“We need to go back four generations.” Dr. Schulz’s mouth twisted into what he probably thought was a smile. “That’s your great-grandparents. We have the same rule for the men, too, in case you’re curious.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “The sacred mission of the German people is to assemble and preserve the most valuable racial elements,” he quoted, “and raise them to the dominant position. Hitler wrote that. I agree, but I suppose I would.”

Zelda smiled back, concealing her wish for his immediate demise.

Turning to his computer, Dr. Schulz clacked noisily on the keyboard. “We used to require a certificate dating back to 1800,” he confided, in that falsely avuncular tone. “And 1750 for officers! That proved impractical, however. Especially since most churches keep poor records. Your future husband is Catholic,” he emphasized, “as you’re likely aware.” Then, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he fixed her with his beady little eyes. “What are you?”

Zelda's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I’m…a woman?”

He sniffed dismissively. “Your choices are Protestant, Catholic, or Believer in God.”

“Oh.” She blinked, regaining her composure. “Protestant. Lutheran.”

She’d been brought to an extremely hygienic but otherwise unremarkable examination room, asked to sit, and left to wait. Eventually, this so-called physician had shown up, whose sole job today would be determining her racial status. She had to be sufficiently Aryan to marry a man in the SS. Dr. Schulz didn’t look Aryan; he looked like a vulture, and was a thousand years old.

He pursed his lips together, scribbling for a minute before capping his pen with a flourish. “Despite a concerted effort on our part,” he informed her, “just under one quarter of the Schutzstaffel remains Catholic. Another quarter are still Protestant. Oh, well.” He shrugged, overwhelmed with the burden of it all. “Although our members, of all faiths, are hardly theologians.”

She hoped no one told Klaus.

Chuckling at his own joke, Dr. Schulz licked his thumb and turned yet another page. He had an entire ream in front of him; she’d spent so long filling out forms, she’d felt like she was taking the SATs all over again. These questions were even more complex and convoluted, covering everything from when she’d gotten her first period to when she’d won her first Reich sports badge.

The absurdity of it all brought laughter bubbling up that she fought to contain; August wouldn’t be thrilled if she got kicked out of this exam before it even began. But here she was, in a room with a man who should be stuffed and mounted, being judged on breed standard like a contestant at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. And yet the seriousness with which everyone else treated this farce was almost comical. Schulz’s beady little eyes lit up with excitement every time he found a new piece of information to jot down. His enthusiasm for this bureaucratic ritual was almost as disturbing as it was ridiculous. She watched him, bemused and annoyed, as he flipped through the papers with the same reverence a monk might show to a sacred text.

“For Sturmbannführer Voight,” Dr. Schulz volunteered, “the certificate isn’t an issue.”

What a shock.

Anyone demented enough to join the SS had to provide an exhaustive genealogy, complete with supporting records, and so did the woman unlucky enough to marry him. Should she be found unfit to serve this new class of supermen, he’d be given a choice: her, or his career. Barely anyone in Massachusetts had records at this point but, despite the stakes, August hadn’t seemed worried. Probably, she decided grimly, because he didn’t realize how crazy this—and he—was. It was like being trapped in a Kafka novel, only instead of battling faceless bureaucrats, she was up against a single, painfully eager pedant who seemed to think his clipboard was a scepter. If he offered her a prize for Most Aryan Nose, she might actually walk out.

“It does help that you’re German,” Dr. Schulz offered. “The American government kept absolutely no information on file, at least no useful information….” He let his words taper into silence, reflecting on how the invasion had inconvenienced him. “We might just get lucky with our own database.”

She forced what she hoped was a pleased expression onto her face.

Dr. Schulz adjusted his posture. “What were your parents’ names?”

Perhaps that information had been lost amidst the endless explanations that no, she’d never joined the Bund Deutscher Mädel or won a single deportment award as she’d grown up on the wrong continent. “Benjamin Erich Wahl,” she replied smoothly, covering her irritation. “And Emma Fischer Wahl.”

“Ah.” Dr. Schulz started typing again, his fingers clattering on the keys with a mechanical precision. Then, he paused, glancing up. “Father’s place of birth?”

Zelda swallowed, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. “Lindau.”

“Hmm.” He frowned, his lips pursing together in an exaggerated show of concentration. “Mother’s place of birth?”

She faltered, her mind racing. “I… Bad Waldsee,” she managed, her voice tight.

Sitting back, he grunted, the sound resembling a pig rooting for truffles. “You’re not related, that’s good.”

Zelda’s mouth dropped open in shock. “To my parents?”

“To the Sturmbannführer.” Dr. Schulz glanced up, his eyes gleaming with unsettling excitement. “Happens more often than you’d think. Marriage between cousins isn’t ideal, but it is legal. Posthumous marriage is also legal!” At this revelation, he leaned forward, almost intrusively, his movements quick and sharp. “A man’s fiancée can be married to his body, his dead body I mean, clearly we need a body in any case.” Chewing the end of his pen, he noted Zelda’s confusion, a disturbingly eager smile playing on his lips. “To provide her with benefits.”

This was the SS, she reminded herself; expecting sanity here was like expecting a cat to perform brain surgery. Even so, the image that’d been implanted in her mind hardly seemed reassuring! August owed her, she decided, the authoritarian windbag. Not just for the pregnancy, which already felt like a hostage situation, but for the sheer absurdity of sitting through this interview. She could hear him now, lecturing her on how his own interview had been far more invasive.

“We particularly recommend posthumous marriage if the would be widow is expecting.” Dr. Schulz pointed, his fingers drumming on the table with barely contained excitement. “Like you!”

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“Yes,” she agreed faintly, placing a hand on her still flat stomach.

He swiveled his head back to the computer. “And that’s a bingo! Although your father’s service record ends after Hitlerjugend.” He peered at the screen. “Ah, I see. Dr. Wahl attended university here. How did he meet your mother, then? Entirely out of curiosity, of course.”

There were no idle questions from government officials.

“They met at a dance,” she replied. “Sponsored by the Bund Deutscher Mädel.”

“And she left with him?” Dr. Schulz raised his eyebrows in question.

“Yes,” she agreed again, her voice by some miracle remaining steady.

His eyes narrowed, his gaze growing predatory. “Your father, Ms. Wahl. He wasn’t a Bolshevist, was he?”

“No, um….” She searched for a response, feeling the heat of his gaze boring into her. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the chair, knuckles white, that infernal pen tap tapping like a metronome. Then, as he cleared his throat to speak, inspiration struck. “He—he felt called to provide medical care for the less fortunate,” she managed. “Hitler did tell people to help each other.”

“Ah.” Relaxing into his chair, the genealogical goblin nodded sagely. “A man should share his talents.” Then, his eyebrows shooting up, he all but threw himself into the screen. “And look at this!” Like a vulture spotting carrion, his eyes positively glowed as he licked his lips. “His father, your grandfather, was a war hero! He served in the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler!”

Zelda gaped at him in mute incomprehension.

Her grandfather?

She’d known almost nothing about the man; neither her father nor her grandmother had liked discussing him, which she’d thought she’d understood. She’d assumed it was the pain of losing him, of losing one’s homeland. Benjamin and Emma had fled the Reich with little more than the clothes on their backs, leaving everything they’d ever known behind; Oma Jeanette had joined them later. She related to that sense of loss so viscerally, to that homesickness for a place that no longer existed and to which she could never return. But now, she wondered if their silence had been born from a different kind of pain, a deeper and more insidious wound. What if they’d been fleeing, not a regime, but a man? What if the shadow of Benjamin Sr.’s evil had stretched across their lives, and they’d been running from him as much as from the Reich—or more?

Misunderstanding her reaction, Dr. Schulz skinned his lips back over his teeth again. “I know, impressive.”

After a split second, Zelda managed to nod.

“The Sturmbannführer also served in the LAH, in France, before joining the Gestapo.” And the good doctor apparently assumed that Zelda was marrying a stranger. “The best of the best! Which explains his service record,” Dr. Schulz mused. “He’s young to have achieved so much, although someone of his age must seem ancient to a teenager.” Then, before Zelda could respond, he waved his hand dismissively. “And both men Iron Cross recipients! You should’ve said something.”

She resisted the urge to reply that she was dating August for his riveting tales from the Stone Age. Maybe she should also mention that she was fully capable of recognizing a man twice her age, even if that seemed to be a novelty to Dr. Schulz. Instead, she plastered on another tight smile, choosing silence over sarcasm. “I have a question, if that’s alright.”

The eager Crypt-Keeper pressed his spatulate fingertips together. “Naturally.”

“Who can access this information?” she asked. “About my family, I mean.”

“Anyone in the SS.” Leaning back in his chair, he considered. “Officers all have direct access, but an enlisted man could make a request through the Race and Settlement Main Office. We should move on, though, we don’t have all morning. Now, what’s your blood type? Your medical records state that it’s B positive,” he continued, not waiting for her to respond. “The Sturmbannführer’s O positive, not that it matters these days. Over eighty percent of the world’s population has a positive blood type, meaning that they can receive O positive blood. Regardless, we know you’re genetically compatible.” He chuckled. “That was another joke.”

He was a joke.

“Shame there’s no requirement here for bride school.” Dr. Schulz’s pointed look was somewhere between wistful and accusing. “We want children,” he allowed, “but also mothers who understand that caring for them is their highest and most noble aim.”

She kept her expression neutral. “I don’t know that wanting children can be taught.”

“Oh, well.” He released a weary sigh. “You might be right.”

“Victory in the cradle.” Her tone was bland.

“Your sister is engaged, too, I see.” Dr. Schulz’s tone remained conversational, but then he froze. “Wait—to that Dassel?”

Her hands primly in her lap, Zelda waited for Dr. Schulz to have a stroke.

Instead, rapture suffused his features. “Congratulations,” he breathed.

If there were ever a goblin obsessed with family trees, it’d be him, gleefully crawling through the branches for dirt. Adolf, as he loved reminding everyone all the time, was technically the Pfalzgraf von Dassel, the Count Palatine of Dassel; that made Klaus, his beloved son and heir, the Erbprinz, the Hereditary Prince. The aristocracy having been abolished, neither title meant anything, but in the SS Klaus had found a new and even stupider club to join. His blood was so pure that his family tree had no branches at all. No wonder he was more tightly strung than his own violin, she decided dourly. “My sister’s happy with him.”

“I’m sure you’re just as happy!” Dr. Schulz waited expectantly.

“What drew me to the Sturmbannführer,” she deadpanned, “was his vast experience. With dinosaurs.”

Dr. Schulz hesitated a beat, then rapped his knuckles on the desk and stood. “Wonderful. Now, please have a seat on the examination table. I need to measure your nose.”

Zelda, concealing a smirk at his robust tone, did as she was told.

Producing a specialized pair of calipers, Dr. Schulz meticulously ensured her nose wasn’t the wrong shape or, God forbid, too long. He then measured her upper lip and head circumference, along with dozens of other lengths and widths and distances. After noting down her height and weight, he held a card of hair samples up to her head, pursing his lips and muttering. It looked like something he’d stolen from the world’s worst salon. Next was a tray with thirty-six different tiles, each meant to resemble a different skin tone, which reminded her more of a dated eyeshadow palette. Finally, he held up a tray with sixteen glass eyeballs, comparing them to hers.

The racial ideal was some kind of Olympic athlete bimbo, against which no real woman could compete.

He stepped back, clipboard in hand, and flashed another creepily enthusiastic grin. “Perfect!” he exclaimed. “Barring any surprises in your physical exam, you’ve passed with flying colors. Would you like a chaperone? I can bring the nurse in, or—someone came with you, for the appointment?”

“No,” she assured him. “That’s alright.”

Going through this torture alone was bad enough; forget witnesses.

“Good girl. Undress, then, and hop back up onto the table. Don’t worry,” he added, his tone saccharinely condescending. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve examined countless expectant mothers and brought countless babies into the world, for longer than even your fiancé has been alive and on three continents.” He gave her shoulder a reassuring pat. “It’s not as difficult as you think.”

She wondered how, exactly, he would know.