The Resistance Girl by Mandy Robotham

Author:Mandy Robotham [Robotham, Mandy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2022-01-10T17:00:00+00:00

34

A House of Cards

Hop, 1st August 1942

I should have known it, she thinks, eyeing the women at breakfast and sensing the low hum of their conversation; never fully open to each other, despite living in such close quarters. Unlike their burgeoning bellies, they keep much of their private thoughts deep inside. Something was always destined to emerge, this whole set-up always too good to be true. Just as she’s got the place running smoothly, juggling the rations, seesawing emotions and Kleiner’s demands to a workable level, her world within this war shows its true colours. But then, if she really thinks about it, her perfect construction always was just a house of cards, ready to come tumbling down at the slightest puff of wind. And from what she can see, this is more than a breeze.

Looking at the women, she wonders if they suspect something; one, in particular, who arrived full of hope for a new life, has become noticeably anxious in recent weeks. As she grows, so does her angst – her eyes betray it increasingly each day, asking the maids more than once about other places to stay. Some days, the poor woman can’t be calmed and she’s heard the midwives talking in whispers of having to use sedation if it gets much worse.

She muses, too, on what outsiders see when they walk through the door of the house. Only today, one of the newer residents, Anya, had a visitor – it’s allowed in moderation, since most women are happy not to have guests – and she watched both women as they walked through the house. The visitor, she’d noted, was all eyes, sizing up the situation through her smiles. As an outsider, she might not have known for sure, but it’s clear that she senses something isn’t sitting right.

The timing is ironic, since her own suspicions are newly aroused, too. Properly this time. It was all Kleiner’s doing, when he insisted that none of the maids should set foot in his office, and that she herself should take up the cleaning. He’s never exhibited such trust in her before, but maybe he got tired of looking at his own filth, the ashtray overflowing with cigar butts and the wastepaper bin of discarded circulars, with no fire to burn them in in this heat.

The desk, he’d told her firmly, should not be touched. But he didn’t say explicitly that she couldn’t look. Only now, she wishes she hadn’t. One open envelope, one cursory, snatched look inside at the words ‘provision’ and ‘product’ before a shuffling outside the door stopped her prying further. It’s enough, though, to harbour a guess as to why the Reich is investing in these women, spending money on babies as well as bombs in their quest for domination. She’s no mother, has never yearned for a child of her own, but she is human and it sickens her, having cared for them for months, absorbing their tears and worries. There’s no direct proof, of

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