It had been an arduous recovery. The war had ravaged everyone and the empire they had been press ganged into fighting for had crumbled into ash.
Helga added more to the bonfire and observed her old life burning into oblivion. Her best knickers, corset, most of her underwear. Swastika trimming was now verboten. Earlier that week she'd finally taken the irreversible step of erasing her history with Gruber's suggestion. He'd held her hand throughout as the tattooist had etched and inked a picture of a wine bottle and a couple of half full glasses over her past. She thought, why not? Gruber fussed and winced with her in sympathy. She assured him that it was worth the pain. She admired it in the mirror as she undressed for bed. She was getting used to sharing living quarters with Gruber. He was a perfect gentleman. They were getting on much better than they'd ever done before. They could truly relax in each other's company. Escaping together and sticking together tended to do that. He looked at her much more warmly when she took off her wig at home. She knew why. She'd known all along.
In the twilight, she ran her hands over the murmuring silk. She'd kept back the negligee. It reminded her of Bertorelli, wherever he was in the world. Whenever she put it on, she felt young again.
What twists and turns life took.