Zelda lay in bed and stared at the wall, her coverlet pulled around her like a protective cloak as she tried to become invisible. Passing out would’ve been mortifying enough if she’d been alone, but she’d gone bottoms up for all of Boston and awoken to August checking her pupils. Fred, standing in a circle of the curious, had announced loudly that women weren’t cut out for these sorts of things; everyone knew that blood, which they never saw, made their tender stomachs squeamish.
Regardless, she’d been pronounced well enough to go home and Moritz had taken her, the too-bright sun driving an ice pick through her skull as she walked to his car. Hours later, her migraine had faded to a dull throb, but she could still taste its sour-metallic remnants on her tongue. She felt like a wrung-out dishrag, but at least the nausea had gone—for now.
And what difference did any of this make to Thomas Müller?
Cut down in his footie pajamas now, or dying in his bed at 101, it didn’t matter; the answer was still the same. No one who’d been at the execution would remember his name within six months. And within three generations, no one would remember that he’d lived at all—no matter how long he’d gotten. Memories faded fast, and history was just a bunch of stories that made the most people feel the best about themselves. Individual lives and truths got lost in the bigger picture, changed around until they fit the most convenient narrative.
Everyone, for the most part, believed what they’d been raised to believe, and each year, fewer people remembered anything different—on either side. The Reich had been in power since 1933, and August’s father had been born in 1936. By the time August came along, in 1960, there hadn’t been a free election anywhere in Europe in almost three decades. She doubted he’d met anyone who opposed any of this, at least openly, until he’d joined the Gestapo.
Oma Jeanette used to tell her that everyone wanted to do the right thing, they just disagreed on what the right thing was. Zelda could still remember the warmth of their kitchen, the scent of freshly baked bread filling the air as they sat together, talking about mean girls and crushes. She wished more than anything that she could go back, take her seat at the table with her cinnamon toast and her tea and hear every story all over again. She’d focus this time, absorb each bit of wisdom, because her grandmother had been right—about everything.
The soldiers who’d stolen her country thought of themselves as liberators—and how could she expect otherwise? They genuinely believed they were bringing order and progress, because that’s what they’d been taught since birth, in school and elsewhere. Even if they’d wanted to expand their horizons, they couldn’t; all media, from the books at the libraries to the songs on the radio, had to first be approved by the Department of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda.
Her future brother-in-law quoted Nietzsche almost as often as he quoted Hitler; his second favorite philosopher had observed that morality is the herd-instinct of the individual. Klaus liked to explain that this meant good as a concept had no inherent meaning; success, in most situations, meant conforming. What else was social control, if not the collective decision to adopt certain norms? Bill had believed the same, rationalizing inhumanity as simply the cost of doing business. But movements endured beyond their leaders, and the fact that Bill was a monster didn’t make the resistance wrong; no one person’s failings could tarnish ideals that transcended them.
Likewise, Charlotte’s willingness to overlook Klaus’s failings didn’t transform him into Ted Hood. He’d embodied his own teachings as few men ever had, but holding potential leaders to such an impossible standard disqualified all of them eventually; even their generation’s George Washington had been, like his predecessor, merely a fallible human being. No one was perfect, Zelda understood that, which meant that no form of government could be. Everyone, regardless of political persuasion, was held hostage by their own flaws. But the Reich, like Klaus, was more than simply dysfunctional—the Reich was evil.
She’d tried to tell herself that the occupiers themselves were evil, but they were just as trapped in their role as soldiers as she was in Klaus’s house. Theirs was a world built on war and before a man could be anything else, he had to spend two years being cannon fodder. Fritz hadn’t wanted to go to Maine, just like she was sure Klaus hadn’t wanted to go to California, and what both men had seen had warped them; the only issue was of degree. But there’d be millions more violinists and farmers who sang to their cows, marching into battle—because anywhere that wasn’t the Reich endangered the Reich, until no part of the globe remained untouched.
King Edward, like the British Empire, was somehow hanging on. Italy and Spain, too, had remained nominally independent. What would happen, she wondered, when the glow of conquering America faded? This endlessly ravenous machine would have to keep itself going somehow, find something new to feed on. The Eastern Front ran along the Volga River, a no man’s land of isolated conflicts that sometimes flared into more. Representatives from the Reich and the Empire of Japan met periodically to renegotiate which territories they’d each absorb, once the USSR fell, but the USSR was still a formidable opponent and determined to reclaim its lost land. How long before the Reich invaded it again, full scale? Or ceded Australia to the Japanese, breaking the armistice with the United Kingdom? How long before the Reich invaded India, China, somewhere else?
What happened when everyone needed more Lebensraum?
There was only so much Earth to conquer.
What came next, the Moon?
Or would the Reich, in its desperation, turn on itself even more ferociously than it already had?
None of its founders were still alive. They’d died young, almost all of them, in a failed coup attempt. Things might’ve ended there and then if other governments had managed to unite against this metastasizing cancer, but everyone squabbled instead until new men stepped in to fill the void. Hitler himself remained in power until the year before Charlotte was born. August had been eleven years old, then, already well aware that he’d grow up to put on a uniform.
Did the uniform matter? She wanted to tell herself that it did, just like she wanted to tell herself that America entering the war would’ve created a brighter and better world where this darkest of timelines echoed only in some collective nightmare. But defeating evil was about more than fighting for the right side; if all it took for good to prevail was the good guys carrying the day, the world’s ills would’ve been banished long ago. And on any timeline, she’d be a coward who’d turned her back on her values to play Venus in Furs with someone who’d almost beaten her best friend to death and who’d probably inject cocaine into his own eyeballs if it’d get him high.
Part of her wondered if Constance hadn’t had the right idea.
A gun would be the surest method, and there were dozens of guns in this hellhole. Klaus kept most of them locked up, but not all, a fact not even Charlotte knew. Drugs sounded appealing in theory, but almost never worked. Helium inhalation, like most forms of asphyxia, was supposedly painless if done right, but that was still a big if. Too many things could go wrong, especially for someone who had no formal medical training. She didn’t want to wind up a vegetable.
But there was more to her hesitation.
Constance had been too consumed by guilt to see the truth, and Marta too consumed by rage: that one woman’s happiness, or lack thereof, was a drop in the ocean of time. Charlotte wouldn’t change anything by marrying Klaus, and believing otherwise was hubris verging on narcissism. A person’s value to the world wasn’t in some grand gesture, whether that be suicide or some other statement that this is wrong. Life might stop, for those who’d been caught up in the drama, but it wouldn’t change. No, making things better was boring work, rarely involving praise. It was showing up, day after day, giving the best of one’s gifts and trusting that to be enough.
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And if it wasn’t?
Zelda couldn’t begin to parse out what she owed herself, let alone what she owed this child; all she knew was that he—or she—would grow up without an aunt, because Constance had chosen to lecture them all with her death instead of actually living her supposed values. Constance could be here, right now, showing them all how to be good people. Instead, Zelda thought with a sob, she had to figure it out on her own. Placing a hand on her stomach, she looked down at it.
She hadn’t moved when, an hour later, guests started to arrive.
The sounds of Charlotte greeting the Reichskommissar and his wife filtered up through the floor, along with Gretchen cackling about something. She’d tried to call Zelda all afternoon, but Zelda hadn’t had the strength to deal with her prattling. What she’d told Charlotte earlier was true: she’d vomited all over her friend at the execution and needed to lie down. August hadn’t been able to leave, of course, or reach out since. Grimacing at the phone on the bedtable, she told herself that he hadn’t changed his mind and she was being a ninny. He’d arrive in person, soon, or so he’d claimed; she didn’t know what upset her more, the specter of him actually showing up, or the vague threat that he wouldn’t.
Sitting up, she reviewed the wisdom that soon her feet would begin to swell.
Charlotte complimented Marie-France on some new necklace, and Marie-France exclaimed in delighted thanks. She was too frail to be playing hostess, a fact that seemed to have somehow escaped Klaus. His fiancée might be the crown jewel in his collection, displayed for all to admire, but he still treated her like an object. She claimed she didn’t mind, that she found his nannying charming, but she didn’t laugh like she used to. Some of that, Zelda knew, was the pain. At some point, though, Charlotte had given up on happily ever after and set her cap for survival.
Her feelings for Klaus might be genuine, in some respect, but she never would’ve discovered them if she hadn’t plastered a smile on her face and assured her stalker that of course she wanted this date. What Charlotte called love, Zelda called Stockholm Syndrome. It was easy to mistake compliance for affection when someone else had the power to control every aspect of one’s life. Klaus had—still had—the authority, the influence, and the relentless determination to wear down any resistance. To Charlotte, eventually, that persistence might’ve seemed like devotion; to Zelda, it was just another form of imprisonment. The line between captive and companion, in this house and all over Boston, had blurred. Charlotte likely couldn’t distinguish between genuine love and the need to protect herself from further upheaval.
Gretchen wondered, loudly, where Klaus kept that Japanese stuff. Fred wondered if there was beer, instead. Adolf complimented Gretchen on her excellent taste, and Zelda heard the tinkling sound of whiskey being poured. Standing, wincing, she walked over to the bureau as Adolf and Gretchen clinked glasses. She changed, and she’d just started fixing her hair into a low bun when someone rapped sharply at the front door. Her heart thudded against her ribcage; August was here. Instinct screamed at her to hide in the closet, but she couldn’t put things off any longer.
She had to face the music.
Everyone was in the living room, pretending they wanted to be there. Marie-France had cornered August and was holding forth about something or other while he studied her with a sour expression. Hearing Zelda’s footstep, he turned sharply, his eyes locking onto hers as her breath caught. The rest of the world seemed to fade as she stood rooted to the spot, but she was vaguely aware of her sister’s sidelong glance and assertion that Marie-France would love seeing the new camellias in the greenhouse. Adolf decided that he, too, wanted to admire Charlotte’s valiant effort to civilize this terrible place and led the rest of the group out.
In the vacuum that remained, Zelda felt like some invisible fist was squeezing her lungs. She fled to the library, her heart pounding, and August followed, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room. As he closed the door behind him, she felt the heat of his presence, an electric tension crackling in the atmosphere. He moved closer, his eyes intense, and she could see the desire burning in them. Leaning in, he cupped her face, his lips just inches from hers. Her breath hitched and, for a moment, she wanted nothing more than to close the distance with her own. But reality crashed back, and she pulled away, glancing at the open door. “Someone might see,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“So what?” he demanded, his grip tightening as he refused to release her. “I don’t want to hide this.”
She bit her lip, trying to steady her racing heart. “We’re not hiding anything.”
His expression darkened. “Then why aren’t we telling people?”
“Telling them what?” she challenged, her voice rising despite her attempt to remain calm.
“You know perfectly well,” he shot back, his tone hard. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but escaping him proved impossible. He turned her face up to his, forcing her to meet his uncompromising gaze. “We’ve done nothing wrong, Zelda, but you want me to treat you like we’re strangers.” His frustration boiled over, his voice low and passionate. “How should I explain that you’re out of a job? Concealing a lover and concealing a child, moreover, are two separate things.”
“I know, but….” Staring into space, she searched for words that wouldn’t come.
“I deserve an answer.” The statement was quiet, but held a raw edge.
She couldn’t give him one, not tonight, not the answer he wanted. “You’re asking me to change.”
“No,” he hissed, his voice low and fierce, “I’m asking you to grow up!”
Her eyes met his, the hurt she saw there almost too much to bear. “What would you give up,” she asked, “to be with me?”
He studied her, for a long moment, before answering. “What would you ask me to?”
Something deep inside her felt like it was breaking, as she forced the plea from her lips. “August….”
“August, what?” His tone softened, frustration warring with desperation as he touched her cheek. “Whatever differences we have, Zelda, we can work them out.”
And she wanted so badly to believe him, but she couldn’t, not given everything she knew. “Even if I wanted to be someone else,” she muttered, staring at the floor, “we’re not on the same team.”
“We’re on each other’s team.” He spoke with quiet conviction.
She swallowed hard. “Are we?”
His eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. “How can you ask me that?”
The words seemed to come from somewhere else, but she spoke them with a strange kind of calm. “Because we never would’ve met, if you hadn’t come here to destroy everything I love.”
“That didn’t matter before.” His statement held a world of contempt.
“It did.” She rubbed at her temple, exhausted by the weight of her own choices. “I just told myself it didn’t.”
He touched her cheek, his fingers trembling slightly. “We’re just two people, not armies and conflicts.”
Shaking her head, she willed him to understand the enormity of their situation. “Nothing’s that simple.”
His mouth firmed into a thin, flat line. “You knew who I was when this started.”
“And I love you.” She took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the tears well up. “More than you could ever possibly know. But….” Glass shattered in the hall, and Marie-France exclaimed in dismay. “Look at my sister,” she continued, as Charlotte convinced the other woman not to kneel down in the shards. Marie-France had arrived drunk, and Zelda heard the strain in her sister’s voice even if no one else did. “Charlotte does whatever Klaus tells her to, no matter how much she’d rather be elsewhere. That makes him happy, sure, but what about her? She tells me that this is what she wants, and maybe it is but…it’s not what I want.”
“I’m not asking if you want what Charlotte wants.” August pitched his voice low, his gaze intense and pleading. “I’m asking if you want me.”
Wrenching herself free from his grasp, she turned away, her heart breaking. “I can’t do this,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. With a final look of sorrow, she went in to dinner, leaving August standing there, her heart feeling like it’d been torn from her chest.