It wasn't smart.
It wasn't safe.
It wasn't anything I needed.
But wanting had never cared about need.
One afternoon, after a long, rough shift in low cloud cover, I came off duty and crossed the yard outside the billets. The sun was already slanting low, turning the broken edges of the city into sharp silhouettes. The lantern by the main gate flickered on early, casting a warm circle of light on the cobblestones outside the fence.
There were people drifting past, German couples walking arm in arm, a few GIs heading toward the tram, a girl laughing as a soldier spun her in a clumsy swing step. They kissed openly. Hugged. Like the war hadn't happened. Like the world wasn't balanced on the edge of another one.
I was still half in my head when I saw her. She stood just beyond the lantern light, hands knotted in front of her, looking… uncomfortable. Like she didn't know what she was doing there. Like she might bolt any second.
For a moment, I thought I was imagining her. I'd done it often enough. Then she turned her head, saw me, and something flared in her eyes.
She moved. Not just walked, shelunged.
"You!" she snapped, her voice cut through the clatter and chatter like a shot.
My heart stuttered.
I stopped just inside the gate—like the barrier would keep me safe from her wrath—fingers curling around thestrap of my flight bag, the dragon lifting its head in my chest, alert.
This was it.
The week of sneaking, of bringing food and blankets and clothes, of patching her walls in secret, it had come due.
And I had no idea if she was about to thank me…or tear me apart.
Berlin — July 16, 1948, Friday, early afternoon
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 lifecouldbe 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 Mädchen—not this way, little girl.
