The American Reporter Pt. 02

"She wants to stay anonymous," Harriet rose and stretched again, "enjoy yourself."

It was only when they stepped out into the street bathed by a hot afternoon sun that Harriet spoke again.

"Dorothea and I were intimate, once. The English woman is one of her companions and I suspect the younger Scottish woman is her sister, they certainly look alike."

"Are they going to?" Helga left the sentence unfinished and Harriet shook her head.

"Dorothea is a dirty little shrew but even she wouldn't stoop so low, I think she's playing nursemaid to her sister. Her father works at the British embassy."

Helga merely nodded at that information as her eyes tried to adjust to the hubbub on the street, she felt a little woozy then and Harriet put a hand on her elbow and guided her along the road to her car and by the time they reached it she felt a little more in control.

"I will drop you off at home and then I must go and see an old friend."

"Who?" Helga found herself asking as she fumbled for her cigarettes.

"A reporter from the Guardian," she started the engine, "he helped me out with a few contacts when I first arrived here."

"Oh," Helga nodded as she took out her cigarettes, "so, do you have a companion here in Cairo?"

"No," she shifted into gear and released the handbrake, "not at the moment."

"So, you are single?"

"I am single," she glanced over her shoulder and then stamped on the accelerator, "but if you want to apply for the position then you are welcome."

Helga coughed as she inhaled the tobacco and Harriet grinned slyly.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

"Do not be sorry," she murmured.

By the time they reached her home something of reality had begun seeping through her. Helmut would be home because today was Tuesday and he was always home early on a Tuesday. He would be either out in the front garden or sitting in the drawing room reading the papers or listening to the radio. Of late it had been the radio because he thought it a better way to learn of things when they happened and not a day or two afterwards.

This afternoon however he was out in the garden watering the flowers and he glanced up as Harriet pulled up a few feet from the front gate.

"He is always home early on a Tuesday."

"Do you love him?"

"What do you mean?" Helga looked at her.

"I mean, do your knees go weak when he walks into a room?"

"They did, before we were married and for the first year but now?" Helga swallowed, "I know I disappoint him because I am still not myself after the miscarriage. In the new Germany we are all supposed to be strong and capable but I think I have fallen through the cracks. The one thing I love about living here is that I am not constantly surrounded by Germans."

She pointed across the road.

"There are Belgians living in that house, next to them are the Dutch and we have an Australian couple living on one side and an Argentinian couple on the other side. Our old apartment building in Hamburg was all Germans, not all of them were Nazis but you dared not speak your mind."

"And today you did," Harriet lit a cigarette.

"You must think me a foolish woman," Helga ran a hand through her hair.

"What did I tell you earlier?" Harriet put a hand on her leg, "you too have a voice and an opinion that needs to be heard. I would like to see you again," she lifted her hand slightly.

"If you want to."

"I do," her eyes flickered, "but my husband."

"He does not know I have my hand on your leg and I am not saying we should be intimate but you need a friend and I find your companionship comforting. You are the first German I have met who is not in love with Herr Hitler."

"I was not so much in love with him," she put her hand on top of Harriet's, "but I once thought he would be good for Germany and perhaps deep down he has good intentions but I do not trust those who surround him. Helmut had a few Jewish friends from his childhood but now he has abandoned them, it is like a spell has come over him."

"We will talk more," Harriet squeezed her leg and then released it, "I will send you a message when I am free again."

"Thank you," she replied, "for listening to me."

"You are most welcome," she smiled.

As she exited the car, Helga felt a mixture of guilt and longing. Guilt because for the first time in months her husband actually looked relaxed as she stepped into the front garden, and longing for one more hour with a human being who actually listened to her without interrupting or judging. As she brushed her lips across his cheek Helga heard the horn as Harriet tooted and she turned to wave her goodbye.

"You had a pleasant day?"

"Very," she beamed, "entertaining."

"You look radiant."

"Danke," she thanked him, "but I need a bath."

As she undressed a little while later, Helga found herself going over the last few hours. She'd been talkative, although the influence of hashish might have something to do with that but nevertheless, the virtual torrent that bubbled up had surprised her. She almost felt cleansed but from within, she looked at the steaming bath water. What would it be like to get into a bath with Harriet? A smile nudged her lips as she let the dress fall to the floor. Harriet still wanted to see her, she unclipped the bra and let it fall. But where was this leading?

As Helga stepped into the bath a minute or so later she resolved to follow her heart and let the chips fall where they may. It was an uncharacteristic move on her part but her logical brain had led her into a loveless marriage to a man who thought Herr Hitler was the incarnation of an ancient Aryan god. One way or another she would stay close to the Anglo-American reporter from the New York Times even if it meant betraying her husband.

I too have a voice...