The German Officer's Wife

Suddenly awake, she listened carefully in the dark. The chickens were squawking loudly and her Holstein mooed in shrill annoyance. Had something gotten into the barn? She glanced at the clock and saw it was almost 10 PM. She decided it was best to put her mind at ease before trying to fall back asleep. It would not do if a fox was gobbling up her eggs, or snatching a chicken.

Wrapping her shapely form in a thick shawl, she took up a lantern, unlocked her door and walked into the frigid night air. The moon and stars were bright in the untainted country sky, bathing the landscape in a blueish light. She turned toward the barn and felt an instant chill in her heart. The latch was undone, and the door was slightly ajar.

Rushing back into the house, barely breathing, she found her husband’s Lugar pistol in a drawer. She had never used it, but her husband was a career military man, an officer in the German army. He had carefully taught her how to release the safety, aim, and fire. She checked everything with an unsteady hand. Satisfied, she gathered her courage and approached the barn.

Wanting to surprise her intruder, she softened her steps and peeked silently around the door. In the light of the moon she quickly made out the gaunt form of a young man, lying still against a bale of hay that he had strewn into a mattress. He wore a uniform, but he was not a Nazi soldier. Her heart raced, and she raised the gun.

He had seen her too, and slowly stood up with open hands, showing he had no weapon. She put her finger to the light switch. They both blinked in the light, looking at one another. He was very young, with a strong cleft chin and soft green eyes. Looking drawn and weary, he gave her a gentle smile, as if wanting to reassure her that he meant no harm. She found the gesture unnecessary since she was pointing a gun at his heart, but the young man seemed too tired to worry about death. He lay back down and closed his eyes as he put his head against the straw.

She let the gun drop to her side. Examining him, she concluded he must be an American soldier. The allies must be closer than ever. She had noticed that the radio messages from the Fuhrer had become angrier, more venomous. She had felt the change, even in the letters her husband sent her. There was an unspoken fear that the tide was closing back in on Nazi Germany, and the bravado was hyped to an excessive pitch, as if the crazed rhetoric could fend off the inevitable.

These days, she could often hear the gunfire over the horizon. This unlucky boy must be a paratrooper that got blown into enemy territory, and walked the wrong way through the adjoining woods. She knew he would not live long before a sentry sighted him and put a bullet in his head. She knew she should save everyone the trouble and do it herself. Her husband would be proud. The whole village would talk about it.

But watching him sleep, she faltered. He was just a boy…somebody’s boy. She looked at his handsome, gentle face and felt an unwanted sense of pity. It was an unconscious thing, unbidden.

Shaking her head, cursing her own weakness, she went to sit in her kitchen. His very presence was dangerous. Overruling her emotions again and again, she insisted in her mind that he had to leave immediately. But even her mind gently rebelled. He looked so tired. Let him have one last snooze before he dies in the street, surrounded by hateful strangers that jeer and laugh at his lifeless body. In the morning she would force him out.

Too rattled for sleep, she found herself making him something to eat. She hadn’t cooked for anybody since her husband had enjoyed a brief leave a few months ago. She fried some fresh farm eggs, and warmed a bit of Goulash stew. After cutting some slices of bread and lathering them in rich butter, she quietly approached the barn. It was past midnight now, and he had slept for almost two hours.

Stepping into the pungent animal smells of the barn, she knelt by his side. She watched him sleep for a moment, admiring his features: chestnut hair, thin straight nose, and fully proportioned lips. She shook him. He looked up at her, smiling gently. His eyes furtively took her in.

She was not girlish and cute, but very womanly. Her form was exquisite; her bosom full, and the line of her flat stomach narrowed to her waist before swinging wide into her hips. She was tall for a woman, and her brown hair cascaded in curls around her lovely, mature face. Her dark eyes were especially captivating, deep and calm, but ready to twinkle and amaze with the slightest mirth. Her movements had a natural, animal grace, and her very scent was neutral but sweet. Not blessed with the fair Aryan features, she was a distinctive beauty in her own right.

She motioned for him to follow her. He was tentative, unsure, but he came. She led him into the house. His eyes opened wide when he saw the food on the table, and he whistled low. He motioned that he needed to wash his hands. She marveled at his control. After washing, he ate with tremendous appetite, but with reasonably good manners. For a half starved man, he did not wolf down his food any faster than her husband would have.

Ruefully, she wondered if this was his last meal. A kind of melancholy thought began to capture her imagination. Would he ever eat another egg? Would this be the last cup of coffee he ever had? Would she be the last woman he ever saw? Her heart swelled with pity.

She watched him; kind, polite, and handsome. She felt glad to have his company, and she wished they could converse. She honestly didn’t want him to die. Maybe the allies would arrive in the next day or two? Maybe he could be saved? She wondered if she could hide him. Her husband was not going to be home anytime soon.

Putting down his fork, he looked around the room for the first time. Noticing shelves filled with records, he jumped up, and began to read the backs of the LP’s. He suddenly rushed to her. Pointing to a song called “Moonlight in Vermont”, he made her understand that he was from this place. He took a wallet picture from his pocket and showed her his mom and dad. She smiled. He looked like his mom. She had never cared for her husband’s record collection, but she found herself aching to hear the song he had pointed to.

She walked to her record player, and put the needle down. The room filled with soft, scratchy music. In the distance she heard the popping of gunfire, and the deep rumble of bombs. The music sounded so beautiful. Seeing him smile, she moved silently into his arms. Embracing her, they swayed their bodies under the music. He smelled of young manhood, of sweat and musk. She felt a tremor in her legs, a weakness in the knees. She looked at his face, and his perfect green eyes held her gaze for a moment before he looked away. She understood. It was his first time. Probably his last.

As the music stopped, she touched his smooth cheek. The bombing continued, intermittent crashing in the distance. She raised her face until their lips met. Kissing softly, she stepped even closer, their bodies touching. Her womanly bosom pressed against his chest, both comforting and exciting his senses. Holding her face in his hands, he kissed her more firmly, just as a particularly loud bomb detonated. The bombs sounded really close now. Urgently, he ran his hands up and down her back, becoming bolder by the second.

He had dreamt of this moment all his young life, fantasizing in the dark. But now it was no dream. Her hands, smaller and softer, exposed his delicate skin, exquisitely tickling with her nails, or tugging with knowing firmness. They stood for long minutes, touching and kissing. He thrilled when she exposed her breasts for him, the shape and feel of them unlocking surging, ancient desires. Her dark nipples plumped into wrinkled erasers, and when he twisted them, she moaned into his mouth as they kissed.

Panting and trembling, she stepped back from him, clinging to his hand. She led him to her bedroom, and they removed the rest of their clothes before falling on the bed together, already embracing. Bombs shook the ground beneath them as he took her. He filled her to perfection, and the thrilling tightness and liquid warmth quickly emptied his loins. It felt like he had waited a lifetime for this one moment of searing, wonderful pain. Kissing her gently in the moonlight, he eventually took her again and again. She wanted him to, not because it was his first time, or even because it may be his only time.

She suddenly hated this war. Until a few hours ago, she had wanted for the war to continue, for the Nazis to turn the tide yet again. Winning the war had really mattered to her. Now she prayed this horrible war would end immediately. She had met the enemy, and she could not want for his destruction. Instead, she wanted this boy to go home and see his loving parents. To find a young woman and be married. To celebrate his precious life, in all its wonderful glory. More than anything she had ever wanted, she wanted this.

Unaware, she eventually dozed off from complete exhaustion. She dreamt that in the morning, American troops knocked on her door and took this boy home with them. She imagined his happy face as he realized that he was saved, and felt a bittersweet twinge as he came back to give her a long last hug, before disappearing from her life.

She was suddenly awakened by loud knocking on her door. Travelling back from her happy dream, unscrambling her thoughts, she was still naked in her bed, and alone. She hurriedly dressed, and then started haltingly to the door with her mind racing. Her heart began to pound. Was it coming true? Were American troops really here? She took the last two steps so quickly she almost skipped. She flung the door open, half smiling.

Her smile disappeared at once.

“Mrs. Reingette?” said the stern German officer standing at her door. She was not surprised that he knew her name. Her husband was well known to the officers in the area.

“Yes,” she answered, trying to understand why he was at her door.

“Sorry to disturb. Some complaints in the area,” explained the officer, “people think they have seen enemy soldier. Not likely. Too far away from the front.” The front was not so far away, she thought. The bombs sounded awfully close last night.

“I have seen nothing,” she said, trying hard to keep her voice steady.

The Officer nodded, and turned to leave. Stopping to look at something, he asked, “Do you lock your barn door in the night?”

Too quickly, she answered, “Yes.”

The Officer unsnapped the holster to his gun and took out his pistol. As he stepped off the porch towards the barn, she suddenly realized the terrible mistake she had made. She wanted to scream. Her mind raced. She could not think of a way to stop this. It was happening too fast. He was already at the barn door, and then he was slowly walking in. She ran to the open barn door, looking on, terrified.

The Officer was standing over him as he slept, pointing the gun at his heart. His face was happy, peaceful. Perhaps he was dreaming of last night. How she hoped that he was in a good place, that she had made his short stay on earth more tolerable. He didn’t move as the pistol spit hot metal into his beating heart. He never even had a chance to stop smiling.

She raced to her bedroom in a sudden explosion of sobbing tears. Paralyzed with grief, she hardly moved for several days. She didn't know how many. It seemed to her shattered memory that the moment she stopped crying to look around, allied troops were everywhere. The bombing had come and gone. Soon after, her husband was home; tired and defeated, but happy to console his despondent wife.

Life would soon be normal again. Overnight, people stopped dying. The tired slept. The hungry ate. The lovers married. The babies started being born, and the darkness slowly lifted.

She did not care at all that Germany had lost the war. She felt now that everyone had lost. She often thought about that little family in Vermont, and how close their son had been to coming home. She would imagine the happy reunion that never happened, and she would fervently wish that they could meet her little green-eyed son.