Charlotte restarted the same paragraph for the third time, her eyes scanning the words but failing to grasp their meaning. But as she started reading again, the words blurred together, dancing across the page without forming coherent thoughts in her mind. The cacophony of voices and clinking dishes in the crowded café only added to her distraction. Biting back a frustrated noise, she pinched the bridge of her nose. This novel was supposed to interesting but, despite being several chapters in, she couldn’t recall a single thing about the plot.
She longed to be in her studio, surrounded by the smell of linseed oil and turpentine and the comforting familiarity of her canvases, except she couldn’t paint when everyone around her was fighting—or giving each other the silent treatment. The only choice had been joining in, leaving the house, or putting her fist through her current work in frustration. Every time she picked up her brushes, too, she found herself asking: what was even the point? No one bought art, when a war was on. The uncertainty of the times had cast a pall over everything, suffocating her artistic spirit. Yet, abandoning art would be like abandoning breathing; it was her lifeline, the one thing keeping her tethered to sanity amidst the chaos of the world outside.
“Hello again,” a pleasant voice chimed in from behind her.
She almost dropped her book, her heart pounding at the unexpected sound. Looking up, she saw that Hauptsturmführer Dassel had materialized at her table, like a ghost in a haunted house. Despite her efforts to remain calm, she clutched Echoes of Eternity to her chest. Dassel, meanwhile, was smiling at her like he was her friend and not the reason she had nightmares.
Removing his cap, he pulled out the chair opposite from her and sat. “I apologize,” he continued blithely. “I seem to always be startling you, although I promise you it’s not intentional.”
His English was excellent, but it obviously wasn’t his first language. He spoke carefully and formally, and he also seemed to expect some form of response to his greeting. Charlotte, however, remained focused on her book. Maybe if she ignored him, she told herself, he’d recognize where he was unwanted. So she turned the page, pretending to read, feeling like an ostrich with its head stuck in the sand. But there was no scrape of his chair pushing back, no sign of his departure at all. Instead, she felt the weight of his gaze as he waited.
She turned another page, feeling self-conscious, her grip on the novel tightening with each passing moment.
He peered at it. “What are you reading?”
“Nothing,” she said, her eyes glued to the page.
“A coffee, to read with?” He paused, considering. “Hot chocolate?”
She looked up, unable to hide the longing in her expression. After months of going without, all food still seemed like a miracle—and she hadn’t tasted chocolate, of any kind, for so long that she’d almost forgotten what it was like. Swallowing, she nodded. “Alright,” she murmured.
“Ah.” Klaus acted like she’d said something significant. “One moment.”
She watched him stand and approach the counter, a knot of guilt tightening in her stomach. The barista turned his back, wiping down his espresso machine with exaggerated care; she feared that Dassel would cause a scene, but he took the older man’s hostility in stride. Meanwhile, she couldn’t shake the feeling of self-loathing, knowing she’d sold herself for something to eat.
Finally, the barista slapped his towel down. “What do you want?”
Klaus told him.
The barista, grabbing two mugs, shot Charlotte a venomous glare.
He wasn’t the only one at Burdick’s showing his displeasure. Only a few other tables were occupied, but the cozy atmosphere had turned suffocatingly tense. Hushed whispers and disapproving glances followed Klaus’s every move. Everyone seemed to be wondering what one of their own was doing spending time with a Nazi, and a member of the Schutzstaffel no less. Charlotte felt their collective attention suffocating her like a leaden cloak. She longed to defend herself, to shout that she despised him as much as they did. Instead, she wilted under their judgmental stares, feeling like a coward, and averted her gaze.
Klaus returned, still cheerful.
She wanted to kick him. “What are you doing, here?” she hissed, her tone laced with irritation and disbelief.
He’d bought her a piece of cake, too.
“This is a fortunate coincidence,” he replied, ignoring her reaction. He sipped his own hot chocolate, seemed surprised that it was drinkable, and continued. “While enduring yet another meeting, this morning, I found myself thinking about how I’d rather be with you.” His eyes lit up with a glimmer of enthusiasm. “I was planning on calling upon you at home,” he added.
She wished he’d stop acting like they knew each other. “I don’t have time, for outings.”
“You must,” he pointed out. “Since we are in fact here.”
The cake, also chocolate and with chocolate frosting, was calling to her. She willed herself not to give in, but hunger had been her relentless companion now for so long that she couldn’t help herself. Picking up her fork, she took one hesitant bite and then another, reveling in the near-orgasmic experience that was sugar. She felt like Persephone, eating pomegranates with Hades.
He pointed. “Good?”
She couldn’t help her sigh of satisfaction. “I haven’t had a real dessert since last May.”
His eyes widened. “Really?”
“It doesn’t come with the rations,” she replied, an edge creeping into her voice. “And we can’t afford anything else.”
She’d expected some biting comeback, about how lucky she was to have joined the Reich and starvation being a small price to pay, but he nodded. “It’s tough,” he acknowledged. “Nothing is how it should be. Although, at the same time, this too shall pass. I promise.”
His apparently genuine empathy at her situation softened her resentment, just a fraction, but even so she wasn’t having this conversation. He wasn’t her friend, whatever he pretended, and she didn’t want his reassurances. “Hauptsturmführer,” she said firmly, “I appreciate this, but—
He held up his hand. “Klaus, please.”
Putting down her fork, she met his gaze. “I have errands to run.”
“I can tag along,” he offered. “You need someone to carry your packages, after all.”
“I’m not interested.” She stood.
As he stood, Klaus extended his arm in a chivalric gesture, but she remained resolutely unresponsive. He held the door open for her, next, the bell’s soft chime marking their exit. She silently willed him to depart but, once again, he lingered. “The hot chocolate was excellent,” he remarked casually, adjusting his cap. “And so was the cake, or so I gather, but the mood left something to be desired.”
She crossed her arms defensively, a shield against her own apprehension. “You make them uncomfortable.”
His penetrating gaze bore into hers, searching for something she wasn’t ready to reveal. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
Her response was swift, escaping before she could temper it. “Yes.”
A furrow formed between his brows. “Why?”
Finally, frustration overcame her. “You know why,” she snapped.
His expression grew unreadable, as he regarded her. “What I know,” he said carefully, “is that however much I might wish otherwise, I remain a stranger to you. Which means that the uniform is what you dislike,” he added, his posture relaxing slightly. “Not the man.”
Her gaze flickered to the twin thunderbolts adorning his collar. “Is there a difference?”
His response was terse. “Yes.” A shadow seemed to pass over his features, as he spoke. Then, as if brushing off the gravity of the moment, he gestured down the leafy street. “Now,” he declared brightly, “let me take you somewhere. You can’t escape me,” he added, a subtle undercurrent of menace swirling beneath the innocuous statement. “Remember, I know where you live.”
With a resigned nod, she acquiesced.
At first, she had no idea where they were going—and, frankly, she didn’t care. All she hoped for was that it’d be someplace where her choice of company wouldn’t draw too much attention. The mere thought of returning to Burdick’s filled her with dread and shame. She couldn’t bear to face anyone there again, not after the disapproving stares and whispers. As they walked, conflicting emotions swirled within her: relief at escaping the oppressive atmosphere of the café mingled with anxiety over what Klaus might have in mind
He turned onto Mt. Auburn Street, then onto Hawthorne Street, all the while telling her the saga of his meeting. “And if it’s not hearing that the intelligence I’ve gathered is worthless, from men who can barely figure out which end of a spoon is for eating, it’s suffering through another training.” Frustration twisted his features. “We’re a bureaucratic organization, the Allgemeine-SS, and we put great stock in sitting in chairs while we feel ourselves slowly age.”
Bureaucratic, she thought, was a strange description for a gang of psychopathic sadists. But she was curious, in spite of herself. “I thought you were all in combat.”
“That’s the Waffen-SS,” he replied. “Which I was in, before I switched branches.”
She chewed her lip. “Doing what?”
“I was in Das Reich.” He glanced down at her. “An armored warfare division.”
“I can’t picture you in a tank,” she blurted.
He snorted. “I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. But I was in a trench,” he added, a peculiar note in his voice. Then, as they reached Riverbend Park, he changed the subject. “I like it here,” he said, his eyes on the Charles River. “It reminds me of home.”
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She wanted to ask him more, about his experiences and about where home was, but that would be encouraging him. Instead, as they strolled along the riverbank, she soaked in the tranquility of the surroundings, the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of flowing water. The river meandered lazily, its surface shimmering in the dappled sunlight filtering through the overhanging branches. Ducks paddled gracefully in the water, their quacks mingling with the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore as wildflowers swayed in the breeze, releasing a delicate fragrance that mingled with the earthy scent of damp soil. Overhead, a pair of swallows darted and swooped, their graceful flight a testament to the freedom she craved.
A pair of slightly disheveled children had found some bread, their eager faces lit up with anticipation as they attempted to feed the ducks. With outstretched hands, they beckoned the waterfowl, only to be met with quick retreats. The boy caught sight of Klaus first, his eyes widening in apprehension as he tugged on his sister’s sleeve. She hesitated, then stepped back, seeking refuge behind her brother’s slender frame. Klaus regarded the pair with that trademark expressionless stare. “Hello,” he greeted them in his calm, measured tone.
Unsure of how to respond, the boy took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Hello,” came his tentative response.
“I’m Klaus,” her companion introduced himself. “And you are?”
Swallowing nervously, the boy looked up at him. “Jason.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Jason,” Klaus replied, with an air of formality that seemed out of place in their current surroundings. “And this is Charlotte,” he continued, indicating her with a courtly flourish. “She and I are friends. Perhaps you and I can also be friends.”
Jason looked as dubious as Charlotte felt, at that suggestion.
All three of them, she thought, worried that the Hauptsturmführer’s charm hid some kind of bait and the wrong response would spring a trap. Jason couldn’t have been more than ten, his sister a little younger, and Charlotte doubted that either child understood his insignia. Nevertheless, they knew that here stood an outsider—and a dangerous one.
But Klaus only leaned down, whispering into Jason’s ear. “I have a secret.”
Charlotte tightened her grip on her bag, as Jason’s sister peered out from behind him. “What is it?”
Klaus’s gaze shifted to her, his tone conspiratorial. “I know how to attract ducks.”
Fascination replaced skepticism, as Jason’s breath caught. “Really?”
“Here.” Indicating the river bank, he straightened. “Let me show you.”
The children followed him eagerly down to the water, inquisitiveness overcoming their initial fear. Jason handed Klaus some bread, timidly. His sister kept looking back and forth between Charlotte and this astonishing interloper, eyes as big as saucers. Charlotte noticed with a pang of concern that the girl had no shoes; even in the innocent warmth of summer, the sight of her muddy feet spoke volumes. The invasion’s scars were still much fresher than anyone wanted to admit.
“When approaching a duck,” Klaus explained, “it is essential that one does not run after him. This will stress him out and make him skittish. Instead, we must show him that we are no threat. Like this.” He knelt in the long grass, then laid down flat on his stomach. “Then, we offer him a treat.”
Jason copied Klaus’s action, and his sister giggled. Klaus ripped the bread into small pieces and tossed one into the water. The bravest duck, a mallard, swam over. With a wary eye at Klaus, it snapped up the prize. Envious, another duck swam over; soon, they’d attracted a crowd.
Jason’s sister clapped with delight. “How do you know so much about ducks?”
“We have them at my home,” Klaus replied. “In our pond.”
“Wow,” Jason marveled, impressed.
The mallard hopped out of the water and waddled over, seemingly unbothered by the presence of the humans. This scene was so wholesome but, even so, she felt a thrill of unease. Klaus, now feeding the mallard from his hand, had used the same tactic on her. Like a duck, she’d learned to be wary of threats, to avoid anyone or anything that might cause her harm. But Klaus had approached her so slowly, she’d almost forgotten who he was. And he’d won over his feathered companions, and the children, but most woodcraft was learned through hunting.
Animals who let their guard down ended up on the dinner table.
The girl flashed Klaus a small smile, her cheeks dimpling in the dappled sunlight. “I’m Sarah.”
Klaus smiled back. “I’m pleased to meet you, also.”
Blushing, Sarah glanced at Charlotte, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “Your friend is very pretty.”
Klaus nodded. “I think so, too.”
Sarah squealed as the mallard darted forward and stole her bread, the sudden movement startling her.
“Charlotte,” Jason asked, nudging her gently, “don’t you want to feed a duck?”
“I suppose I could,” she agreed, her own hesitant smile mirroring Sarah’s. Accepting some bread, she tossed a morsel into the water. It’d been years since she’d indulged in such a simple pleasure, reminiscent of her own childhood adventures. Surprisingly, she found herself relishing the moment, the innocence of the activity thawing the walls around her heart. Yet as she watched the children laugh and play with Klaus, she couldn’t help but feel the darkness lurking in the corners of her mind, threatening to engulf her at any moment. It was as if two separate worlds were colliding within her, pulling her in conflicting directions. She forced a laugh of her own, masking her inner turmoil; beneath the surface, though, the storm raged on.
“You aren’t so bad,” Sarah informed Klaus, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “But I like Charlotte better.”
Klaus chuckled, the sound mingling with the rustle of leaves overhead. “I do as well.”
Sarah wrinkled her nose playfully, her giggle tinkling like wind chimes. “You have a funny accent.”
Jason’s eyes widened in embarrassment. “Sarah!”
“What?” she asked innocently. “It’s true.”
Klaus, however, didn’t seem to mind. “I’m German, and not so good at English.”
Sarah pondered his response, before continuing her interrogation. “Do all Germans talk like you?”
He tilted his head, a hint of amusement playing in his eyes. “Only the unlucky ones,” he informed her seriously.
Undeterred, she pressed on. “How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-seven,” he answered, a hint of self-deprecation coloring his voice. “So, quite old.”
She wrinkled her nose in exaggerated disgust. “That is old. Are you going to marry Charlotte?”
He arched an eyebrow. “She would have to let me court her, first.”
Before Sarah could offer any suggestions for how, her eyes lit up with excitement as she spotted a butterfly. “Oh!” she exclaimed, jumping up from her spot and darting down the bank. Jason followed suit after a moment’s hesitation, leaving Klaus and Charlotte to exchange amused glances. “You’re good with children,” she remarked, astonished and touched.
“I have a younger brother, about Jason’s age,” Klaus said, a hint of fondness creeping into his voice. “You?”
Charlotte’s heart softened at the mention of his family. It was a rare glimpse into his inner world, a reminder that beneath the stern exterior, he was only human. “A sister, Zelda,” she replied. “And another sister,” she added, remembering their little white lie to the benefits office. “Constance.”
Klaus frowned at her sudden shift in attitude, his concern evident. “Something is wrong. Tell me?”
She hesitated, wrestling with the significance of her sister’s troubles and the decision to share them. The verdant late spring air had turned oppressive, thick with unspoken fears and uncertainties. Her family’s situation, she rationalized, could hardly get any worse. Besides, what’d happened to Zelda was hardly a secret; Klaus, both an officer in the SS and as their neighbor, undoubtedly knew more than she did at this point. It’d also been months since someone had asked her a question and actually waited to hear the answer. The prospect of finally sharing her feelings, even with him, felt like a release from the isolation that’d consumed her. With a deep breath to steady herself, she summoned her courage. “Zelda was arrested,” she confessed, her voice betraying her despair and dread. “Afternoon before last.”
Klaus’s demeanor remained outwardly calm, his gaze steady as he absorbed her words. The tension in his face dissolved slightly, replaced by an expression of quiet understanding. “For what?”
As she recounted the events leading to Zelda’s arrest, Charlotte felt the weight begin to lift from her shoulders. She painted a vivid picture of the chaos and confusion surrounding the incident itself, leaving out only the painful truth of Zelda’s guilt. Klaus listened intently, his eyes searching hers for any sign of vulnerability or pain. She spoke of her fear for her sister, her frustration at being unable to reach her, and the overwhelming sense of responsibility that no one seemed to want to share. “Zelda has a lot of righteous rage,” she finished, feeling exhausted. “About how our father died, and at me, because she thinks I’m in denial about what’s wrong with the world. So she’s hanging out with people she shouldn’t.”
“Because she thinks they do understand.” Klaus’s tone was gentle yet probing.
Charlotte managed a hollow laugh. “My life, meanwhile, has been perfect.”
His gaze softened, a spark of sympathy passing through his eyes. “What happened to your father?”
She watched the river, its surface glimmering like scattered diamonds under the waning afternoon sun. “He was gunned down leaving work, at Massachusetts General Hospital.”
“Gods,” Klaus muttered, his voice tinged with genuine horror. “That’s awful.”
“He was a surgeon,” she continued, each word squeezing her heart. “He devoted his life to helping those who needed him most. But he was also German, so when the blockade started….”
“Was he caught?” Klaus interrupted, his voice brimming with indignation. “The brute who did this?”
She shook her head, her hands trembling slightly. “No.”
Klaus’s features twisted in disgust. “He was undobutedly a Jew.”
Recoiling in shock, her mouth dropped open. “What?”
“There are still millions of them on this continent,” he informed her, his tone dripping with contempt. “Corrupting everyone with their degeneracy. And Bolsheviks, too, that group is temperamentally incapable of performing honest labor. They believe that they owe the world nothing, claiming its problems are someone else’s to solve. Which, unfortunately, is quite the seductive argument.” Pausing, he considered. “What man doesn’t dream of ignoring his duties, following his heart?”
Far away, Sarah’s laughter echoed faintly.
Charlotte, meanwhile, tried to process what she’d heard. Klaus’s casual racism repelled her. He’d seemed so normal a minute ago, but the fanatic gleam in his eye betrayed that illusion. “I don’t think a person’s religion is relevant,” she stated quietly. “Or his political beliefs. Good and bad people come in all shapes and sizes, and colors, and from all backgrounds.”
“And your father,” Klaus countered, “was targeted for his. You might want everyone to be the same, but they’re not.”
Her lips tightened. “Different doesn’t mean less.”
He leaned forward, his expression intense. “I’m talking about preserving our culture,” he insisted. “You can’t ignore the realities of the world, and one of those realities is that we do have enemies—enemies who want us dependent, weak, begging to be given what we once knew how to earn ourselves and that in any case is ours by right. Which means that a good man,” he concluded, “a man like your father, becomes a target. It’s not fair, and it’s not just, but it’s true.”
Charlotte studied him, wondering how someone so bright could give credence to ideas so utterly nonsensical. “My father hated the Reich,” she admitted, her tone measured but firm. “To him, you were the degenerates. He believed that not everyone fit into these neat little boxes, that we were all more than our labels, and he brought me up to believe the same.”
Klaus studied her, skepticism in his eyes. “Do you?”
“Yes,” she replied earnestly. “See?” Her lips curved into a bittersweet smile. “I’m not your type.”
But Klaus only smiled in response, his gaze warm in the fading light. “Your father was a wise man. But he was a healer, not a soldier, and the world isn’t as forgiving as he was. And, whatever else you’ve been led to believe about the Reich, we’re here to help you—not persecute you.”
She clasped her hands tightly, fingers intertwined. “What about my sister?”
“Your sister, too,” Klaus assured her. “She, too, can be educated.”