CHAPTER 3
April 1945
Germany
Steam rised from the bath.
Up.
Little drops formed on the tiles.
Little blue veins running up an arm.
He had to wash it all away from him.
xxx
September 1949
United States of America
O, Joe, why do we do this?
He finds me in the kitchen, hand hovering with a butter knife over a slice of bread.
He always finds me.
He is furious. Veins throbbing in his neck. Teeth snarls.
What a wolfish devil-like grin?
Throbbing. Throbbing.
And I am backed. Backed.
Into a corner.
I have my back backed into a corner.
We hide out in corners. We are one and the same.
He is furious: he hates me.
He scares me.
One day I'll be free of him. (I'm obsessed with him.) He's no hero – he killed a man when the war was already over. In a moment of madness.
And we fuck in the kitchen.
Slamming. Pounding.
Thrusting.
Slamming. Pounding.
Thrusting.
Thrusting.
Again. Again.
Again.
O, Joe, why do you use me like this?
xxx
April 1945
Germany
There was a man in her bathroom. One of them… an American.
She was furious.
But scared to death. With one foot in the doorway, one in the hall, hands trembling she stood there, all the time praying. Praying, praying, a mumble of words that made no real sense.
Scared to death.
Of the man in the bathtub with the peaceful-looking face.
O, how harmless and serene he looks.
O, look at the curve of his mouth. Look at the way his hand hangs over the rim. Look at the tilt of his head as he rests it.
Is he an officer? Captain? Lieutenant?
She looked around for any signs, trying terrible not to let the shotgun drop to the floor with a loud thud. There was a pile of clothes on the chair, but she could not identify any rank marks on it.
Ficken. Scheiß drauf.
She wanted him out of her house.
The... seconds... ticked... by.
O, look at the fine lines of his torso, running down... the sinewy muscles, slightly visible bulging veins on his arms.
The line of hair leading…
Leading her eyes where they should not go. Soap still lingered here and there on his body.
O, Father, help me. A prayer, and then:
She loaded.
Immediately alarm flashed over his face, eyes darted open. Water splashed in a flood over the rim, as he reached for his weapon.
Water splashing almost to her feet.
"Don't."
He frowned; let his hand slip back into the bath.
With the gun she motioned for him to get up, but he did not react. Instead he laid there in the tub frowning, almost grinning like an idiot.
"Get up." It was hard to keep her voice from trembling.
"My clothes." Grinning. Grinning like an idiot. What a wolfish devil-like grin?
Finally he moved and there was another flood of water, spilling all the way to her feet. The water ran down his body: bony, skinny, lean.
Ruthless. Dangerous.
He was frighteningly close, with little more than a meter between them. She kept her eyes focused intently on his face. "Fine. You can get your clothes. But don't even move in the direction of that gun."
And then, as he climbed from the bath he started laughing.
Ruthless. Dangerous. Arrogant. Taking his sweet fucking time.
"Shut up."
He turned around halfway to look at her, just when, to her great embarrassment, her eyes were on his body: bony, skinny, lean.
He started talking again, first lazily pulling the shorts up to cover himself, and then reaching for a towel. "I'll tell you this. You've got composure." He winked.
Arrogant, o so fucking arrogant and he's purposely trying to distract me. She followed a drop of water with her eyes as it ran down his chest.
"You just think of having your way with me and I'll blast you out of this room." What a silly thing to say, she thought the moment the words were out of her mouth, especially when he gave her another wolfish grin.
The steam kept on rising.
Up.
Little drops formed on the tiles.
The grin turned into a sneer. Anger flashed over his face. Frightening, frightening anger.
"Don't worry about it, Fraulein. I don't fuck German whores."
Tears stung behind her eyelids. She had never in her life been called a whore.
xxx
September 1949
United States of America
Even now she remains his German whore.
And men do not love their whores.
When he is done with her, she lies on the floor: a quivering mess. He rolls away from her.
"Joe?"
"Don't." He is angry, as he always is afterwards. He hates her, she knows it. He hates her. But he needs her.
