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She walked slowly up the stairs, stalling as long as she could. Grandpa Frank’s room was at the far end of the corridor, forcing her to walk past the room shared by Johan and Siegfried and her own door before she reached her grandfather’s door. Johan had complained, loudly, that he hadn’t been allowed to move into Kurt’s room, now that his elder brother spent most of his time in the barracks, but their father had flatly refused to allow him to take the empty room. Gudrun smiled at the memory. There weren’t many advantages to living in a patriarchal household, but watching her brothers forced to share a room was definitely one of them.

“Come,” an imperious voice bellowed.

Gudrun flinched – she’d never worked out how Grandpa Frank could tell when there was someone waiting outside his room – and pushed the door open, wrinkling her nose at the stench. As always, the room was an odd combination of orderly and disorderly; the bed looked neat and tidy, but there were beer bottles lying on the floor and the remains of a snack sitting on the bedside table. Grandpa Frank himself was sitting in an armchair, reading a newspaper and drinking from a half-full bottle of beer. Gudrun’s stomach turned at the thought of helping the disgusting old man to the toilet, although – to be fair – he’d never seemed to have any problems staggering out of bed and doing his business as far as she knew.

“Victory Day,” Grandpa Frank said. “You must be very proud.”

“Yes, Grandpa,” Gudrun said. She’d never been sure just who Grandpa Frank thought she was, half the time. Half of what he said made no sense at all. “But my boyfriend…”

Her voice caught. Grandpa Frank was… a cripple. No, not quite a cripple, but he needed a wheelchair if he wanted to leave the house. And Konrad wouldn’t even have that, if by some dark miracle he survived. He…

“The paratrooper,” Grandpa Frank said, darkly. “I heard he was planning to become a policeman. It’s no place for a young man.”

Wonderful, Gudrun thought. The paratrooper-turned-policeman was her father. He thinks I’m my mother.

She eyed her grandfather carefully as she placed the tray on the table beside him. Grandpa Frank’s mood changed rapidly; she’d seen him go from maudlin, mourning his long-dead wife, to angry and raging at the world within seconds. Only his daughter could talk sense into him when he was angry; Gudrun honestly didn’t understand why her mother allowed the old man to stay in the house. Grandpa Frank had come alarmingly close to clobbering Johan’s brains out when the younger boy had snuck up on him for a dare.

“My boyfriend didn’t take part in the parade,” she said, flatly. It was honest enough, to be sure. “I miss him.”

“Just stay faithful to him,” Grandpa Frank advised. “It’s no service to a decent lad to trade him in when another one comes along.”

Gudrun felt her cheeks heat. The idea of Grandpa Frank, of all people, giving her relationship advice was horrifically embarrassing. She honestly had no idea what he’d done in the war, but he’d had enough nightmares to make it clear that it had been something thoroughly unpleasant. Maybe he’d been in Stalingrad, during the brutal house-to-house fighting, or invaded Moscow towards the end of the war. He was certainly old enough…

But mother won’t let us ask him any questions, she thought. And she slapped Johan when he tried.

“I’ll do my best,” she said. She stepped back from the older man, never taking her eyes off him. “I hope it’s good food.”

Grandpa Frank ignored her as he took a long swig from the bottle and started to mutter to himself in a dialect Gudrun didn’t recognise. Careful to breathe through her mouth, she looked around the room, picked up the used plates and cutlery and headed back downstairs to the kitchen. Her mother was waiting, hands resting impatiently on her hips. Gudrun rolled her eyes as her mother pointed to the sink, then emptied the plates into the bin, put the dishes in the water and washed them hastily. Grandpa Frank never seemed to finish a meal.

Too busy drinking, Gudrun thought, as her mother started to hand out more tasks before she could make her escape. And trying to drown his sorrows.

She looked at her mother, who was just taking a tray of sausages out of the oven. “Why do we keep Grandpa Frank here when we could send him to one of the veteran homes?”

Her mother turned and gave her the look that generally preceded a hard slap. “When your father and I are old and grey,” she said coldly, “will you look after us or will you send us to a home?”

Gudrun flinched. “Of course I’ll look after you…”

“My father practically raised me since my mother died young,” Adelinde said. “Whatever his flaws, and he has many, he managed to raise a daughter despite never remarrying. I cannot put him into a home to die, young lady, and you’re being thoroughly unpleasant to suggest it.”

“Yes, mother,” Gudrun said, feeling tiny under her mother’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“And we get an extra stipend from the government for taking care of a veteran,” a new voice said. Gudrun turned to see her father standing there, wearing his policeman’s uniform. “It isn’t to be sniffed at, you know.”

“Herman,” Adelinde said, tightly.

Gudrun gave her father a hug. “How was work?”

“Your daughter was out with a friend half the day and your eldest son has yet to return,” Adelinde said, before her father could say a word. “I expect you to speak to them both after dinner.”

“Yes, dear,” Herman said, as he let go of Gudrun. “Gudrun, speak to me after dinner.”

Gudrun nodded, hoping he couldn’t see the amusement on her face. She’d been taught, in school, that a wife was to be obedient to her husband, cook his dinners, have his children and treat him like a king. Whoever had written the stupid textbooks she’d been forced to read, she was sure, was either a man with a female penname or a woman who’d never actually married anyone. Adelinde didn’t even pretend to be obedient to her husband. The household was her realm and God help anyone who questioned her right to rule.

“There was the usual run of pickpockets and other trouble-causers,” her father added, picking up a biscuit from the jar while his wife’s back was turned. “A group of children ran riot in the square, but someone very high up ordered that they were merely to be sent back to school rather than face punishment. It was quite strange.”

“Poor kids,” Gudrun said. She’d been lucky to escape a full Victory Day parade while she’d been at school, but she’d had to stand for hours for smaller parades and, by the time they were finally dismissed, she’d been aching and sore. “Are they going to be all right?”

“Probably,” her father said. “They…”

“Gudrun, take the potatoes and put them on the table,” her mother interrupted. “Herman, if you’re going to stand around here, take the bottles of beer and put them by the plates.”

“Yes, dear,” her father said. “Shall I give Johan the big mug?”

“Probably not,” Adelinde said. She normally banned alcohol from the table, save for Grandpa Frank. But this was Victory Day. “I don’t want him drinking too much and winding up being sick over my nice clean carpet.”

Gudrun winced inwardly as she carried the potatoes out. Johan and Siegfried were already sitting at the table, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. They might as well be twins, she’d often thought, although Johan was blonde while Siegfried was brown, taking more after their father. He was growing up quickly too, she noted; he was the baby of the family, at twelve, but he’d already lost his childlike appearance. Like everyone else at school, he’d been forced to exercise on the playing fields until he’d shed every last trace of fat from his body.