Hours later, as Constance stood in line at the rations depot in her own neighborhood, the echo of Alice’s words still pierced her mind like shrapnel. She didn’t want to hate Alice; it wasn’t the old woman’s fault that she was deranged. The miracle was that, given everything they’d endured during the invasion and after, all of greater Boston wasn’t deranged. But in the face of Alice’s bleak pragmatism, Constance’s resolve had crumbled like a fragile wall against a relentless storm.

She’d bolted from that apartment as fast as she could, her heart hammering in her chest as if pursued by unseen demons. Every step had been a desperate bid for salvation, each ragged breath a struggle against the suffocating weight of despair. She’d run until her legs threatened to give out, until she’d found herself doubled over, retching behind a different dumpster.

Sitting in Alice’s kitchen, she’d felt like she was drowning. She questioned why she hadn’t fled earlier; she’d wanted to, and it wasn’t like she’d required Alice’s permission. But despite telling herself that she was a grown woman and could do as she pleased, she’d remained rooted in place.

Increasingly, she felt as though she were a mere passenger in her own body, a helpless bystander to whatever unseen force steered her actions. The sensation of being trapped inside herself grew more acute with each passing day, like a prisoner confined to the claustrophobic confines of her own mind. She yearned to break free, to voice the torrent of thoughts and emotions raging within her, but her voice remained silenced, drowned out by the deafening void of her own mind. All she could do was watch helplessly from behind her eyes as things got worse and worse.

She moved forward, waiting to collect her box.

Surreptitiously, she studied her surroundings. There were soldiers here, too, patrolling up and down, keeping order. None of them approached the line, only watched from under their helmets as a subdued populace did what it was told. For her neighbors, this was the new normal; the world had changed and they’d changed, too. But for Constance, the world had ended. She couldn’t show her papers without resenting the man who’d asked for them, couldn’t gag down her Zwieback and Leberwurst without thinking about the food she’d grown up eating and would never see again.

A sudden shout shattered the uneasy calm, drawing her attention to a scuffle nearby. Two men, their desperation palpable, fought over a ration box with fierce determination. She braced herself for violence, but to her surprise, the soldiers intervened with unexpected restraint. Their actions were more akin to weary playground monitors than aggressive enforcers, adding another layer of confusion to the chaotic scene. The tension peaked as the second man made a defensive plea, met with a solemn shake of their sergeant’s head.

She felt a pang of empathy for the defeated man, his shoulders slumping in resignation. As the crowd dispersed, she was left feeling isolated, a lone figure adrift amidst the throng of indifferent faces. Clutching the crumpled form in her purse, she couldn’t shake the nagging question: how did the sun dare rise on such a hopeless world, and when would her neighbors finally awaken to the truth that she alone seemed to see so clearly?

Approaching the front of the line around supper time, she found herself standing under a tent, its canvas flapping softly in the evening breeze. Three desks, positioned in a row like sentinels of bureaucracy, awaited her. Behind them sat three men in identical uniforms, all with the same unpleasant expression. Stopping in front of the middle desk, she held her breath, hoping that the requisition order she’d managed to get would work its promised magic.

The bureaucrat in front of her spoke without looking up, his voice monotone. “Papers, please.”

Producing her identification, her Kennkarte, she handed it over. “Here,” she began, her heart racing. “But I also have something from the benefits office. We received the wrong box last time….”

He scanned her details with disinterest. “Constance Bianchi, I see…fifteen Ash.” He consulted his tablet, then, and frowned. “Collecting for Charlotte Wahl and Zelda Wahl?”

“Yes,” she affirmed, hoping to sound confident.

He grunted noncommittally. “Family?”

She nodded, though unease gnawed at her insides. Charlotte had been her best friend forever, despite being older; after her parents perished in a car crash at the end of eighth grade, Charlotte’s father had taken her in and she’d lived with them ever since. She thought of both Charlotte and Zelda as sisters, but doubted that the Reich would agree and didn’t want to risk finding out.

Tapping his pen against the form, the bureaucrat let out an exasperated sigh. “Alright,” he said, his voice tinged with irritation. “I see the mistake. Different surnames, see? But that happens with sisters. Some idiot in registration must’ve noted you down wrong.” With a scowl, he made a cursory note on the form, dismissing the error before a new thought occurred to him. “And where is your husband?” he inquired, his gaze probing.

Constance summed herself up. “Dead,” she replied, the lie rolling off her tongue with practiced ease.

There was a flicker of what might’ve been compassion in his eyes, quickly masked by indifference. “My condolences,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” she responded, her tone hollow.

As the bureaucrat prepared to return her Kennkarte, his eyes caught sight of the other address on the form. “Wait,” he said, his brow furrowing in renewed suspicion. “What were you doing in the ghetto? That’s a restricted area, for citizens.”

Her heart skipped a beat, panic seizing her chest. “What?” she stammered, her mind racing for a plausible explanation.

“This comes from the Chinese Residential District,” he stated, holding up the form. His words were matter-of-fact, but his tone was accusing. He scrutinized her Kennkarte again, his gaze lingering on the details printed upon it as if searching for the discrepancy he’d somehow missed.

“I was there earlier,” she explained, her voice growing more desperate with each word. “That’s where the benefits office is, and like I said, I—

“Not for you,” he interjected brusquely, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“What?” Her heart sank.

“You’re not Untermensch,” he stated bluntly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Unless your husband...?”

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“No,” Constance replied, her innocence feigned.

“Besides, the district is being sealed soon,” the bureaucrat continued, his words holding a finality that brooked no further discussion. “Next time, Frau Bianchi, if you need something, come here.” And on that note he dismissed her, his attention already shifting to the next in line.

A soldier handed Constance her rations box, an enormous crate that she accepted with trembling hands. Her movements felt distant and disconnected, as if she were a mere observer of her own actions. Behind the tent, more soldiers unloaded supplies from the back of a truck, their carefree banter sounding sinister in her ears. Each jovial remark struck her like a hammer blow, reigniting her traumatic memories. Suddenly, she was no longer on the sidewalk, but back in the past—surrounded by different soldiers, powerless to stop the inevitable. Desperate to escape the haunting images etched into her mind, she hurried away, her heart pounding with each step.

She was about to turn the corner when she got her third shock.

“Fraulein,” came a hesitant voice. “Ah—Frau?”

Constance recoiled. The soldier who’d stopped her seemed surprised by her reaction. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, yet there was a glimmer of earnestness in his eyes that caught her off guard. He was in the Heer, the regular army, and looked like he was playing dress-up in his father’s uniform. “Excuse me,” he said in English, “I didn’t mean to startle you. Please, let me help.”

Still trying to outrun her memories, she quickened her pace. “I’m fine.”

“A woman shouldn’t have to carry such a large crate,” he interjected, taking it from her grasp.

She let him walk beside her, her initial wariness giving way to a begrudging acceptance. “Thank you.”

He nodded, relieved. “I’m Fritz.”

Fritz’s demeanor seemed disarmingly sincere, which threw her off guard. She wanted to hate this stranger, not return his cheerful grin, but he was like the human version of a golden retriever. “I’m Constance,” she admitted, in spite of herself. “I live just down the street.”

“Excellent!” Fritz adjusted his grip on the crate. “Have you a man at home?” he asked. “To help you with these things, I mean. I mean no disrespect. I always help my mother,” he added, his words tumbling out in a rush of enthusiasm. “Not that you look like my mother! She’s older, of course, but—she looks wonderful!” He bit his lip. “For a mother, I mean.”

Constance couldn't help but stifle a chuckle at Fritz’s awkward chatter, his youthful innocence shining through his clumsy attempts at conversation. It was almost endearing, in a way. “I’m not married,” she said, before remembering the fictional Mr. Bianchi. “At least, not anymore.”

Fritz’s cheeks flushed crimson. He was obviously someone who rambled when he was nervous, although she didn’t understand how he possibly could be. He, after all, was the one with a rifle slung over his back. “I’m sorry to hear that. He wasn’t—where is he?”

“Dead.” She studied the concrete. “In the Battle of Boston Harbor.”

“You must miss him.” Fritz sounded sincere, and sympathetic.

She looked up. “Your parents must miss you.”

He nodded. “I haven’t seen them in almost two years. Or my sweetheart, Leni.” At the mention of her name, his expression softened. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, as if grappling with a wave of homesickness that transcended the confines of their encounter. Then he chuckled, his cheerful demeanor reasserting itself. “I write to her every week. I’d write to her every day, but I don’t have time.” He frowned. “My mother would want me to help you. Leni, too. I can write to her about this! She says men are useless by nature. I try very hard not to be useless.”

“I’m sure,” Constance reassured him, bemused.

Fritz turned to her, his expression growing somber. “I understand. People think I don’t, but I do.” He cleared his throat, another nervous habit he had. “You know, sometimes I’m scared, too. This whole situation…it’s new for all of us, soldiers and civilians alike. We enlist, because we have to, not because we want hurt anyone. But Cambridge, this part of it at least, it’s not that different from where I grew up. We all have more in common than we think.”

Constance found herself relating more to the crate Fritz was carrying than to Fritz himself, but he’d nonetheless surprised her; even idiots this bumbling, it seemed, had hidden depths. Yet despite his efforts to bridge the gap, a deep-seated disdain festered within her. No amount of congeniality could erase the fact that he and men just like him had torn her life apart—and his words, however well-intentioned, felt like a dismissal of her pain. Clenching her jaw, she averted her gaze. He might not see himself as her enemy, but he was.

Meanwhile Fritz, seemingly relieved to have unburdened herself, continued on with his inane chatter.

“I can take that back now,” she said, trying to end the conversation politely. “I really don’t need help.”

“Oh, are we almost there? Fantastic! This crate is something else.” He whistled. “We get the same one, each week, at least according to Feldwebel Jost, but I’ve never carried one so far. There’s tinned pork in here, and tinned asparagus, and potatoes. They’re just the powdered kind, though. None of it’s fresh. I miss fresh food, especially vegetables. I bet you do, too,” he added. “And your family. Do you have children?”

She shook her head, a surge of frustration rising within her. “No,” she replied curtly, her patience wearing thin.

Fritz nodded sympathetically, oblivious to the effect he was having. “Leni and I can’t wait,” he enthused. “I told her we should have six, so she can get the good medal.”

The mention of medals for procreation triggered a bitter taste in Constance’s mouth, a reminder of the perverse incentives of the Reich. “Yes, the Cross of Honor of the German Mother,” she replied tersely, her voice tinged with contempt. “She needs to have at least four, to qualify, right?”

Fritz’s expression brightened. “Exactly! Leni wants one so badly, and the rewards get better each time. She says we should have ten children, so the Führer can be their godfather. Isn’t that amazing?”

Constance forced a polite smile, while inwardly recoiling. “Yes, quite remarkable.”

By the time they’d reached the house, Fritz had shared everything there was to share about the propagation prize and its various rewards. In addition to a pin and some questionable honorary relatives, lucky broodmares got preferential treatment at the butcher! All this for the low, low price of living in a world where her toddler son would have more rights than she did.

Stopping at her doorstep, she stared at Fritz, silently willing him to leave.

But his obliviousness persisted as he waited expectantly. “Should I bring this into the kitchen?”

“No,” she said, her tone firmer this time. “Here is fine.”

“On the step?” he inquired, incredulous. “You’re sure you don’t need more help?”

Her patience finally snapped. “This is more than enough!”

“Well….” Fritz put the crate down, at a loss for how to respond. “Okay.”

Fumbling with her keys, she unlocked her front door. “Goodnight,” she said firmly. And with that, she turned on her heel and went inside, leaving Fritz to stand there awkwardly. He watched her shut the door and lock it, leaving the food outside, his chatter finally silenced by her dismissal.