'So, did you and Captain Bertorelli…?' Gruber enquired delicately.
Ever since he had realised that Helga's spare wig was one of two, having borrowed it for an ill thought out disguise, he wondered what she was hiding under there. He hoped it wasn't another swastika tattoo. She'd insinuated that should Germany lose the war, she'd have to find someone less discerning that would cover them up for her. Privately he ventured the thought that the fair skin on her torso was marred by the sight of them. An eagle would have been more flattering.
'Well, he did buy me a black silk negligee all the way from Italy. It's a glorious thing' she said, kicking and rinsing a long leg coquettishly. The milky light bathed her virtuously. She looked like a nymph frolicking in a clamshell. He was glad they were both facing the direction of the window so he didn't seem vulgar in gawking at her. From his perch on the edge of the bath, Gruber could see what it was that men appreciated about her. He could easily admit that Helga had a fine form. It just wasn't his preferred kind of form.
'I'm sure that Herr Flick will be most appreciative of it' he said.
'He will be jealous. He doesn't like other men looking at me, much less giving me presents. And of course, he mustn't know about Bertorelli and I. We did, you know.'
Of course they had.
'Well he won't hear it from me' he promised, internally quaking at the thought of being interrogated again by Herr Flick. Helga had nerves of steel to double cross him. She was in fact, the bravest, most quick witted and most intelligent of them all. Herr Flick didn't deserve her. He intended to tell her one day. After all this war was over. He sighed disconsolately. He couldn't see an end to all of this madness.
He looked over at the wig sitting on its stand. Strong was the head that wore the crown. Women were a deceitful lot. Imagine grabbing a handful of that long golden hair only for it to come off her head. But Helga had made some prudent points as to how women needed an element of artifice and he supposed that it was so. In any case, she was an expert in making sure that it was fastened securely. Under the mass of hair, she had cropped feathery strands, a bit like a duckling. It was something she'd never let any man see, until now. Only Gruber was in on the secret and he'd stumbled upon it by accident. Not even Herr Flick knew it. All the better to disguise herself with if needed. Gruber secretly thought that she looked like a fine strong farm boy and found it oddly arousing. She was certainly a natural blonde, matching drapes and all. He pretended he hadn't noticed when she'd stepped out of the bath the first time.
Chasing the thought away, he sniffed appreciatively. Her black market bath salts were certainly gratifying to the nose.
Framed in the opalescent light, they were unaware that they looked like a still life most pleasing to the eye.