the other side of the prohibited area. It was drizzling slightly. Jutta pushed her bike along the tall fence. Behind it, the electricity was on day and night, people had well-fed faces, young women of the Women's Army Corps wore high-heeled pumps and unladdered stockings, and smoked in the street. She thought of lanky John Ashburner and wondered if she liked him enough to sleep with him, but came to no conclusion.
A motorbike started up nearby. She jumped back as it rattled past very close to her, headlight suddenly flaring on.
There was a roll of barbed wire propped against a post. It had probably been left over from building the fence. Jutta screamed. A woman's face, waxen and pale, was staring at her through the coiled wire with wide, dead eyes.
They ate a hot meal in the evening: dehydrated potato sticks from US supplies, you had to soak them for two days before you could cook them. With a roux made of a little flour and home-grown onions, the dish bore some distant resemblance to potato soup. The family sat around the table and spooned it up in silence.
Dr Bruno Hellbich tapped his spoon on the side of his plate with annoy ance. 'The neighbours grow real potatoes. They have their own carrots too. And lettuces. Setting you all an example.'
'Papa, please don't be unfair. We're using every patch of earth in the garden to grow your tobacco,' Inge Dietrich reminded her father.
'I suppose you'd rather I went and sold the last little bit of our silver on the black market for a few Yank cigarettes?' asked the district councillor, indignant.
You could smoke less,' suggested his son-in-law in neutral tones.
For a moment it looked as if they were in for one of Hellbich's furious tirades, which the family found ridiculous rather than terrifying, but his daughter changed the subject. 'Frau Zeidler was in Kalkfurth's, queuing for margarine. She keeps her bread coupons in the drawer of the kitchen table. When she pulled out the drawer the other day all that was left was a heap of tiny shreds of paper. A mouse had been at them. The month's ration for the whole family was gone. She didn't have much hope, but she put the remains in an envelope and took them to the head of the ration-card distribution centre. He laughed like a hyena and gave her replacement coupons straight away, saying he was sure no one would make up a thing like that.'
It was not a particularly funny story, but it mollified her father. 'Sensible man,' he said. The power went off, and he lit a candle.
'That Frau Kalkfurth is hard as nails.' His daughter told them about her attempt to get the powdered egg in advance.
'She's bitter. You can't blame her. Not a very lucky family, the Kalkfurths. They bought the Am Hegewinkel house in '29. It was a better place than the Prenzlauer Berg where their butcher's shop was. They had sausage stalls all over town. "Kalkfurth Sausages", that's how everyone knew them at the time. Not that success in business did them much good. An ox kicked Adalbert Kalkfurth in the belly when he was slaughtering it, tore his guts to pieces. Heinz Winkelmann carried on the business, with Kurt the son helping him. He was going to take it over some day. Big, strong lad with a baby face. Always chasing around the district on his motorbike. Volunteered for the Motorcycle Corps and was killed at the very beginning of the war in the Polish campaign. Martha Kalkfurth had a stroke when the news came, she's been in that wheelchair ever since. Any more potato soup?'
'Half a ladleful for everyone.' Inge Dietrich concentrated on dividing up what was left. She was thirty-six and had a few silver threads in her thick brown hair, mementoes of the countless nights she had sat in the cellar holding her sons close, listening to the deep hum of the aircraft and the sound of bombs dropping.
Her face glowed softly in the candlelight. How beautiful she is, thought Klaus. She smiled a little, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.
The district councillor had finished.
A motorbike started up nearby. She jumped back as it rattled past very close to her, headlight suddenly flaring on.
There was a roll of barbed wire propped against a post. It had probably been left over from building the fence. Jutta screamed. A woman's face, waxen and pale, was staring at her through the coiled wire with wide, dead eyes.
They ate a hot meal in the evening: dehydrated potato sticks from US supplies, you had to soak them for two days before you could cook them. With a roux made of a little flour and home-grown onions, the dish bore some distant resemblance to potato soup. The family sat around the table and spooned it up in silence.
Dr Bruno Hellbich tapped his spoon on the side of his plate with annoy ance. 'The neighbours grow real potatoes. They have their own carrots too. And lettuces. Setting you all an example.'
'Papa, please don't be unfair. We're using every patch of earth in the garden to grow your tobacco,' Inge Dietrich reminded her father.
'I suppose you'd rather I went and sold the last little bit of our silver on the black market for a few Yank cigarettes?' asked the district councillor, indignant.
You could smoke less,' suggested his son-in-law in neutral tones.
For a moment it looked as if they were in for one of Hellbich's furious tirades, which the family found ridiculous rather than terrifying, but his daughter changed the subject. 'Frau Zeidler was in Kalkfurth's, queuing for margarine. She keeps her bread coupons in the drawer of the kitchen table. When she pulled out the drawer the other day all that was left was a heap of tiny shreds of paper. A mouse had been at them. The month's ration for the whole family was gone. She didn't have much hope, but she put the remains in an envelope and took them to the head of the ration-card distribution centre. He laughed like a hyena and gave her replacement coupons straight away, saying he was sure no one would make up a thing like that.'
It was not a particularly funny story, but it mollified her father. 'Sensible man,' he said. The power went off, and he lit a candle.
'That Frau Kalkfurth is hard as nails.' His daughter told them about her attempt to get the powdered egg in advance.
'She's bitter. You can't blame her. Not a very lucky family, the Kalkfurths. They bought the Am Hegewinkel house in '29. It was a better place than the Prenzlauer Berg where their butcher's shop was. They had sausage stalls all over town. "Kalkfurth Sausages", that's how everyone knew them at the time. Not that success in business did them much good. An ox kicked Adalbert Kalkfurth in the belly when he was slaughtering it, tore his guts to pieces. Heinz Winkelmann carried on the business, with Kurt the son helping him. He was going to take it over some day. Big, strong lad with a baby face. Always chasing around the district on his motorbike. Volunteered for the Motorcycle Corps and was killed at the very beginning of the war in the Polish campaign. Martha Kalkfurth had a stroke when the news came, she's been in that wheelchair ever since. Any more potato soup?'
'Half a ladleful for everyone.' Inge Dietrich concentrated on dividing up what was left. She was thirty-six and had a few silver threads in her thick brown hair, mementoes of the countless nights she had sat in the cellar holding her sons close, listening to the deep hum of the aircraft and the sound of bombs dropping.
Her face glowed softly in the candlelight. How beautiful she is, thought Klaus. She smiled a little, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.
The district councillor had finished.
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