And let’s hope father doesn’t catch me, Gudrun thought, as she slowly undressed and packed the uniform away in her bag. She doubted her mother would want to see it in the next couple of days. He’d kill me if he caught me dressed like a common tart.
She sighed, inwardly, as a slip of paper fell out of the skirt and landed on the floor. One of the matrons had made her write the lines out, time and time again, until her hands were aching, a punishment for some offense she no longer remembered. The lines of the poem urged her to forget about being anything other than a housewife and mother… she shuddered in bitter memory. How often had she been told she wouldn’t ever be anything else? And if Konrad had remained unwounded, would she have been allowed to be a computer engineer or would she be expected to be his housewife?
“Take hold of kettle, broom and pan,” she muttered. “Then you’ll surely get a man!”
She remembered, now. She’d asked one of the matrons why she was unmarried – and why she was allowed to have a job teaching girls that all they could expect to be in the future were housewives and mothers. The fat ugly woman – they’d joked that no amount of kettles, brooms or pans could win her anything other than an ugly Jew – had been furious. Gudrun
suspected, sometimes, that the only thing that had saved her life was the crone’s awareness that Gudrun’s father was a policeman. As it was, her hand had been sore for days after she’d copied the poem out a thousand times.
“And she still didn’t get a man,” she muttered, as she pulled her working clothes back on and headed for the door. The leaflets would be stored in the vans until Sunday, whereupon they’d start their act of defiance. “No one mourned for her when had she a heart attack and died.”
Gudrun groaned as she heard the sound of Grandpa Frank ringing his bell, demanding immediate attention. She considered, briefly, ignoring the sound, but it would be just like the old bastard to recall that Gudrun had been in the house and report her to her mother. Getting grounded would be bad enough at any time; now, when she needed to be with her friends on Sunday, it would be disastrous. Bracing herself, she walked down the corridor to Grandpa Frank’s room and peered inside. He was lying in his bed, looking thoroughly drunk. The stench of beer was bad enough to make her recoil in disgust.
“Fetch more beer,” he ordered. “And bread!”
“Yes, Grandpa,” Gudrun said. Who knew? Maybe there was no beer in the fridge and she’d have an excuse to refuse. “I’ll bring it for you as quickly as I can.”
She picked up a number of empty bottles, then hurried downstairs and dumped them in the bin before opening the fridge. The cranky machine – it was the best her father could buy on his salary – was unreliable, but typically it had managed to keep a few bottles of beer chilled and ready for the drunkard. Gudrun took them out of the fridge, added beer to the list of things her mother had to buy and then carried the bottles and bread back upstairs. Grandpa Frank was lying back in his bed, caterwauling a song she didn’t recognise. It certainly wasn’t one of the ones she’d learned in the BDM!
“You’re a good girl,” Grandpa Frank said, as she put the bottles beside his bed. “Just like your mother.”
My mother keeps you in this house, you disgusting old man, Gudrun thought. She knew what her mother had said, time and time again, but she still didn’t understand. And if I behave like this to my children, if I ever have them, I’ll deserve to be kicked into the streets to die.
“Thank you,” she said, instead. “And now, if you don’t mind, I have to go work on my studies.”
“Nothing good ever came of women studying,” Grandpa Frank called after her. “You need to marry a man and have his children…”
Gudrun slammed the door as she left, but his laughter followed her as she headed down the corridor into her room. She hated him. She hated him. How could her mother give such a disgusting old man a home, even if he was her father? Surely, Gudrun’s own father wouldn’t be such a nightmare if he moved in with her after he retired. And if they had to put up with him, why couldn’t her mother handle him personally?
She worked on her studies for an hour, then heard her mother opening the door downstairs and entering the house. Gudrun stood, checked her bag was out of sight, and hurried downstairs to assist her mother to unpack her bags. Not entirely to her surprise, one bag was full of new bottles of beer. Grandpa Frank could continue drinking himself to death if he wished.
He’s too disgusting to die, she thought, morbidly. Her mother was in a cheerful mood, twittering away about a warning from her friend at the shop that the price of fruit and vegetables was apparently on the rise. He’ll still be alive after we’re gone.
She looked up, sharply, as something her mother said penetrated her mind. “Prices are going up?”
“Yes,” her mother said. “The beer cost more than double what it cost last week.”
“Perhaps we should stop buying it,” Gudrun said. Her mother gave her a dark look, but said nothing. “And the meat cost more too?”
“Yes,” her mother said. “I don’t know what we’re going to do if prices keep rising, Gudrun.”
I might have to get a real job, Gudrun thought. And then…?
She pushed the thought aside as her mother ordered her into the kitchen to start chopping the vegetables. Sunday was only two days away, after all.
But it felt as though Sunday would never come.
Chapter Eleven
Berlin
28 July 1985
“So, we’re agreed,” Aldrich said. “You’ll supply an extra five hundred computers at a thousand dollars apiece.”
“That sounds acceptable,” Andrew Barton said, trying not to let the tiredness sink into his voice. It had been a long negotiating session and tempers had frayed on both sides. “I trust we will receive payment in advance?”
“Half in advance,” Aldrich said. “We’ll want to check the machines before we make the final payment.”
He paused. “My superiors would be happy to pay more for the latest computers,” he added, slowly. “And there might be a commission in it for you.”
Andrew made a show of glancing at Penelope, who scowled at him. “I’m afraid my superiors have been unable to convince Congress to make an exception to the export restrictions,” he said. Aldrich had cheerfully tried to bribe him the first time they’d met, back when Andrew had been establishing his cover as an electronics salesman, and hadn’t seemed put out by his failure. “It’s a major hassle, having to certify that exports don’t breach the law, but what can we do about it?”
Aldrich shrugged. “It is of no matter,” he said. Given that he’d repeated the unsubtle offer of a bribe every time they’d met for negotiations, Andrew rather doubted he was telling the truth. “My superiors will be happy with what they get.”
And unlucky for you if they’re not, Andrew thought, as they exchanged copies of the contracts. He had few illusions about the Reich. Those who failed were lucky if they weren’t exiled to Kamchatka. Your superiors won’t be that happy with outdated computers they don’t entirely trust.