Housewife, 1946 (Germany)


She was a walking Aryan cliche -- blonde, blue-eyed, athletic, 
and as good on the eye as the early morning sun burning off 
last night's dewdrops on rose petals. She bounce-walked 
briskly along the old, narrow street on the heels of her two-
toned shoes, and her golden curls jiggled like wayward 
springs. Her eyes were fixed on a destination still out of 
sight, and her red-lipped mouth was set tight with her 
purpose. She was heading for the special place where the men 
came. It was time for an English officer.

Everything she was wearing was the best that was left, 
carefully patched and preserved. The russet-brown wool dress 
had been moderately expensive in the early, heady days of the 
war. Now it was priceless. She did not know when she would 
again come by something half as good. Maybe never. The shoes 
had been carefully wrapped in newspaper, but still they needed 
a spot of precious goose grease to bring to a shine. She wore 
no stockings. There were none in 1946.

She wished she still had her long coat, but it had gone in 
1944, snatched up in the collections for the final, frenzied 
war effort. The heart-shaped leaves of the linden trees were 
curled and withered on the ground beneath her feet. Lord, she 
muttered, let it not be another bitter winter.  

The war had been kind to the town. Fifteen miles away another 
town, barely bigger, had been all but obliterated by bombing, 
night and day. That's why the English officers had established 
their administrative headquarters in her town, of course. It 
was relatively undamaged. The English ruled this region of 
northern Germany with benign but disinterested authority. It 
might have been a lot worse. The town could have had the 
Russians.

Many of the English officers wore khaki with red flashes at 
the collar. They swaggered around the town with bored, 
patronising and superior attitudes, but they were polite -- if 
distant -- and they were disciplined. They didn't ogle the 
women, or whistle, or toot the horns of their jeeps like the 
Americans. They didn't grab or threaten like the Russians. But 
they got their women just the same in the end.

The golden-curled woman had dressed with care. She was no 
prostitute, and no prostitute would be allowed on the 
premises, and no prostitute would collect an English officer. 
Prostitutes were for the men of the ranks, who whistled and 
shouted and tooted horns like the Americans, and who drank too 
much and turned into menacing Russians in the blink of an eye 
when they did.

She'd dressed with care, like a well-to-do housewife, and that 
was an easy thing for her, because that's what she was. Well, 
not quite. Not well-to-do. Not any more. Few housewives were 
well-to-do in September, 1946. Defeat had its cost. You got by 
as best you could.

She strode with purpose, head high, into the café and took a 
seat at a small, empty table open to the street. The old 
waiter shuffled out with a menu, looked at her for a moment, 
then turned and went away. He knew why she was there. His eyes 
reflected his disappointment. Before the war, he'd known her 
father.

The waiter returned in a while and set down a small cup of 
coffee without meeting her eyes. She sipped at it and looked 
at nothing in particular. She had nothing to do but wait.

An English officer sauntered in unhurriedly, hands deep in 
trouser pockets in the way of English officers. He turned his 
head and saw her, but kept walking into the interior of the 
cafe. Shortly he emerged and stood before her table. He was 
tall, young, looked thin, and he had a 
thin, carefully controlled moustache. He had a soft 
appearance, and his face showed none of the battle blemishes 
she'd come to know on the faces of men. A lieutenant, merely, 
without red tabs on his collar. But it didn't matter. He was 
an officer, and that's what counted.

"My German is poor," he said apologetically.

She shrugged. "My English is adequate. Sit, if you wish."

He sat opposite and studied her, smiling to himself as though 
he was pleased. Head high, chin up, she met his dark eyes. He 
thought her attractive, no doubt, and she knew she was. At 27, 
she could pass for 19 when she put aside the worries of life, 
and she'd been as pretty as anybody when she was 19.

"A drink?" he offered.

"Only if you want," she said.

He smiled again, she thought a little sadly. Perhaps he was 
nostalgic for pre-war games of chase-and-catch. Perhaps she 
was, too. But the war had put an end to such fripperies and 
indulgences.

"I guess not," he said. "I have a vehicle."

She reached for her handbag and he rose smartly and held her 
chair deferentially in the way of English officers.

"We can walk," she said. "It's not far."

She did not want a jeep parked outside her house. Perhaps the 
neighbours would see and know anyway, but a jeep was just too 
much of a symbol. This was her town. When the English went 
away, as one day they would, she imagined she would still live 
here.

He took her arm gently and escorted her in the way of English 
officers. They walked in silence. Nothing needed to be said. 
Arrangements would not be mentioned. It was the way.

The room was murky-dark. Steel-grey light from a gloomy 
afternoon struggled through a high, narrow window. She checked 
the door opposite the entrance to make sure it was locked 
before moving beside the iron-framed bed.

The English officer looked around the room with ill-concealed 
distaste. "You live here?"

"I rent from the family living above," she said. "Times are 
not easy."

The officer nodded without caring beyond politeness. He 
stepped across and picked up her hand, moving it so the 
wedding ring caught the dull light from the window. "Your 
husband?"

"He was in the U-boats," she said.

The officer nodded again but offered no sympathy. The war had 
lasted six long years. Some had made it, many had not, and all 
the words of condolence had lost the shine of currency.

He dropped her hand and, as if by pre-arranged signal, they 
started to undress. The officer took his time, folding his 
uniform trousers carefully across an arm and draping them 
neatly over the back of a chair. He watched as her clothes 
came off, his eyes taking in every detail of her body. 
Methodically, item by item, she became naked. She felt no 
obligation to put on a show, and she stood beside the bed and 
waited for him.

He removed his regulation boxer shorts slowly, all his 
concentration on her. He was semi-erect and rising, and she 
noted with detachment he was longer than most, but not 
equivalently thick. Long and thin, just like his body. She 
judged he was younger than she was by three or four years. Not 
that it mattered. Not that she cared one whit.

The room was not naturally warm and she slipped under the 
blankets. Taking cue, he did likewise. Next to her, his hand 
rested lightly on her hip. She could read the hesitation in 
his eyes. What did he do next? Must he kiss her, fondle her? 
She reached for his body with her arms. No, her hands said. 
Just climb across between these spread legs. Just do it.

The English officer had been raised to be a gentleman. He was 
not crude or rough. Some of the English officers had been 
gentlemen in uniform but as coarse as any other man without. 
Not this one. He was considerate. He didn't shove like a 
grader or shunt like a locomotive. He was smooth, long-
stroking, easy, undemanding. Her body relaxed, and adjusted 
and adapted to him quickly and comfortably.

By habit, she counted the thrusts. 22, 23. She'd always 
counted and didn't know why. 34, 35. His face was calm, 
unstressed. Some men puffed and panted, but the English 
officer did not even have his lips parted. She found to her 
surprise she'd slipped into the rhythm he was making with her. 
46, 47.

He was quite handsome in a boyish way, his thin moustache 
crisply delineated, and a stray lock of black hair falling 
across his forehead. 58, 59. He was good. A natural. Seemed to 
know instinctively what to do. Despite the clammy cold of the 
room, a fine film of perspiration had grown on her body. 70, 
71. She felt the excitement building from all the way down in 
the arches of her feet.

She always tried her best, and threw in some understated 
dramatics if it helped. The officers seemed to like it better 
if the lady showed some spirit of participation. It was part 
of the game. The officers didn't go to whores like the lower 
ranks. They fucked nice ladies. The difference was as wide as 
the way they pronounced words like "pound," or "exactly."

82,83. There would be no play-acting, she knew. It was coming 
at her fast, rushing full-blooded, like the biggest wave on a 
high tide. She clutched at him desperately with clawed hands, 
eyes wide, hips bucking, pelvis thrusting, toes tingling. Good 
heavens. It had been a long time, a very long time, since 
something like that had happened.

"Eighty-seven and a half," she said, and then realised she had 
said it aloud.

"Pardon?" The English officer hovered above her, unfinished, 
and waiting courteously for her to relax before he continued.

"Nothing," she said hastily. It would not do to attempt to 
explain. The happier he was, the more secure, the greater her 
reward. She nodded to him to continue, and within a few fast 
and furious strokes he was finished, shooting his English 
genes inside her.

He rolled aside and turned away from her. She lay still, 
looking at the pressed-iron ceiling, blood still racing from 
the full-bodied orgasm she had not expected. Soon she slept 
for a while.

The dark was gathering outside when she woke. The English 
officer was sliding furtively out of the bed. Like all men, 
and especially English officers, he wanted to be away and 
gone. She feigned sleep but watched anxiously from under her 
eyelids.

He dressed with quiet care, fixing his tie in the cloudy 
mirror. Cap in hand, he turned to look at her, and she shut 
her eyes tight. He stood silently for a minute or two, and she 
could hear her mother's old clock ticking. Her mother had 
loved England, had been part-educated there. 
Perhaps she had known and loved Englishmen like this one. 
Thank God she'd died before the war started.

The officer collected his belongings and left, clicking the 
door carefully behind him. Instantly she rolled out of bed and 
padded to the dressing table. There were the large banknotes, 
folded over in a tight bundle, pinned by a hairbrush. She 
counted quickly. It was about what she had hoped, although she 
might have, in the end, hoped for a bit more.

She opened a cupboard and drew out a wrap, which she donned 
and tied at the waist, thrust her feet into worn slippers, and 
unlocked the door opposite the entrance. She opened it and 
climbed the stairs, checking her watch. Nearly six. It was 
time to prepare dinner.

In the upstairs apartment, four-year-old Hans-Peter rushed 
forward and hugged her around her knees. She was aware of 
traces of the Englishman's semen trapped between her thighs. 

"Mutti," he shouted happily.

She picked him up and settled him on a hip. On the day bed, 
her husband rolled over on his back and watched her.

"Not bad," she said, showing him the roll of banknotes. "But 
the end of the month is coming up. I'll have to go out again, 
tomorrow or the day after."

His eyes were bright with sickness. He'd been a prisoner of 
war for two years in Scotland, pulled near death from the cold 
waters of the North Atlantic. He would recover his health one 
day, maybe. Maybe not. It had been a while now.

She put down the child and pushed him away. "Did he see you 
fully naked?" her husband asked, eyes bright with sickness and 
with a strange, guilty, feverish lust.

"Yes," she said. It was a game. Another game with another man. 
All men played games. She knew the rules.

"Was he good-looking? Was he young and strong? Was it good?" 
he asked hesitantly.

She slipped her hand under the blanket and found his hard 
penis poking through the striped pyjama pants. She started to 
stroke it mechanically.

"He was just ordinary," she said. "It was nothing. I've 
already forgotten it."

She stroked him to a climax. 16, 17. She pulled a handkerchief 
from her pocket and trapped his ejaculate, keeping the sheets 
clean. Gerhard had a short, blunt penis. It had been a long 
time since she'd had it inside her. He'd never lasted long. 
32, 33 at most. She'd always counted and never known why.

She smiled at him, not unkindly. He looked away quickly, but 
she saw the expression of shame and disgust on his face. Yes, 
she thought, all men were alike, whether English officers or 
U-boat engineers. Once they'd had you, they didn't much like 
you any more. Until the next time, anyway.

She got up from the day bed and washed her hands in the sink. 
It was time to prepare dinner.

ENDS