
“I feel so awful all the time,” she whimpered. “Already! And I’m so scared. I’ve never been so scared, even when I was down in the basement during the bombing runs. Even when everyone around me was dying of cholera.” A single, scalding tear trickled down, her breath hitching in her throat. “Because then, it’d only been me. I wasn’t responsible for another human being and I—I can’t even look at toast without vomiting and water is starting to make me sick, too. I can’t….” She couldn’t want this future, however much she was supposed to.
He considered her words. “I see.”
But he didn’t.
And when he spoke again, it was clear that he’d reached some internal decision. The man who’d bared his soul to her was gone, replaced again by her employer. “You have to attend the execution,” he instructed her. “Then you’re going home and resting. We can discuss the situation more, tonight. With everyone here,” he added, “no one will find it strange if I invite myself to dinner.”
She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. “You’re firing me, aren’t you.”
“Yes,” he agreed without hesitation.
“Because now I’m not good for anything,” she grumbled, feeling even more useless than she had before.
He stood, and held out his hand. She let him help her up. He pulled her to him, and held her tightly, his embrace conveying a depth of emotion that words could not.