Chapter 13 INGA
All week, I lived with a war inside my chest, as if I hadn't had enough of that already. Gratitude on one side. Fury on the other.
Hope sharpened its claws between my ribs, and fear knelt on its neck.
Every night I came home to something new Gideon had left behind: a blanket, a pillow, a sweater for Klaus, a bar of soap that smelled like roses.
Left quietly, without witnesses or pride, like a man leaving offerings at a shrine he doubted he deserved to approach.
And every night at Die Ecke, I wondered if he'd walk through the door. I didn't know if I wanted him to so that I could rip his head off or—God help me—kiss him.
The infuriating part was that I couldn't tell what I felt anymore.
Klaus and Axel were fed. Really fed. Hamburgers, even cold and congealed, tasted like heaven. Then there had been that… pizza he brought. A strange American thing—cheese, tomato, herbs—tasting like something from another world. And the spaghetti. I had licked the bowl when nobody was looking.
A girl was supposed to have pride. Mine was… wavering. And that made me angry. At him. At myself. At everything. Worse, I couldn't tell if what grew inside me when I thought of him was real… or gratitude masquerading as affection.
Gideon Griffin—Captain Gideon Griffin, with his impossible shoulders and too-blue eyes—was dangerous. Not the way the Russians were, but still dangerous. He meddled. He cared. He made me feel things I didn't want to feel.
That was how men like him trapped women like me. Not by demanding payment up front. No. By making you dependent. By giving you a glimpse of what life could be if the world were kind. He made Klaus smile. Made Axel feel seen. He patched our walls. Brought food. Brought warmth.
And now?
Now, surely he would want something.
A price.
A piece of me.
I'd thought about selling myself before. Too many times. When Klaus shivered from hunger. When my own body trembled with weakness. When my fingers searched for one last potato in an empty sack.
But every time, Mama's voice pulled me back from the brink. Nicht so, mein M?dchen—not this way, little girl.
So I hadn't done it.
Not even for Klaus.
Definitely not for me.
But now?
This infuriating American wasn't asking for anything. He was making me want something first. That was worse.
So I waited for him.
Every day after that first night, before my shift, I stood outside the American gate as couples passed me: German girls on the arms of soldiers, laughing, well-fed, their hair curled, their dresses new, their stockings un-torn and silky.
Some were kissing openly, pressed against lamp posts, their mouths hungry or happy, I couldn't tell which—maybe both.
I knew what they paid.
I knew exactly what they'd given to earn that food, that clothing, that affection.
But God help me, they looked… happy.
That happiness felt like a punch in the stomach.
As I waited under the lantern—flickering against the gathering dusk—a stupid song wormed into my mind and refused to leave.
"Unter der Laterne… bei der Kaserne…
steht eine Lili Marleen…"
—Under the lantern, by the barracks gate, waits a Lili Marleen…
An Ohrenwurm—an earworm. The worst kind. It was cruelly fitting, because I was standing under a lantern, by the barracks gate, waiting for a soldier I had no business wanting.
When I finally saw him, the breath left my lungs.
He was unmistakable, even in uniform among a sea of uniforms. The way he walked, straight-backed, sure, like he was born with purpose hammered into his bones.
The way he filled out that bomber jacket, broad shoulders blocking the lantern glow behind him, leaving him haloed in warm gold.
My stomach fluttered first.
My heart followed.
"Deine Schritte kennt sie…
deinen schonen Gang"—"She knows your footsteps… your lovely gait."
Oh, this was ridiculous. Both him and the stupid song.
He didn't see me at first. Which was good. Because my lips tingled at the thought of him kissing me, and I needed that madness to stop. Before I did something stupid. Before he asked for his price, and I had no defenses left.
Then his head turned. His eyes found me. And he stopped.
Of course, he didn't walk to me.
He stayed behind the gate.
Coward.
Coward, or careful?
I couldn't decide which would hurt more. So I let my fury carry me.
"You!" I snapped, marching toward the iron bars.
His eyebrows lifted. "Inga—"
"What gives you the right?" I hissed, too loud, too wild, too raw. "You think you can just barge into my life? Into my home? Overpower little boys? Force your way into our space like you own it?"
His jaw tightened. "I didn't—"
"And then—then—you give us things we could never have otherwise. You think I don't know what that means? What men like you want?" My voice cracked, and I hated it, hated that he made me feel fragile. "Tell me what the price is, Captain."
"Inga—"
"No!" I nearly shouted. "Say it. What do you want? Because I'll tell you right now—flyboy—I'll never sleep with you. I'll never have sex with you. So whatever game you're playing—stop it."
He stared at me as if I'd slapped him.
Then his voice came out strangled. "You think I did all that so you'd have sex with me?"
"What else would you want?" I hissed. "What else do men ever want?"
His eyes flashed. First, there was hurt, then anger, then something hotter. "Has it ever occurred to you," he asked, in a low and lethal voice, "that someone might just do something kind because they care?"
My heart slammed against my ribs. Care? Nobody cared. That was the point. Understanding that was how you survived.
I shook my head violently. "Nobody does anything for free. Not now. Not here."
His anger sharpened. "Maybe where you stand."
"Yes. Here. In this city."
"Inga," he growled, "not the entire world is built on tit for tat."
"Mine is." I snapped.
He reached through the gate. Before I could step back, his hand closed around my waist, not harsh, not painful, but firm, drawing me close until the cold iron bars pressed between us, until our noses nearly touched.
My hand moved instinctively up, my palm rested on his chest, and for a brief moment, I thought his skin under the shirt felt funny.
Like scales… he must have had something in his pocket.
My breath hitched. He smelled like cold wind and engine oil and something warm beneath it, something that made my knees give.
"Captain!" a GI barked from somewhere behind him.
He ignored it.
My pulse thundered.
I wanted him to kiss me—God, I wanted it—if only so I could hate him for it.
No, I was lying. I wanted him to kiss me because I wanted him.
I hated that more.
"If that is what you think of me," he said quietly, "you don't know me at all."
He let me go. The loss of his heat felt like a slap.
"Exactly," I hissed, forcing my voice steady. "I don't. And I don't want to."
He clenched his jaw. "You're impossible."
"Leave us alone!" I shouted, turning away before he could see the tears gathering. Then I walked off.
Fast. Too fast. Hoping he wouldn't follow. Dreading that he might not.
He didn't.
A tear slipped down my cheek, hot and humiliating. Stupid girl, I told myself. Stupid, stupid girl.
At the club, I kept looking toward the door, waiting for him to show, hating myself for it. He never came. His friends did. They watched me with wary curiosity, probably wondering how much of myself I had given to the captain.
Nobody touched me.
The tips were good.
And I hated all of it.
By the time I walked home, my throat was tight, and my feet were numb. I just wanted to crawl into my—new and warm—blanket and pretend none of this had ever happened.
But when I stepped inside the ruin, I froze. Klaus and Axel were sitting on—a rug. A real rug. Warm and soft and patterned. Covering the cold concrete. That wasn't all, though; they were playing a game, one of those American board games with bright colors and little pieces.
Chutes and Ladders, Klaus told me proudly, though he said it wrong and it came out "Shoots-and-Leddahs."
They had snacks.
Snacks!
Little crackers shaped like fish from a bright-red box.
They looked… fed. Safe. Happy.
Like two well-fed cats on a hearth rug instead of war ghosts in the ruins.
Klaus ran to me and hugged my waist. "Inga! Look! Look what Gideon brought!"
My heart stuttered painfully. On the crate was an MRE—Meal Ready to Eat—pouch, the instructions in English. Klaus demonstrated proudly how to heat it with the little chemical pack. I wanted to refuse it, but my stomach betrayed me with a loud, desperate growl.
"It's for you," Klaus said, pressing it into my hands. "All for you."
Despite myself, I tore it open. The rich smell of beef stew hit me like a wave. I ate. I devoured. I moaned. And then I saw more. By what once had been the kitchen, sat a loaf of bread. A jar of peanut butter. A whole jar of jelly. Grape jelly. I nearly fell to my knees.
I had given Klaus the last spoon of jelly I'd saved for his birthday the other day, and he'd been so happy. Now there was a whole jar. I pressed my hand to my mouth, breathing shakily. I nearly hated Gideon for this.
For making me feel so weak.
So grateful.
So overwhelmed.
But mostly…
I hated that a part of me wanted him here. Wanted to tell him I was sorry. Wanted to know why he cared. Wanted to know if he hurt like this, too.
My eyes burned.
"Inga?" Klaus asked softly, touching my knee. "Happy?"
I forced a smile through tears. "Yes," I whispered. "I'm… happy."
But the truth was messier.
I was furious.
Relieved.
Confused.
Lonely.
And aching for a man I'd just told to leave me alone.
It hurt. It hurt so much I wanted to scream. Instead, I curled up on the new rug, blanket over my shoulders, Klaus tucked into one side, Axel on the other. Safe. Warm. Fed. And watched them play. And pretended for one night that there had been no war. That this wasn't a ruin but a home.
My mind was in turmoil. He must have brought all this while I was at work, like he had done every night this week.
After I told him to leave us alone. After!
The tears were threatening seriously now.
It took a herculean effort, but I swallowed them back down.
The boys were so happy, I didn't want to ruin it. I had ruined enough tonight.
What was I supposed to do now?