Zelda buttered a roll, only half-listening to Gretchen’s incessant chatter about the execution. “I still think it has to hurt,” Gretchen declared, her voice unusually somber as she popped a piece of bread into her mouth. Zelda bit back the urge to suggest Gretchen volunteer for firsthand experience. Across the table, Charlotte’s face was already pale and drawn, despite her claims that the pain medication was effective. Klaus’s hand rested on her shoulder in a gesture of support, while August observed Fred with the faint disgust of a scientist examining a specimen.
The Reichskommissar dredged a piece of his own roll in sauce. “Being executed?”
“Heinz claims it’s painless but, honestly, how would he know?” Gretchen waved her fork dismissively, her eyes narrowed in disdain. “For that matter, how would anyone?”
Grunting, Fred grimaced at his daughter. “Heinz. We’re on a first-name basis now?”
Gretchen rolled her eyes and stabbed a potato with her fork. “God, Dad.”
Adolf watched the exchange over the rim of his glass, amusement quirking the corners of his mouth. “She does bring up an interesting point.”
Klaus, who’d been meticulously cutting his roast into precise cubes, put down his fork and stared at her, his expression cold. “Tell me, for what possible reason should I care if a man like that feels pain? I hope he does.”
“No, no.” Fred sniffed, pushing a green bean around his plate. “Hurts less than a trip to the dentist.”
Zelda’s hand clenched around her napkin, the urge to hurl the entire basket of rolls at his bowling ball of a head almost overwhelming. “You survive the dentist.”
Frowning, the Reichskommissar looked up. “Actually, not everyone does.”
Ingrid, elegantly poised with her glass of wine, sipped calmly. “I like my chances with the dentist better.”
“Well.” Marie-France’s shiver was dramatic. “We’re quit of the man, regardless.”
August made that face he made when he wanted to be rude and couldn’t.
“Yes,” Fred agreed, although he seemed uncertain. “Speaking of which, Adolf, that was a stirring speech.”
“Just like all the rest.” Patting her husband on the knee, Ingrid flashed him an indulgent smile.
Zelda couldn’t decide if Ingrid was mocking Fred, mocking Adolf, or trying to help them both out. And where, she wondered incongruously, did the woman shop? Her hat tonight was something Morticia Addams would love, a cored-out pheasant staring glassily from atop her severe chignon. She and Adolf seemed happy, sure—but as a newly minted master of disguise, herself, Zelda was more than a little jaded. Life with Adolf had to suck, although Ingrid took his foibles in stride, like she took everything in stride. She was an enigma, a woman who managed to seem both deeply committed and entirely detached.
Marie-France, meanwhile, didn’t care who knew that she hated her husband. Watching her knock back her umpteenth martini, Zelda wondered how two people could go from wanting to spend their lives together to avoiding being in the same room. Did passion become complacency, through some inevitable process, couples confusing love with the lies they told themselves? She glanced at her untouched drink, the truth of her situation cutting through the fog of unreality that seemed to have her in its grip. She couldn’t drink, she couldn’t do anything fun, or she’d hurt the baby. Oh, God, there was a baby.
Klaus poured himself more wine. “The men Smith called the Founding Fathers weren’t so different from us,” he remarked, apparently unperturbed. “They believed in the natural hierarchy, that some people were simply better suited to lead than others. They owned slaves, subjugated the native populations, and gave their own women far fewer rights than we give ours. They built a society where the superior ruled over the inferior. Their vision of democracy wasn’t about equality, in the end. It was about maintaining their own power and control.” He paused, his expression growing contemplative. “Their values align with ours more than people care to admit.”
Fred grunted again, his eyebrows shooting up as he was overtaken by a sudden burp.
Marie-France, her chins dimpling, turned her glassy-eyed stare on Charlotte. “We haven’t had a chance to properly congratulate you, dear, on your engagement. That was a lovely announcement, too, in the Boston Globe,” she added, studiously ignoring Fred.
Charlotte blushed, embarrassed at the attention. “Thank you.”
Gretchen’s answering smirk wasn’t pleasant. “Not that it was a surprise.”
Adolf, taken aback by her abrasive tone, arched an eyebrow. “Hopefully not.”
Flaring her nostrils, Marie-France forged on. “Have you set a date?”
“The earliest appropriate date is three months out,” Klaus informed her, his tone businesslike. He and August had more in common than either man would like to admit, both sharing the same distaste for discussing personal topics—and slavish devotion to someone else’s rules. Zelda, who could think for herself, considered telling them that Charlotte liked summer weddings.
“It’s the end of October.” Fred furrowed his brow as he did the mental math. “You’re getting married in February, then?”
“Oh,” Gretchen exclaimed, clapping her hands together like a seal. “Valentine’s Day!”
Judging by Klaus’s reaction, Gretchen might have just suggested getting married at the dump. “Valentine’s Day is a Christian holiday,” he reminded her icily, “and I am not a Christian. Nor do I wish to celebrate the feast day of a man who seduced his jailer’s daughter after dodging the draft.”
Charlotte glanced at her fiancé, her cheeks coloring slightly.
Zelda, bristling at his tone, leaned forward. “And what does Charlotte think?”
“She understands the importance of setting a good example,” Klaus replied, his voice a low and sibilant hiss. Charlotte, beside him, shifted in her seat and studied the tablecloth. He’d taught her well, the giggling girl who’d made valentines year after year for the entire neighborhood. She’d go along with his Asatru rituals, still sneaking in her own prayers when no one was looking, and tell him that turning her back on her family’s traditions was what she wanted.
Heidi appeared with more rolls, quickly making herself scarce again.
Marie-France kept talking, unfortunately while she shoveled in what little remained on her plate. “After the wedding, Charlotte, you can join the National Socialist Women’s League!”
“I’m sure that she absolutely cannot wait.” Ingrid’s tone was dry, as she hid her mouth behind her napkin.
Tone being lost on Marie-France, she nodded. “It is fun. Last week we learned how to make butter, along with the proper uses of butter! Next week, we’re learning how to use rayon. Did you know, it’s made from cellulose?” Her face flushed, as if she were on the verge of having an orgasm. Even Zelda didn’t like fabric that much, and she wondered what happened at these meetings.
“Then there’s the scrap metal drive,” Fred volunteered dutifully. “That’s exciting.”
Zelda smiled bloodlessly at Klaus. “For her world is her husband, her family, her children, and her home. That’s the organization’s motto, isn’t it?” A shorter and more accurate motto would be welcome to Hell, but again no one wanted her opinion. Marie-France, though, was bobbing those chins sagely; even Ingrid appeared to think she’d said something sensible. What was wrong with them, Zelda wondered, that they heard wisdom in these absurdities?
How could anyone sit here, pretending anything was normal?
How could she?
Gretchen tapped her spoon against her chin. “What are women who don’t get married supposed to do?”
Marie-France, questing around for something else to eat, wrinkled her nose. “Why are you asking?”
Fred shrugged. “They join the SS-Helferin, I suppose, or work as telephone operators.”
In English, SS-Helferin meant SS helper women. Zelda’s thoughts blackened further. Within the Reich, all women were nothing but helper women. Their value was measured by their ability to serve, to conform, to disappear into the roles assigned to them. The thought made her stomach churn, a bitter reminder of the future she desperately wanted to avoid for herself and—oh, God. How could she raise a child in this world, where every possibility for independence and self-actualization was crushed under the burden of a uniform and a propaganda slogan?
“There are, in life, both essential and eternal rules of order.” Klaus glared at Gretchen, probably fantasizing about skinning her alive. He’d supposedly done that to someone, once, although gossip varied on whether Moritz had helped him. One thing Moritz didn’t do was recite Goebbels’ speeches to anyone within earshot; Klaus seemed to be the talkative one in all of his relationships, and he was warming to his subject. “Rules,” he continued, “that before the Reich, women violated in a barren—and I might add futile—attempt to adopt masculine traits.”
Charlotte said nothing but, given her expression, she didn’t have to.
Not that Klaus noticed, of course, or cared. “What we know to be true, however, is that women should seek respect where it’s possible for them to achieve it.” He’d taken on a lecturing tone, as though he were extolling the virtues of toilet training to an especially hard-headed toddler. “Just like men, in turn, should seek respect where it’s possible for them to achieve it.”
Zelda suppressed the urge to snort. “Which, for women, is in the home?”
Klaus spread his hands. “You don’t notice me in the kitchen.”
“Wow, Klaus.” Gretchen pantomimed fanning herself, overcome with lust for his chauvinism. “So romantic.”
Fred’s mouth dropped open, his face flushing red. “Gretchen!”
“Your parents can’t care for you forever, Gretchen.” Klaus’s tone was mild enough, but his eyes narrowed slightly as he made this pronouncement.
Gretchen’s tone, in turn, was acidic. “So some man should babysit me, instead?”
“No man is masochistic enough,” Fred muttered under his breath.
Klaus, ignoring him, regarded Gretchen evenly. “You seem to have missed that it’s the woman who cares for the man.”
“Right.” Zelda’s knuckles were white as she gripped her knees. “Because she’s the only one who can find the oven.”
Klaus’s expression softened for a moment, an uncharacteristic hint of warmth flashing in his eyes. “Because her husband is nothing without her,” he stated simply. Charlotte brushed her fingertips against his, that enormous rock glittering in the low light, as he leaned over and kissed her just above the ear. Fred cleared his throat, glancing nervously at Adolf, while August’s glare deepened.
“What a delightful conversation,” Ingrid remarked breezily. “Someone pass the potatoes.”
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
“Zelda,” Marie-France interjected, her voice syrupy sweet, “have you given any more thought to Berlin?”
“No,” Zelda grated. She imagined her downturned mouth as conveying resolve, mixed with hints of frustration and defiance, but she probably just looked petulant.
Marie-France, undeterred, spilled her copious bosom across the table as she leaned forward. “In Berlin, you can meet a man. There are so many there, and you’re a wonderful catch. You’d have them lining up around the block in no time, ready to—
Gretchen placed a warning hand on her mother’s. “That doesn’t mean what you think it means.”
“Propose,” Marie-France finished lamely.
Even worse than the stench of the roast was this hateful cow’s constant probing into her private affairs. That there might be more to life than men had eluded both Marie-France and her daughter, both of whom loved to assault Zelda with their condescending suggestions! “I’m fine in Cambridge,” she asserted, hoping that her flat delivery would at least give Gretchen the hint.
Marie-France, who didn’t like to be gainsaid, pursed her lips. “Really?” she challenged. “You must be seeing someone, then. I can’t think of another reason for anyone to stay in this godforsaken hellhole. I mean, not who doesn’t have to. Look how miserable poor Gretchen is.”
Fred coughed, his hunted gaze darting nervously from guest to guest. “I doubt that has to do with the quality of available suitors,” he ventured cautiously.
“I met Klaus,” Charlotte pointed out, a bit too robustly in Zelda’s opinion.
“And wasn’t that a minor miracle!” Marie-France downed her wine, next, a thin sheen of perspiration breaking out on her brow.
Adolf turned sharply. “I wouldn’t call it minor.”
Ingrid rescued the bottle from Marie-France, or maybe it was the other way around, her eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter. “Happiness is only real when shared,” she reminded her husband.
Mollified, he winked at her. “And I’m fortunate to have married my best friend.”
“He’s writing a new book,” Ingrid announced, her attempt at changing the subject as noble as it was doomed. She might be more socially adept than Marie-France but this dinner party, Zelda decided, was beyond saving. She wished August would make an effort; he at least knew how to harangue someone without accidentally implying an orgy, but he wasn’t doing anything! He wasn’t even smoking, just sitting there and radiating tension like the world’s most unpleasant statue.
Hopeful for reprieve, though, Fred brightened. “Are you editing this one also, Ingrid?”
“Ingrid is the only editor I’ll tolerate,” Adolf assured him, his tone warm with affection.
Fred nodded, pretending to understand. “What’s this one about?”
“Mushroom Hunting in the Third Reich is the working title,” Adolf announced proudly.
“I can’t decide if I’m terrified of him eating the wrong one,” Ingrid confided, “or looking forward to it.”
“Darling,” Adolf teased, “a less confident man would be concerned.”
“Adolf just loves what the French do with mushrooms,” Ingrid informed Fred, her voice brimming with a mixture of pride and amusement.
Gretchen, working through this statement, tapped her lower lip. “But can’t doctors recognize poisons?”
Marie-France looked put-upon. “Adolf, dear, is a PhD.”
Gretchen turned to him, puzzled. “In what?”
“Nietzsche,” Adolf replied, a note of veneration in his voice.
Finally, August remembered that he was awake. He straightened, setting his glass down with deliberate precision, and turned to Adolf. “This is your fifteenth book, correct?”
“Yes,” Adolf agreed, pleased as usual to be discussing himself. “After which, I’m considering writing about our family’s experience in Massachusetts.” He flashed a knowing grin at Klaus, who pretended he didn’t exist, before continuing. “At work, we’re reviewing possible plans for partitioning the United States, as it’s far too large to govern as a single entity. New England will be one protectorate, we’ve decided, and California another. What’s in between is what we need to figure out.” Steepling his fingers, he refocused his attention on his ersatz son. “In terms of the American South, August, what’s your opinion on the proposed Negro nation?”
“Their leader, Malcolm X, is a brilliant thinker.” August took a moment, collecting his thoughts. “The man wants only the improvement of his people, and nothing from us. If he’s willing to negotiate an agreement, I think we should. New Afrika would be a formidable ally, as well as trading partner.” His tone was measured, but there was a spark of admiration in his eyes.
Gretchen’s mouth formed into a moue of distaste. “What kind of name is Malcolm X?”
August’s expression soured. “The X,” he explained, “is a stand-in for his unknown African name. It symbolizes, too, his rejection of his slave name. The master who owned him, he said, put that name on his family to denote that they were property. He’s reclaiming his heritage, which we should admire.” He leaned back slightly, eyes flicking over the table, assessing reactions.
“Malcolm X,” Fred countered, his tone disparaging, “advocates for violence as a solution to oppression.”
Klaus’s gaze sharpened. “So do we.”
Marie-France, who might or might not be able to find the United States on a map, simpered at him. “Tell us, Klaus, when are you going into politics?”
Klaus, his posture rigid, looking like he was counting to ten. “Not tonight.”
As oblivious as ever, Marie-France waved a hand across the table. “Zelda, you haven’t touched your wine.”
Zelda, for the first and likely last time, knew exactly how Klaus felt. “You can have it,” she retorted.
“No, dear.” Marie-France’s tone was insufferably patient, like she was trying to train a dog. “It’s quite good. You should be adventurous, try something new.”
In her mind’s eye, Zelda saw herself grabbing the bottle and smashing it into the cow’s face. “I’m fine,” she repeated instead, although at this point she couldn’t hide her simmering resentment.
“I know American wines aren’t famous,” Marie-France cajoled her, “but just one little sip and—
Something inside Zelda snapped. The weight of the evening—of weeks and months of bottled-up frustration, anger, and helplessness—was suddenly too much. She felt suffocated by the oppressive atmosphere, by the insipid prattle of these morons who couldn’t begin to fathom her pain. She was tired of pretending, of hiding her true feelings, of being polite when all she wanted to do was scream. The constant pressure of maintaining a façade, of keeping up appearances, and of holding herself together for the sake of Charlotte and everyone else who had real problems crushed her spirit. She was just some silly, feckless teenager, it wasn’t like she’d lived through a war or anything. Her father and grandmother hadn’t died, apparently, so she’d better grow up and make herself useful for once as how could she possibly need support? Her exasperation with her own helplessness boiling over, she brought her fists down on the table. “I can’t drink, you meddling old bat!” she shouted. “I’m pregnant!”
The words burst from her with a force that shocked even herself. Her voice trembled with the raw intensity of her confession, her eyes blazing with competing fury and despair. The room fell silent as dishware rattled into nothing, everyone wearing identical expressions of disbelief. She felt exposed, vulnerable, but also…oddly liberated. The truth was out, and there was no taking it back now.
Gretchen was first to break the silence, throwing her head back and cackling. “Yes! I knew it!”
Fred dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Who’s the father?”
August pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes fixed on the Reichskommissar. “I am.”
Klaus pushed his chair back with a scrape, his face a mask as he spun on his heel and stormed out of the room. Charlotte stared after him, wondering what to do. She’d spend a lot of her married life doing that, Zelda suspected. August’s gaze flickered to Adolf, no doubt bracing himself for worse, but he needn’t have worried; Adolf looked like Zelda had, arriving at the Magic Kingdom for the first time. “This is exciting news!” he gushed. “Congratulations, August!”
“Yes,” Fred managed, although his strained joviality seemed more like a symptom of apoplexy. “Congratulations.”
“You?” Marie-France’s tone was accusing, her eyes narrowing into sharp slits as she crossed her arms and glared at August. “But you’re twice her age.”
August’s expression soured even further, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Thank you, madame, for that keen insight.”
Marie-France’s mouth dropped open, her face contorted with confusion and scorn. She leaned forward, tapping her manicured nails on the table with a sharp, staccato rhythm. “Really,” she huffed, her gaze darting around the table, seeking support. “What is it with the women in this family?”
Adolf, undeterred by this latest eruption, beamed. “You’re not about to name anyone after your father, August. What about your father, Zelda? What was his name again?” He hummed thoughtfully. “Bernd? Berengar? Charlotte keeps telling me, but I keep forgetting. Bagal?”
“Benjamin,” Zelda corrected, her voice tight.
“Oh, no.” Adolf reared back, his expression one of exaggerated horror. “That’s a terrible name.”
August’s cynical snort was pitched for Zelda’s ears alone. Their eyes met and, in that moment, a glimmer of mutual understanding passed between them. She risked a hesitant smile, the corners of her mouth curving ever so slightly as she arched an eyebrow. “This is going well,” she remarked.
He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “Isn’t it just?” he murmured, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
For a brief moment, the din of the room faded into the background, leaving just the two of them in their small, shared bubble of connection. Their bond had never been about conventional romance, born instead from sardonic amusement at a world that rated—at best—their mutual disgust. The simple reassurance of his presence felt like an oasis in the desert… a reminder that maybe, just maybe, things weren’t so bad after all. But Marie-France was still talking, and so was Adolf, and Zelda was still worried that one of them would kill the other.
“I always thought Hermann was a wonderful choice,” Adolf offered. “Or Thor!”
Charlotte muttered an excuse and went in search of Klaus, clearly needing a break from the madness—or concerned that he might be about to burn the house down, he wasn’t the most stable man.
“Ingrid and I ran out of children before we got to either of those,” Adolf complained.
“What’s wrong with Benjamin?” Fred asked, his confusion genuine.
Nobody answered.
“What about Herleif?” Adolf inquired, having slipped into full professor mode. “That comes from the old Norse and means descended from warriors. Then again,” he added, “Herman also means warrior. As does your middle name, August. And, of course, you’re also named for one of the greatest emperors! Augustus Octavian restored peace after Caligula, and—
“What is your middle name?” Gretchen interrupted.
“Armin,” August replied tersely.
“That sounds Persian.” Marie-France’s observation sounded like an accusation.
Zelda wondered how someone as smart as Adolf could be so stupid. “What if the child is a girl?”
Ingrid placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “That does happen, in some families.”
She, herself, had given birth to five boys and adopted a sixth.
“Hermione!” Adolf clasped his hands, his delight almost childlike.
Zelda wondered if she could vomit on command.
“Darling,” Ingrid suggested gently, “they might prefer to name their own child.”
Marie-France, meanwhile, had the bit in her teeth and wasn’t about to let go. “Zelda,” she insisted, “what does your father think of this? He and August must be about the same age, no?”
“My father is dead,” Zelda seethed.
Marie-France threw her hands up, reveling in her vindication. “Well, that explains everything!”
Zelda admonished herself that murder was wrong. “My father, if he were alive, would turn fifty next month.”
“Old enough to be August’s father,” Ingrid added unhelpfully.
“There are no good nicknames for Hermann,” Adolf lamented, his voice drifting aimlessly.
August, at long last, decided on that cigarette. Retrieving the slim case from his pocket, he tapped it against his hand before selecting one and lighting it with a casually practiced movement. The flame flickered briefly, casting shadows across his strained features.
“What are his friends supposed to call him?” Adolf mused. “Herm?”
Marie-France shrugged airily. “I never had a nickname.”
“At least not one that can be repeated here,” August volunteered darkly, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.
Heidi reappeared, holding aloft a dessert. “Bavarian cream!”
Fred peered at it, his expression dubious. “What’s in Bavarian cream, exactly?”
August’s gaze shifted to Fred, his distaste evident. “Isinglass.”
“Huh.” Fred poked at the molded lump, clearly unappetized. “What’s that?”
“A species of glue,” August deadpanned. “Obtained from the bladders of fish.”