Lucky Bastard by Charles McCarry

Manfred invited him to dinner at a cellar restaurant in the old town. Like the city itself, the rathskeller was a peep show into a vanished Germany. Oompah Muzak played in the background. Waitresses in dirndls and white knee socks rushed about serving mugs of beer and having their bottoms patted by hearty fat men who stuffed enormous tips into their aprons.
    Most of the girls were pretty in the smooth-skinned German fashion. Jack was immediately alert. A waitress bustled up to the table. Manfred ordered a Pilsner, Jack his usual Coca-Cola.
    â€œNo, no. You must have beer,” Manfred said.
    Jack held up a hand in firm refusal. “No thanks. I don’t drink alcohol.”
    â€œBut beer is not alcohol! It is—”
    Jack interrupted. “Liquid bread. I know. But I don’t want any.”
    Jack waited for Manfred to ask him why. This was an opportunity to establish a bond with this new acquaintance by revealing that he had grown up in a house with an alcoholic. However, Manfred’s attention was directed elsewhere. Ignoring Jack, he stood up and waved. A red-haired girl, standing on the stairway at the other end of the long, low room, saw him and returned his greeting with a sullen gesture.
    She headed toward their table, striding purposefully past parties of old men who gazed at her in astonishment as she passed. The girl wore boots, a miniskirt, a Bundeswehr camouflage field jacket, and a long student scarf. An ancient green rucksack was slung over her shoulder by its one remaining strap. Her red hair was wild, curly, uncombed. She marched as if in uniform—which in a way she was. She could hardly have caused a greater stir if the year had been 1930, and memories of the Kaiser were as fresh in customers’ minds as Hitler was now, and she was the first storm trooper any of these people had ever seen.
    â€œHere comes someone I want you to meet,” Manfred said.
    Jack pushed back his chair, legs squealing on the stone floor, and stood up.
    The girl arrived, a scowling pale face inside a mare’s nest of Titian curls.
    Up to then, Manfred and Jack had been speaking German—slow, textbook German to accommodate Jack’s unpracticed ear and tongue, but German nevertheless. Manfred made the introductions in English. “Greta Fürst, please meet Jack Adams from the United States.”
    Greta said, “An Ami? For God’s sake, Manfred, why?”
    Jack held out his hand. Greta ignored it. In slurred, barely enunciated German, the worldwide accents of youthful scorn, she said, “Don’t tell me he can’t even speak German?”
    Her eyes, heavily made up, were green, intelligent, and icy with contempt.
    Jack said, “I like your voice, Greta. You sound like Marlene Dietrich in The Blue Angel. ”
    Greta stared at him in disbelief. “God!” she said.
    â€œJust the voice,” Jack said. “You’re much thinner than she was then.”
    Manfred said, “Sit down, Greta. Join us for some supper.”
    â€œNo thanks. I’m not hungry.”
    â€œSomething to drink, then.”
    â€œI’m not thirsty.”
    â€œThen at least sit down.” Greta sat down. To the waitress Manfred said, “Bring her a lager, please. And three mixed sausages.”
    Eyes fixed on Jack, Greta dug a package of Gauloises out of her rucksack and lit one. She picked a fleck of tobacco off the end of her tongue, inhaled deeply, and blew a cloud of acrid smoke across the table.
    Jack coughed, then smiled apologetically. Greta, refusing to look at him, feigned interest in the ceiling and took another drag from her poisonous caporal.
    Greta caught Jack’s smile and made a sour face. Manfred watched, waiting to see what might happen next.
    In his slow, annoying German, Jack said, “So, Greta, do you go to the university?”
    Greta did not respond. The food came. Cigarette burning in her right hand, she cut up her sausages into little pieces and