As Zelda walked through the crowded streets, the midday sun beat down on her, its relentless heat seeping into her bones. Sweat dripped down her forehead, stinging her eyes as she pushed forward, each step feeling heavier than the last. The air was thick with the scent of hot asphalt and exhaust fumes, mingling with the occasional waft of sizzling street food from nearby vendors. Despite the hustle and bustle around her, she felt a sense of isolation, as if the world’s burdens were her alone to bear. With every breath, she could almost taste the storm brewing in the distance, the distant rumble of thunder a harbinger of the turmoil to come.
She didn’t bother to glance back, indifferent to whether anyone trailed behind. Marta and her cronies could do as they pleased. Not that they’d dare, she mused resentfully. At one point during that pathetic excuse for a meeting, she’d half-expected them to pin her down and shave her head, a punishment often threatened for accused collaborators. But Marta, lacking the courage, could only resort to hurling insults at any woman who dared step foot outside.
Which meant that all Zelda had to worry about was being killed by Voight.
This war wasn’t Charlotte’s fault, any more than it was hers—or even Marta’s. Zelda knew her sister better than anyone else, understood the genuine love that radiated from her with every act of compassion. Even in the face of this Hauptsturmführer Dassel’s coercion, Charlotte’s strength shone through, a lodestar of unwavering decency in a world consumed by corruption. To suggest otherwise was an insult to Charlotte’s very essence! She wasn’t weak, and she certainly wasn’t some Nazi lover. She was simply incapable of being unkind.
The subway was back in operation after months of serving as a bomb shelter. Zelda descended into the bustling Harvard Square station, where the platform was filled with commuters. No one bothered her or asked for her papers; the soldiers patrolling all passed by without a second glance. A strong odor of disinfectant had replaced the once-pervasive stench of urine, but if she squinted everything almost seemed the same. The advertising was gone, of course, along with the scattered rubbish; one poster warned about the dangers of smoking, while another urged donations to the Reich’s winter relief fund, featuring a poignant image of a wounded veteran.
She thought about throwing herself onto the tracks.
The train arrived, its doors sliding open to reveal a carriage full of weary travelers, all lost in their own worlds of worry and distraction. She maneuvered through the crowded aisle, feeling the press of bodies around her like packed sardines. A group of Kriegsmarine sailors rose from their seats as she passed, their faces eager with an offer of chivalry. She hesitated, torn between gratitude and suspicion, before exhaustion won out and she sank into the nearest.
One of the sailors flashed a friendly smile in her direction and she recoiled, her skin crawling with unease. His genial expression faltered, giving way to confusion, but she didn’t care. He was a fool for thinking she’d welcome his interest, in the first place. And as the train rattled on through the dark tunnels, her sense of claustrophobia grew. It felt like the sailor and all his friends were watching, like the world was watching, and nowhere was safe.
When the train screeched to a halt at Park Street Station, she wasted no time in escaping. The platform, dimly lit and echoing with the clamor of arriving and departing trains, seemed to close in around her. The acrid scent of sweat mingled with the stale, metallic tang of subway air, assaulting her senses with every breath.
Climbing the steps, she welcomed the waft of cool breeze that greeted her, her lungs craving the relief of fresh oxygen. She emerged onto the sidewalk and paused, taking in her surroundings with a mixture of apprehension and disbelief. The bustling city streets stretched out before her, teeming with people going about their daily lives. But to her, they all seemed like strangers, their faces blurred and indistinct against the backdrop of concrete and steel. She felt like an outsider in her own city, an intruder adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar places.
She wandered aimlessly for what felt like hours, her footsteps echoing hollowly on the pavement. Boston’s streets crisscrossed each other, unfamiliar and indifferent, as she drifted through a world that no longer felt like her own. Eventually, she stumbled upon a hole-in-the-wall pub, its weathered façade standing in harsh contrast to the vibrant, bustling streets outside. The air had been growing more oppressive all morning, with the promise of rain; inside, it was stifling, suffused with the pungent scents of stale beer and cigarette smoke that clung to the walls like a thick fog.
As she let the heavy wooden door close behind her, the din of conversation assaulted her senses, mingling with the strains of traditional Irish music and the clinking of glasses. A handful of men sat at the bar, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of anemic overhead bulbs, their voices raised in heated discussion. Their eyes followed her as she made her way through the crowded room, arguments temporarily abandoned as they wondered who this newcomer was.
Ignoring their stares, she sought refuge at a table in the far corner of the room, where the shadows stretched across the worn wooden floorboards. As she sank into the rickety wooden chair, though, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. In this forgotten corner of the world, she was invisible, just another lost soul seeking solace.
Summoning the bartender, she ordered a beer, her voice sounding strangely distant in her own ears. The bartender nodded briskly, then left her to stew in her own thoughts. Through the crown glass window the world trundled on, oblivious to her turmoil. A sausage vendor had set up his cart on the sidewalk, the aroma of sizzling meat hitting her with a pang of longing. A pair of mutts lingered nearby, clearly feeling the same, their tails wagging eagerly as they watched his every move. She envied their happy-go-lucky existence, free from the burden of politics.
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The bartender put her drink down in front of her, then disappeared again.
At the bar, one of the regulars grunted. “All I’m saying is, this isn’t so bad.”
The bartender glanced up from cutting lemons. “Frank, maybe I should cut you off.”
Frank shot him a dark look.
His friend patted him on the shoulder. “Cheer up! Now there’s beer.”
“Yeah, and that’s my point.” Frank emptied his glass, staring into it. “I can feed Kathleen.”
“You’re putting beer in your daughter’s bottle?” The bartender chuckled. “What’s her brand?”
Frank’s scowl deepened. “Screw you, Patrick.”
“Bridie must love that,” his friend commented.
“Bridie isn’t getting assaulted by junkies every time she leaves the house,” Frank snapped. “She isn’t afraid to bring Kathleen to the playground, because there are so many needles. And with this new job at the waterworks, I can provide, like a man should. Life is better now and damned if you tell me it isn’t. Just because a few bangers and pimps are getting locked up—
Patrick paused, wiping down the bar. “It’s not just bangers and pimps, Frank.”
Zelda fought the urge to scream.
“We had freedom before,” Frank’s friend agreed. “More than we have now.”
Patrick shook his head, counting glasses. “Tell that to the Blacks.”
The conversation droned on as Zelda turned her attention back to the world outside. A group of Heer soldiers passed by, but the sausage vendor paid them no mind. A young private paused to buy a sausage, laughing and petting the mutts. The vendor grinned, pleased with his tip. They were all being conditioned, Zelda thought angrily. Each change was so incremental, so insidious, that no one noticed until it was too late.
Disgusted, she tossed some cash on the table and left.
At the end of the block, a scene of heartache unfolded. Senior citizens, their faces etched with worry and desperation, clung to what few possessions they’d managed to salvage. Different soldiers, their boots heavy on the steps, offered little comfort as they half-helped, half-dragged the elderly residents from their homes. Zelda couldn’t tear her gaze away, feeling a surge of helpless anguish welling up inside her. The atmosphere was thick with tension, mingled with the distant sounds of muffled protests and harsh commands. But even more disheartening was how life continued on around them, indifferent to this latest catastrophe. Although a few others had paused to stare, most simply pushed through the crowd, consumed by their own concerns.
Soldiers were everywhere, moving through this urban hellscape like maggots infesting a carcass. Alongside them, civilians from overseas had begun to trickle in, eager to claim their own share of Lebensraum, the same breathing room that all colonists from everywhere had always wanted to steal for themselves. Boston was a city of opportunity, but it’d never been empty; someone had always lived here first and been muscled aside, ever since that first ragtag band of English settlers had displaced the native Massachusett. Zelda, meanwhile, watched and could do nothing.
As she reached Boston Common, she felt the magnitude of history. America’s oldest public park, it now seemed like little more than a forgotten relic, its tumultuous past of firebrand speakers and executions reduced to mere whispers among the rustling leaves. A softball game unfolded in one corner, the distant thud of the ball against the bat barely audible. A few scattered picnics dotted the green expanse, their occupants lost in idle conversation or basking in the warmth of the sun. Even with these wholesome activities, everything seemed eerily quiet. Settling into a weathered bench, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Boston was holding its breath.
A breeze kicked up, carrying with it the faint brine of the ocean. Overhead, wisps of clouds drifted lazily across the sky, casting fleeting shadows over them all. Wincing, she regretted her choice in shoes. These were her go-to pair for work but, worn and weathered, each step felt like torture as they ground against her blistered feet. Still, facing Charlotte at home seemed even more daunting than continuing to walk in them. However little she wanted to believe either Karen or Rob, a sinking suspicion gnawed at her that both had been telling the truth.
High above, wisps of clouds built into ominous thunderheads, their darkening presence matching her mood. A blister burst on her heel and, seconds later, the heavens unleashed their fury. She felt like she’d been sprayed with a firehose as, with a determined grimace, she got up and started looking for shelter. Shadows morphed into indistinct figures, pushing past her in their own desperation to escape the deluge, nearly knocking her into the road. But, despite the squelching of her shoes and the searing pain in her heel, she pressed on, refusing to yield to the tempest—or to her own sense of growing hopelessness, about the weather and her life.
A sleek Mercedes-Benz 770 pulled smoothly to the curb and stopped, about ten feet in front of her. The car’s exaggerated curves shimmered in the glow of its round headlamps, beacons of opulence amidst the dreary urban landscape. Instantly, a knot formed in the pit of her stomach. These were the vehicles reserved for the elite, the powerful figures who wielded authority with impunity. Who could possibly emerge from such a vehicle in the midst of this downpour? The Reichskommisar was chauffeured in one; so was the Führer himself, the embodiment of evil. As the seconds stretched, she remained rooted to the spot, her senses heightened by anticipation of the unknown. Nothing happened for what felt like an eternity; she was about to give up and walk on when the driver’s door opened.
A Rotenführer emerged, his uniform just visible through the curtain of relentless rain as he strode purposefully to the sidewalk. Then, with a practiced hand, he swung open one of the passenger doors. Zelda’s gaze locked with his, a silent exchange fraught with unspoken questions. Then, frustration etched across his features, he gestured sharply. Her heart skipped a beat; this invitation was meant for her? She pointed to herself, astonished, and he nodded.
She approached cautiously, each step echoing the pounding of her heart. The car’s interior was dim, and luxurious. And there, seated before her with an air of calculated composure, was Voight.