The Only Thing to Fear

by Caroline Tung Richmond

  She had completed her very first mission.

  She had proven her uncle wrong.

  At the academy the following day, Zara washed the windows and emptied the garbage pails like usual, but her thoughts remained fastened on last night’s supply run. After the escape from Fort Goering, Zara had followed Mrs. Talley home, her ears perked for the shout of a Nazi soldier or the roar of a military truck, but none had come. Finally, around one in the morning, she had padded through her back door — thankfully, Uncle Red hadn’t stirred — but she couldn’t go to bed until her heart stopped banging so hard. She’d sat at the edge of the mattress, her limbs exhausted but her mind wide awake, when the realization finally sank in.

  She and Mrs. Talley had gotten away with it.

  The thrill had soared through Zara then. Their supply run had been the exact opposite of cautious — but they had done it anyway. And completed it to boot. She wondered if her mother would have been proud of her. A sad smile pricked Zara’s mouth. She hoped so, at least.

  The school bell chimed for last period, and Zara slipped into the science laboratory to wash the beakers. After work, she would go over to Mrs. Talley’s and tell her what she had done. Mrs. Talley would probably scold her a little, but Zara would convince her that they needed to plan more runs. More missions. It was for the good of Greenfield, she would reason. And at last, Zara would be doing something.

  With a lightness in her step, Zara headed toward the classroom’s sink, careful to keep her eyes down to avoid the posters that compared the skulls of the Aryans to those of the Jews. The racial sciences were a favorite topic of Herr Zoller, the teacher who led the science labs and who had taken a particular interest in “crossbreeds” like Zara. Die Mischlinge, he liked to call them.

  “Ah, greetings to you,” Herr Zoller said to her from his desk. “Might you spare a moment for me at the end of class? For my vials, you see.”

  “My apologies, but Frau Schumann has requested my services,” Zara said quickly. When she first arrived at the academy, she had thought Herr Zoller was the kindest of all the teachers because he was always inquiring about her health, but that was before she discovered his beloved vials, which he stocked with “genetically inferior” blood. He rather enjoyed using them for class projects to demonstrate the superiority of the Aryan race, and he often asked Zara if she could spare him some of her own blood. She had always declined politely, but secretly she wished she could smash all of his disgusting vials.

  While Zara got to work, Herr Zoller called out the class roll, pacing in front of a large map of the world. The map itself offered the only bright spots of color in the beige-painted room. Zara studied it sometimes when she washed the chalkboards, wondering what the map would look like if the Allies had won the war instead of the Axis. That was the sort of world she longed for.

  As the map stood now, a great swath of red represented the Nazi Empire, stretching over Western Europe, North Africa, and the Eastern American Territories. In violet, the Empire of Japan spilled over most of Asia, while the Italian Confederation was marked by dashes of orange, covering Italy proper, the Italian Dakotas, and the Mexican-Italian Protectorate. The Soviet Union came next, in kelly green, spreading from Siberia to Eastern Europe. Then a thick line of gold marked the neutral territories, like the strip of land that separated Germany from the Soviet Union, running from the Baltic Sea and down to the Mediterranean. For decades, both Empires had respected this neutral European zone, but the question always remained: for how long?

  Finally, the rest of the world was painted a dull iron gray, split between land that was disputed (the South American Territories) or land that no one wanted (the North and South Poles).

  “Open your textbooks to page sixty,” Herr Zoller said.

  As he launched into his lesson on the chemistry of combustion and rattled on about the interplay between fire and oxygen, Zara scrubbed the first batch of beakers. Usually it took her twenty minutes to finish the pile, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the night before. Somehow, she would convince her uncle to let her go on missions. Mrs. Talley was getting older and Uncle Red couldn’t tackle the tasks alone. But she could already hear his response in her head: We’ll talk about this when you’re older. Until then, wash the dishes and shovel the horse manure, please. A frown marred her lips. Her uncle could be stubborn as an old mule sometimes, especially with the sentinels always sniffing around the farm. One of Uncle Red’s biggest fears was that the Colonel would finally realize that Zara’s mother had died in the Mission Metzger attack, instead of from a disease. If that happened, both he and Zara would be jailed, maybe even killed.

  But Zara knew that there had to be a way to convince her uncle. They could form a team, like him and her mom used to be. Perhaps she could —

  “You there! Mischling!” Herr Zoller had stopped his lecture to point straight at Zara’s nose. “Turn off that water. It’s going to waste.”

  Thirty cadets swiveled in their chairs, their scornful eyes looking Zara up and down.

  “Did you hear me?” said Herr Zoller. He glanced back to the rest of the class. “She may be a little hard of hearing. These mixed-breed specimens are often lacking in some way, and that is why we openly discourage the crossing of the races.”

  A few cadets snickered, and Zara bowed her head to hide the fury in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Herr Zoller,” she mumbled. She shut off the faucet with a shaky hand and wished she could send a tornado into Herr Zoller’s face — showing him how “lacking” she was — but she couldn’t cause a scene. She’d probably end up in a Nazi laboratory with Herr Zoller overseeing her dissection. The thought of that made her stomach flip over.

  As soon as the class ended, Zara rolled her cart into the corridor, weaving through the cadets with the wheels squeaking at each turn. Herr Zoller’s words still stung, and she pushed the cart faster, hurtling around a corner — and promptly ramming into Bastian’s leg. Her hand flew to her mouth.

  “I’m so sorry!” she said while Bastian bent to rub his ankle. If she had injured him, she might as well wave good-bye to her paycheck. Zara groaned. Today had started off as a rare good day for her, but now she had ruined it.

  Bastian straightened, shrugging it off. “It’ll only bruise a little.”

  “Should I get the nurse?”

  “Really, I’m all right. That won’t be necessary.”

  He isn’t angry? Zara thought. If she had done the same thing to his father, she was sure the Colonel would have suspended her from work. Maybe he would have sent her to the labor camp just for the fun of it. But Bastian didn’t seem fazed.

  “I’ll see you at four o’clock today?” Bastian said.

  Zara had almost forgotten about their meeting. Before she could answer him, though, two female cadets glided down the hall and stopped when they spotted Bastian. They stared at him, then at Zara.

  “Bastian,” one of them cooed. “Why are you talking to her?”

  The other girl sniffed the air. “Ugh. When do you think was the last time she bathed?” Her nose crinkled and her gaze traveled over Zara’s frayed uniform.

  Bastian’s back stiffened. “Don’t you two have to catch your bus?” he said, his voice strained.

  “We thought maybe you could give us a ride,” said the taller cadet. She twisted her ponytail with one finger and flashed him a pretty smile.

  “Not today,” he said flatly.

  The girls huffed, exchanged a dark glance, and quickly departed. Bastian turned back to Zara. “Sorry about that.”

  Zara could only stare at him for a few seconds before finding her tongue. A cadet never apologized to a cleaning girl. It was simply not done. “There’s no need to apologize, Herr Eckhart,” she managed to get out.

  She had heard so many rumors about Bastian’s snobbishness, how he thought he was so mighty that he didn’t socialize with the other cadets, but so far he had treated her like no other Nazi had before. Politely. And with respect. He was a jigsaw puzzle that Zara coul
dn’t quite piece together. Either he was being kind to her because he wanted something, or he was being kind to her because he was just that.

  A kind Nazi? Doubt rolled through Zara like a steam engine. He must want something…. But what exactly?

  “Can you meet me at my house after your shift?” said Bastian.

  “I thought you wanted to meet here at the academy.”

  “There has been, ah, a change of plans.”

  The hairs pricked on the back of Zara’s neck. None of Bastian’s actions made sense: calling her Fräulein, chasing off the female cadets, offering to walk her to his house. She had a feeling he didn’t want to talk about this housekeeping job at all, but she didn’t know what else he could want to discuss with her.

  Zara was about to agree to the courtyard meeting — she had no other choice but to accept it — but then she heard a flurry of chatter down the hallway. A swath of cadets had gathered by the front doors, waving slips of paper in their hands and peppering the air with words like “Nazis” and “arrest.” One of Bastian’s track teammates, Walther Dresner, broke free from the group and ran toward Bastian. His lip curled at Zara as he stepped in front of her to clap Bastian on the back.

  “Can you believe it?” Walther said while he fiddled with his sapphire-encrusted watch. He was always accessorized in the most ridiculous Berlin fashions. Today, he favored a pair of thick-framed glasses with no lenses. It was the silliest thing Zara had ever seen, not to mention a waste of money.

  “What’s going on?” said Bastian.

  “Haven’t you heard? There’s an execution today.” He handed Bastian a piece of paper from his breast pocket. The flyer looked eerily familiar to Zara. “A few of the soldiers posted the announcement not too long ago.”

  “Execution?”

  “The sentinels arrested a spy. Coach canceled practice, so don’t bother going. I’ll see you at the square, yeah?”

  Zara froze, each word of his puncturing her skin. A spy. An execution. She tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t come fast enough. Was her uncle safe? Had he gotten arrested? He had been so cautious these last nine years, but when it came to the Nazis no one was ever truly safe.

  She had to find out who the spy was.

  Zara wanted to run to the square immediately, but she forced herself to wheel her cart back into the utility room. She had to act like a humble Hausmeisterin for another few minutes; she couldn’t let anyone get suspicious. After she pulled off her apron, she found the nearest exit and broke into a sprint once the academy was behind her, passing the tea shop and the Nazi Women’s Charity League, which was gathering old coats and shoes for an orphanage. Hundreds of people had lined the streets already, a sea of pale-faced men and wide-eyed women, Germans and laborers mixed together. No one had seen an execution in years.

  Please, please let Uncle Red be all right, Zara thought desperately. A cloud of tears stormed into her eyes. She hadn’t even waved good-bye to him that morning; she had been too fixated on the mission last night. She should have kissed him on the cheek, told her that she loved him. She urged her legs faster.

  Weaving from left to right, Zara squeezed through the throng until she neared the stage in the square, the same setup as the Führer’s announcement. Two dozen soldiers had spread over the stage, standing shoulder to shoulder, forming a wall of guns and muscle. Zara had to stand on her tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the spy.

  Not Uncle Red. Please, not Uncle Red, she repeated over and over in her head.

  She strained her neck until she saw a sliver of the spy’s face. White hair. Wrinkled skin. A torn shawl over thin shoulders.

  Zara’s throat cinched like a belt.

  It wasn’t her uncle.

  It was Mrs. Talley.

  The blood drained from Zara’s face.

  “No,” she whispered. “Oh, God, no.”

  This couldn’t be happening. After the mission last night, Zara had made sure that they hadn’t been followed. She had destroyed that security camera, too, hadn’t she?

  Bastian found her in the crowd — had he followed her from school? — but he stopped abruptly when he saw the stage. “Who is that poor woman?” he said so only Zara could hear.

  Zara didn’t answer him. Her gaze scrambled across the mass of Kleinbauern, searching wildly for her uncle, but she could barely see ten feet in front of her. The square was filled to capacity with onlookers on every corner and soldiers out in full force. Over a hundred guards had been positioned throughout the square, marked by their green uniforms, along with a half-dozen sentinels. One of them scaled the courthouse façade like a four-limbed spider, while Sentinel Achen flew overhead in a tight circle. A few of the German children pointed at him and clapped.

  Zara focused back on the stage, filled with panic. She pushed forward. “Mrs. Talley!”

  “Please, you mustn’t make a scene,” Bastian said into her ear. He cautiously tugged at her elbow. “There’s nothing we can do to stop this.”

  “Don’t say that!” Zara snapped before she remembered who she was speaking to. She started mumbling an apology, but Bastian interrupted it.

  “Believe me, Fräulein” — without realizing it, he touched the dog tags around his neck — “there’s nothing left to do. You’ll only get arrested yourself.”

  Zara shook her head. She wouldn’t believe that — and she couldn’t understand why Bastian was looking out for her. He had hardly spoken a word to her in all of the years she worked at the academy, but now he was treating her like a friend.

  Ignoring him, Zara squeezed deeper into the morass of townspeople. She might have stood by while Mr. Kerry was getting beaten, but she wouldn’t repeat that mistake. Mrs. Talley was her friend, maybe her only friend after the Nazis had slaughtered Molly, and Zara refused to do nothing while the Nazis cut her to pieces.

  But Bastian’s warning echoed through her mind. Hundreds of people now packed the square, with Nazis in every corner. How could she and Mrs. Talley ever escape?

  An armored SUV pulled up to the square, and the soldiers shouted for everyone to quiet down. Only then did Colonel Eckhart step out of the car and proceed onto the stage, with a megaphone held against his mouth. “Heil Hitler! Sieg heil!”

  “Sieg heil,” the masses chanted like drones.

  “Today, I speak to the Kleinbauern of Greenfield,” he said, sweeping his frigid gaze across the crowd. “A few days ago, as many of you witnessed, we arrested a man who spoke treason against the Führer. It troubles me greatly that many of you continue to disrespect his rule. How ungrateful you are.”

  The Germans in the square, clad in their pressed suits and tailored dresses, nodded their heads, but the tattered-clothed laborers exchanged glances with their neighbors. Yet, none of them dared raise a voice in protest.

  “My soldiers have discovered a criminal in our midst. A traitor!” Colonel Eckhart pointed a long finger at Mrs. Talley. “A spy for the Alliance!”

  Zara choked on her breath, still bewildered at what was unfolding in front of her. Mrs. Talley had always been so careful — maybe not to the extent of Uncle Red, but she had cautiously stowed her Alliance radio and kept her house free of treasonous documents. The Nazis must have set her up for this crime. That was the only explanation Zara could think of.

  Colonel Eckhart pointed the megaphone at Mrs. Talley’s face. “This woman, Nella Talley, has committed the offense of stealing from Fort Goering. Do you deny this?” He prodded Mrs. Talley, digging hard against her side.

  Mrs. Talley said nothing. She fixed her gaze dead ahead, standing with her back straight despite the blood trickling from her nose. The Nazis’ work, most likely. Zara tried to catch her eye, but she wasn’t tall enough to see over the people in front of her.

  “Do you deny the footage we recorded of you? Our security cameras don’t lie.” Colonel Eckhart smiled like a cat that had trapped a fat mouse. “We’ve hidden them throughout our properties to catch traitors like you.”

  Struggling to breathe, Z
ara braced herself against the woman next to her, who threw her a nasty scowl and backed away. Zara regained her balance, but sheer panic was rolling through her. Had she missed another camera during the supply run? No, that couldn’t be it. If there had been another camera on top of a shed or the hospital, then she would be up on that stage as well. Then the realization dawned on her: The Nazis must have hidden another camera inside the storage shed where Mrs. Talley had taken the supplies. Zara may have destroyed one device, but she hadn’t destroyed the one that counted the most.

  Nausea swam through her stomach. Zara had been so sure that she and Mrs. Talley had gotten away with their mission, that they had outsmarted the Nazis. She had walked around all day with a spring in her step, so proud of what she had done — but she had been so stupid.

  Colonel Eckhart shoved Mrs. Talley onto her knees and kicked her bad hip. Anguish spread over her face, but Mrs. Talley didn’t cry out. He continued, “And now for the greater charges. Do you refute your involvement with the Alliance?” He waited for her to answer and slapped her when she didn’t. A red mark exploded across Mrs. Talley’s cheek, but she still remained silent. “We found a rebel radio during a sweep of your home. Are you going to tell me that it wasn’t yours?”

  Ask for mercy, Zara thought, desperate. She knew Mrs. Talley would never do so, but maybe the Colonel would take pity on a widow. There had to be a tiny kernel of compassion inside him.

  The Colonel only continued his pacing. “I take your silence for acquiescence, then.” His white smile spread wider, and Zara knew that there would be no mercy. There wasn’t a speck of it in his Nazi bones. “The punishment for your crimes is death!”

  A cry tore from Zara’s throat before she could stifle it. “No! Please —” She stopped herself as a hush fell over the crowd. Her blood turned to frost as Colonel Eckhart searched the massive group, hunting for the source of the outburst. Hunting for her.