MORNING SERIAL
AND Lynne sashaying round with Karl Schmidt showing off an elegant engagement ring.
Oh dear, had been all Issie could say. He won’t be kind to you, Lynne. She had tried to tell Lynne about the Donitz night, the Lebensborn experiment; how men like that held women as chattels and breeding stock: some such phrase from
Renate’s letter had lodged in her mind.
He only wants you for your hair, she had exploded, ludicrously, and the more she elaborated, the more fantastical it had seemed, even to herself. You don’t say, Taf, Lynne had drawled, painting her nails, in the manner of the American films to which she was partial. A bit far-fetched. But gentlemen do prefer blondes. Even out of a bottle.
No offence to you, Issie, because you really are outstandingly good-looking, but it’s a fact. All the film stars are blonde. Doris Day, Greta Garbo, Marilyn Monroe.
Issie had shuddered to see Lynne tuck in under Karl’s arm, snatch his riding whip and playfully swish it at the Alsatian.
Karl had made no allusion to what Issie had witnessed at the Blutehof. But something in his precise military bearing, his watchfulness, had felt threatening. She had not been intimidated. Her mind had been obsessed by Rachel’s death.
The Christmas children had assembled adorably in the hall, in their foil wings, crowns of stars upon their heads. An overhead light had burnished them beneath the huge Christmas tree culled from the woods, which had wept the scent of resin through the hall. Their voices rose as one, accompanied only by Wolfi’s flute.
Es ist ein Ros’ entsprungen Aus einer Wurzel zart, Und hat ein Blumlein bracht, Wie uns die Alten sungen ... Issie had freely wept with the others at the beauty of it.
> The Element of Water by Stevie Davies is published by Parthian in the Library of Wales series www.parthianbooks.com