Charlotte couldn’t shake the image of Klaus from earlier; his cold and calculating gaze still unsettled her deeply. She wouldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, and that was an understatement. Despite that thin veneer of charm, something about him was…off. And as she pushed what passed for dinner around on her plate, she couldn’t help but wonder what his real deal was—and what he wanted, from her and with this neighborhood. No one in the SS had come to Cambridge just to offer their opinions about art. But she pushed those thoughts aside, focusing instead on being there for Constance. Something was off about her, too; she hadn’t been herself since she’d come home with their newest box of so-called food.

Sticking a piece of meat into her mouth, Constance chewed.

The can announced it as processed pork product and, in the flickering candlelight, it glowed tumescently on Charlotte’s plate. “This is disgusting,” she remarked. “But still better than rat.”

Normally, her attempt to lighten the mood would’ve gotten at least a chuckle, but her friend only nodded. Constance’s eyes darted around the room as she ate, her movements tense and jittery, as though expecting something to jump from the shadows. Finally, she put her fork down and grimaced. “Which branch of the SS is the Excelsior Estate housing?”

“As far as I know,” Charlotte replied, “only Dassel.” She picked up the can, anxious to change the subject. If she thought about her new neighbor much more, tonight, she wouldn’t be able to sleep. “Pork, salt, water, potato starch, and sugar,” she read, the label barely visible in the dim glow.

Constance glanced up, her eyes reflecting a mixture of exhaustion and unease. “Oh.”

As the shadows danced across the walls, Charlotte’s frown deepened. She couldn’t help but note the tension in her friend’s posture, the lines of anguish etched into her face. Something was wrong, something more serious than the usual problems inherent in medieval living. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Constance replied evasively, her tone guarded. “I’m just tired.”

But Charlotte wasn’t convinced. “If we keep our heads down and avoid him, I’m sure that Dassel—”

“It’s not him!” Constance shouted.

Charlotte blinked, taken aback. “Was it—what was his name, Fritz?”

Instead of answering, Constance gestured. “Read the news.”

Each new carton of rations came with propaganda about how wonderful life under the Reich’s boot was going to be. Sometimes, there even was actual information. “Maybe I should get a job at the electrical plant,” Charlotte mused, removing the leaflet from under a can of beets. “Or, even better, with the water department. Then we’d know why the power’s still not back on—and how come our water tastes like it’s been boiled with gym socks.”

Constance’s grip on her fork tightened. “That’s too near the ghetto.”

Charlotte’s brow furrowed. “Huh?”

“Nothing,” Constance replied, sounding tired. “Just read.”

She needed work, and so did Charlotte; the state wouldn’t feed them forever, but pointing that out right now seemed like a bad idea. Whatever was wrong with Constance, she clearly wasn’t about to share. So, instead, Charlotte read them both an article about lipstick. Overseas shipping would be resuming, soon, and she could pretty herself up for all the dates with lonely occupiers that she didn’t want. Peering over the top of the paper, she studied her friend. “Speaking of which, are you still Mr. Bianchi’s widow? In case our new neighbor asks.”

“Yes,” Constance confirmed, with something almost approaching humor. “He wore an American flag as a loincloth, and took a hundred Nazis with him to Hell. Make sure to share that last part.”

Charlotte chuckled but, nevertheless, there was a heaviness to the mood that even their banter couldn’t dispel. Her mind drifted to her father, a surgeon who’d faced the invasion with stoic resolve. He’d been prepared to sacrifice himself while aiding the wounded; what none of them had anticipated was the senseless attack that’d claimed his life in front of his own hospital. Months later, she still grappled with a profound sense of loss, compounded by the realization that she’d never have the opportunity to fully know him as a fellow adult—or to uncover the experiences that’d shaped him into the man she’d so admired. His reticence about his life before emigrating to the United States left her with a multitude of unanswered questions, now forever beyond her reach.

She was about to share these thoughts with Constance, when the door banged open and Zelda appeared.

“You’re home!” Charlotte exclaimed, relief flooding through her. It was only natural for a seventeen-year-old to be out and about, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of holding her breath until Zelda returned home. “Where have you been?” she exclaimed. “It’s late! We saved you a plate, but….”

Zelda’s demeanor silenced Charlotte mid-sentence. Her complexion was pallid, her features drawn, and her eyes clouded with anguish. “We need to go,” she stated flatly. “Right now.”

Charlotte stilled. “What’s wrong?”

But Zelda didn’t answer, so Charlotte led her into the living room. Zelda sat down on the couch, her movements detached, as Charlotte went back into the kitchen to collect her dinner. Exchanging a worried look with Constance, she returned to discover that Zelda still hadn’t moved. An ugly bruise marred her jaw, but worse was the haunted look in her eyes as she stared into space, ignoring the promised plate. Sitting down next to her, Charlotte took her hand; it felt unnervingly cold.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Finally, Zelda broke the silence. “I was arrested.”

Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat. “Arrested? By whom?”

“Sturmbannführer Voight,” Zelda replied, her voice devoid of emotion. “The head of the Gestapo in Cambridge.”

Constance pointed an accusing finger at her bruise. “Did he do this to you?”

Zelda’s gaze shifted. “Yes,” she said, in that same flat tone. “But he did worse to Alex.” She paused and then, summing herself up, shared the harrowing account of her arrest and interrogation. Her words painted a chilling picture, of her captor’s ruthlessness and cruelty. “I don’t know where Alex is,” she finished. “Or, if he’s alive, for how much longer. I went to his house, after Voight released me but…he wasn’t there.” She swallowed. “And Marta’s not at her apartment.”

“But he did release you,” Charlotte asserted, her voice firm with the effort to reassure both Zelda and herself. “You’re not entangled in whatever Bill’s involved in,” she added, her own words a fragile attempt to create certainty out of uncertainty. Even as the statement left her lips, though, she knew how inadequate it sounded. An oppressive darkness loomed ever closer, a suffocating evil that threatened to crush them all. Amidst the encroaching shadows, she desperately clung to the hope that her sister, at least, could find salvation.

Slowly, however, Zelda shook her head.

Charlotte’s heart sank. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Zelda clasped her hands in her lap. “It was safer for you not to know.”

“I can’t believe this.” Charlotte put a hand to her mouth, stifling the scream clawing at her throat. “I can’t believe you did something so irresponsible!” The Gestapo was relentless, once a target came into its sights, and operated without judicial review. Voight would pursue Zelda until he got what he wanted, and there was nothing she—or anyone—could do to stop him. “Was this Alex’s idea?” she pressed. “Because he’s older and Zelda, what if you’d been sent to some camp?”

“Alex might be on a train right now,” Constance cut in. “Up to the one in Vermont.”

Zelda glanced at her, her expression unreadable. “I joined after Dad died. Alex had nothing to do with it.” She took a deep, shuddering breath, then got up and walked over to the window.

Beyond, unseen threats teemed in the darkness.

Staring out at them, Zelda spoke again. “Remember how, growing up, Dad talked about bullies? It doesn’t matter if they’re not bullying you and if you’re not doing the bullying. If you choose to just stand there, and watch, you might as well join in—because you’re no different.” She turned, her eyes meeting Charlotte’s. “Remember that poem? First they came for the socialists and I didn’t speak out, because I wasn’t a socialist? We’re safe now, or we have been. But for how long? How long before the Reich decides that it doesn’t like some group we’re a part of?”

“But…leave?” Charlotte’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Where would we go?”

“Maybe Voight really does think she’s innocent,” Constance pointed out. “And this is the end of it.”

Zelda shook her head decisively. “I don’t know why he let me go,” she murmured, “all I do know is that this is some kind of trap. He knows I’m guilty, I could see it in his eyes when we were talking. If we don’t leave, and soon, it’s a matter of time before we all disappear.”

Charlotte couldn’t believe that Zelda had gotten them all into this mess. “We can’t go,” she protested. “For starters—

Rounding on her, Zelda’s eyes blazed. “Stop being such a coward!”

Flinching, Charlotte averted her gaze. Meanwhile, Constance seemed to come to some sort of internal decision. “Charlotte’s right,” she declared, her tone grave. She started pacing, then sat down in the tattered old chair where her adoptive father had once read detective novels. “First, Zelda, don’t you want to know if Alex is alive?” Her eyes darted to Charlotte’s, before returning to Zelda’s. “I do, and I can’t—we can’t—just abandon him on the off chance that he’s not coming back.” A faint blush crept up her cheeks as she spoke, betraying the feelings she thought no one knew she had. “And, second, assuming this is some sort of trap, Voight is almost certainly having you followed.” She pressed a hand to her temple, as if trying to ease the ache of her thoughts. “He doesn’t absolutely know you’re guilty, not for a fact, or you wouldn’t be here. Which means he’s waiting for you to do something suspicious…like run.”

Zelda made an exasperated noise. “You didn’t talk to him. I did.”

Charlotte’s mind raced, plagued by the image of Klaus and his unnervingly pleasant exterior. She shuddered. “They’re everywhere, Zelda. Even if they're not following us. What if someone catches us, suitcases in hand, and turns us in? Then we’re done for.”

“So we just... sit here?” Zelda’s tone was incredulous. “Wait for Voight to come back?”

“No,” Charlotte countered, imploring her to understand. “We don’t give him a reason to come back.”

“He doesn’t need a reason!” Zelda snapped. “The Reich doesn’t use logic!”

“We need to be optimistic,” Charlotte pleaded. “Or—

“Or what?” Zelda cut in sharply. “People just waiting around for the world to improve, being optimistic like demented stool pigeons is the reason there are almost no Jews left! If there were fewer cowards, has it occurred to you that the Reich might not have won? That we might not be sitting here, clutching our precious single candle like colonial settlers, debating how best to avoid them?”

Charlotte’s heart pounded in her chest as she tried to make her sister see reason. “We can’t help the world, Zelda, but we can help ourselves.”

Zelda’s glare intensified, her frustration boiling over. “What’s wrong with you?”

A hopeless desperation welled up inside her, as she grappled for words. Zelda had always been the fiery one, bold where Charlotte was reserved and fearless where Charlotte hesitated. But this wasn’t the high school debate team; a wrong move now could mean their lives. Studying her sister, she remembered breaking the devastating news that their father wasn’t coming home. She’d been strong, then—and she had to be strong, now. “We can’t take this risk,” she managed, fighting to maintain her composure. “Especially when there’s nothing we can change.

“She’s right.” Constance’s agreement held a world of bitterness. “All we can do is die.”

With a huff, Zelda stormed out of the room.