The Calm Before The Storm
There was a nice walk along the river in Nouvion. Helga liked to spend time there on her days off, coming to rest on a little bench that looked out across the water, slow and still here, so unlike the rushing mountain streams of Bavaria. Her poor strudel chopping mother hadn't had much money for toys or visits to the cinema when Helga was a child, but they had often walked in the mountains, with fresh strudels on a rug spread out by the sparkling, splashing water. She missed those times, and sometimes wondered if it would ever be possible to go back. If they lost, would the British (or the Russians, now), ever let them go home again? Herr Flick was rather more optimistic, in that respect, promising her their honeymoon by a limpid Bavarian lake, but she didn't know if that would ever happen, either.
It was a warm, sunny day, so Helga had taken the rare opportunity to wear a decent dress, purchased at no doubt a much reduced price from the seamstress in the town square, and let her hair fall around her shoulders. She stared out at the ducks floating by, blissfully unaware of the situation, as she considered the train of events that had brought her here.
Her father had been killed, in the last war. He left her, at just two years old, with her mother struggling to make ends meet. Helga had grown up dreading such a life, and resolved to get out of the village as soon as she could, to find something better. It had come as a shock, on arrival in Munich, to find that 'decent' work for a young woman was hard to come by, even if the economy had started to pick up from what it was, and while she was not necessarily opposed to – giving a little extra should it be worth her while – it wasn't something she was keen on. Especially when the heir to BMW or some such she'd confidently expected to find wasn't the one paying her attention.
So she'd ended up in secretarial college when not sitting in the ticket office of the Hauptbanhof she'd arrived at, hoping every day that something better would come along. She finished her course a year before this war began, before everything changed. She hadn't wanted another war, and could remember thinking that surely, not even men could be so stupid as to fight again after last time, that they'd soon see reason and find some way to resolve things without it coming to this, or at least, if there was a war, it would be somewhere far away, far from the towns and cities of the countries involved, like it was before.
But there were jobs – all of a sudden, she was in demand. She could help win this war, this time (and hopefully snag herself a Major or a Colonel in the process, a Captain at the very least). There was to be a whole Corps, that needed women like her, with decent pay, accommodation, travel…Helga signed up as soon as she finished her shift one afternoon – already drafting her letter of resignation to the Reichsbahn in her head.
The tanks rolled into to Paris, not long after the war began, and she was given her orders, and arrived in Nouvion shortly after that. How long would she stay here? She didn't know. It was a strange situation, really. Helga found herself in a rather pleasant town, in which a large percentage of the population would gladly see her dead, while growing increasingly enmeshed in schemes intended to secure her future (and, apparently, that of most of the German local command) – hopefully, regardless of which way the war went. And then, of course, there was her 'fiance'…
Was it love? Helga had tried to work it out, many times. It was…attraction…and power, and maybe, if they won, security. That was…like love, wasn't it? Although, if they didn't…
Helga didn't fancy the chances of the local Gestapo officer being alive too long, if the British did come – and maybe not hers, either. A sensible woman needed options. Best keep a bag packed for Switzerland, and an eye on that damn painting, just in case. Love didn't really come into it – she doubted she'd ever been in love, and she probably never would. Was she really any better then, than the French tarts at the café, who sold themselves for a price? There were some who'd say she had, and she could do very little about it. No, it wasn't love, but it was lust, and longing, and dredging up parts of her she didn't like. You didn't just walk away, from feeling like that, and certainly didn't control it. Not love, but not something she could live without, not now. Maybe not something he could live without, either.
Helga had very little idea of what went through Herr Flick's head. Sometimes, it seemed that she had power over him, could even humiliate him, but then it could flip on a coin, and she was begging, once again, for some crumb of attention. And part of her loved it.
She couldn't understand it, but another part of her envied the rather sweet, hopeless love that Gruber bore for Rene. It must be nice, to be giddy around someone like that. She didn't feel giddy when Herr Flick was around. She felt afraid, aroused, exhilarated, rejected – sometimes all at once. She didn't understand it – it was dark and often painful, but it wasn't just the painting that kept them together – it never was.
The sun was high overhead now, lunchtime. Helga looked at her watch. She might head for the café, to cheer herself up – such thoughts were rather maudlin, for such a lovely day. Suddenly, she wanted to see that sweet, hopeless love from a rather sweet man, and let herself imagine, just for a while, how that felt.
Maybe a man like that would like a picnic by a Bavarian mountain stream, with fresh strudels…she smiled then, in spite of herself. As if a city boy like that could cope in the mountains…certainly couldn't take the tank…