If she was being honest with herself, sometimes she enjoyed it. But those times were rare, very rare, and mostly it disgusted her. Few asked how she was, or even cared what she might be feeling. She would just smile, get on with the job, and think of “the higher cause.” She may have lost her dignity, but she was doing her bit to win the war, riding up and down on the groins of Wehrmacht generals as she was doing now.

At least this one didn’t want to be tied up. It was normally the SS officers who wanted that, along with a bit of humiliation. It was ironic—the SS would treat her with contempt and then pay her to treat them likewise. And after they had finished, they never left anything extra, not even a little present. At least the Wehrmacht were gentlemen of sorts—this one here had even brought her some real coffee.

But she enjoyed it with Carl. He was only one who seemed interested in her, made more remarkable by his membership in the SS. It wasn’t that he did anything different, he just did it with a different tone, a different air. He visited often, and they both knew that they liked each other. But Carl was careful—he never talked about what he did, and neither did she want him to. Instead, they talked about what every other Berliner talked about—last night’s air raid, the shortages, the worst winter in years….

But the last time he had been ratty, and he had rebuked her for asking what was wrong. It was the first time he had treated her like a whore, shoving her head down to his lap. She had felt like sobbing as they made love, but afterward he had apologized and kissed her all over. Nobody had done that since Paul, at university back in Dresden. She remembered smiling to herself, thinking that they were like a normal couple, patching up a row with physical tenderness.

He had tried leaving more money, but she had told him that would make her feel more of a whore. Just leave half, she had said, the half she had to give to Kitty; the rest was on the house. They laughed, and Carl said that he had to go, and gave her a playful smack on the bottom. She tried to kiss him, but he had put his cap back on, and she knew that meant he was in a different mode. He had allowed himself an affectionate smile, and she blew him a kiss as he walked out. He had scratched the back of his neck. Was that an acknowledgment or a refusal? Carl was difficult to read.