Mama and Tante Birthe had gone to town to buy up what was left on the ration card. Not much, since it was the end of the month. It was a three-hour walk into town, dangerous for them at night, so they planned to stay at Tante Birthe's parents' house there until morning.
Klara was left behind, in charge of the washing, supper, and caring for Oma and her baby cousin, Werner. The day passed normally, with her filling the basin and scrubbing and wringing stubbornly wet cloth before heaving them over the line, pausing every five minutes to rein in Baby Werner. Supper was much of the same, alternating spoonfuls of soup, bland without onion or cabbage. Baby Werner first, then Oma, then Baby Werner… Klara's was cold by the time she got to it.
Then came sundown and preparing them for bed. Oma really should've been washed up, but Klara was too exhausted after wrangling Werner through his bath and into the crib, so she skipped it. Often, Oma didn't go to sleep right away, sitting on the bed and mumbling to herself. Every so often she emitted a shout of nonsense heard throughout the old, wooden house. Klara hoped it wouldn't be one of those nights.
She was washing dishes, thinking of the next chapter of her book waiting in the bedroom she would have to herself tonight, when she heard a loud bang from outside, followed by screaming. She crouched to the floor, her wet hands soaking her apron. Footsteps and men's shouting traveled through the still air—not in German like in years past but Russian.
Klara's blood ran cold. She'd heard the stories about the Soviets' brutality. When they came marching, the villagers—especially the women—had to hide, or the men were forced to stand silent at gunpoint and watch them loot. Without a man in the house, what would they do?
Klara was not about to wait and find out. She crawled under the table and unplugged the lamp. Crouching in the darkness, hugging her knees, she held her breath and listened.
The porch was creaking, the voices growing louder… The front door slammed open, rattling the photo frames on the wall. The loud voices carried into the kitchen. Klara backed up deeper until she was huddled against the wall.
Please just let them take what they want and leave. They wouldn't find any valuable possessions, for the Vogels hadn't a damn thing left over from the war. Would that frustrate them, or would they deem it a lost cause and leave? The flick of a lighter, a shift in their tone…what did that mean? Perhaps—
Her frantic thoughts were cut short by an agitated shout from behind Oma's door. "I'm ready for supper now!"
The air stilled; Klara's mind blanked out, overwhelmed with terror. Oma and Baby Werner were both behind that door and if the soldiers found them…
Before she finished that thought, her legs were extending. She slid away from the wall and kicked the chair as hard as she could. As expected, it scraped loudly against the gnarled floor.
Now the footsteps were headed in her direction and Klara had to make a choice within a second: stay under the table, from where they would surely drag her out, or suck up her fear and rise before them with dignity. She chose the latter.
The smell of cigarette smoke preceded them into the kitchen. No sooner than she had emerged from beneath the table, rough hands grabbed her and yanked her upright while a blaring, white light went straight through her eyeballs. Wincing and ducking her head, Klara shook with fear, wondering if she was living her last moments. This intensified when a hand pulled the chain of the ceiling lamp, bathing dim yellow light on the scene.
Klara blinked, and three soldiers came into focus. One was at her side, still gripping her upper arm. Another stood by the sink, a cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth, loosely gripping a Kalashnikov. The third had his pointed directly between her wide eyes.
A whimper escaped her trembling lips. The German soldiers had never pointed guns at their faces. She remembered them as polite to Mama and Tante Birthe, patting Klara on the head every so often. Das Deutche Mädel, they'd called her; the ideal German girl.
Standing in front of these foreign men, Klara was aware of how she looked to them and realized that her strawberry blonde hair and round green eyes would not work in her favor, evidenced by the hunger in their eyes. They were all dark-haired and light-eyed, as indistinguishable as three wolves in Soviet uniform.
"Ah, see, what did I say, Kolya?" sneered the one with the cigarette. "I told you we would find treasure tonight."
Tightening his grip, Kolya took a step back and appraised Klara like she was a slab of meat dangling behind the counter of the butcher shop. She lowered her eyes to her dirt-caked feet, praying they'd simply taunt her and leave. Not likely, but she had to hope to keep the rising panic from slipping through.
"What shall we do with her, gentlemen?" Kolya asked. "I say we have a bit of fun with her."
The one with the cigarette said something in Russian, causing all three of them to chuckle. Until then they'd been speaking German and Klara preferred that, because she could at least prepare herself for their next move. Instead, she was forced to stand awkwardly, shivering at gunpoint, while they joked around in Russian.
Kolya pulled down the cross hanging over the table and hurled it into the bin. "Your God won't save you here," he sneered to a horrified Klara.
"Please, dear sirs, please don't hurt me," she blurted, hating how desperate she sounded. "Please, take anything you want."
To her horror, they roared with laughter, finding her distress wildly amusing. "Oh, we shall," Kolya snickered, releasing her arm and swiping at her apron. "Undress."
Klara's heart skipped a beat. She knew that one day she'd grow up and want to take her clothes off in front of a man. But not now, at only 14 years old, for heaven's sake! Especially not in front of these rude, leering Soviets!
"Listen here," Kolya said sharply, curling his fist around the chest of her apron and yanking her closer. His vodka-soaked breath burned her eyes. "You have two choices: do as you're told or die, along with everyone else in this heap of junk you call a house."
Klara was aware of the tears flooding her cheeks, of the Kalashnikov pointed at her face, of the pressing need to acquiesce. She couldn't seem to make herself move.
"Is that clear?"
At last, she managed to nod, swallowing down the sobs building in her chest and rising up in her throat.
"Good girl. Now undress."
First the apron, then the dress, gathered in a pile at her feet. The air thickened with hunger as she stood with her pert, bare breasts on display.
"Cute," Kolya remarked, pinching a small pink nipple, causing Klara to squirm.
"Indeed," agreed the one with the cigarette. He plucked it from his lips and let it drop to the floor, crushing it with the toe of his boot. "Which one of us is enjoying her first?"
"Well, I'm already here," Kolya pointed out.
"And I'm next!" said the one pointing the Kalashnikov, a boy who couldn't have been older than 17.
"Shut up, Lev," said the unnamed one, sliding his gun over his shoulder. "You're lucky you were even allowed to join us." He added something in Russian that made Kolya laugh.
"Run the bath for me now already!" came Oma's yell from the other room, setting Klara even more on edge. Thankfully, the soldiers ignored the voice, turning to the trembling girl at their mercy.
"Lie upon the table."
Kolya didn't give her much of a choice, pushing her back until her head slammed against the table. Her knickers were yanked off and her legs pried open, cool air against her tender, exposed flesh.
"No! Please, no!" Klara cried, disregarding the Kalashnikov still aimed at her. She thrashed like she was on fire, but Kolya and the other soldier were holding her down, each with a hand clamped around her thigh.
"Damn, does she look nice like that," Lev declared.
"Please, no!" Klara begged to deaf ears. Then, miraculously, the one Russian word she could remember: "Pozhalyusta!"
They erupted with sick, menacing laughter. "Sweet girl, your crying won't help you," Kolya told her, positioning himself in front of her. "Best to shut up and take it. Perhaps you'll even enjoy it."
Klara yelped as he slapped her soft folds before spreading them apart. The other's hand fondled her small breasts, digging his dirt-caked fingernails into them. Meanwhile, Klara was doing the opposite of Kolya's recommendation, crying and hyperventilating. He ignored her, unbuckling his belt and pressing the tip of his cock against her. It attempted to slide in, but her untouched hole was too tight.
"Tight little virgin," he sneered and let a ball of saliva leave his mouth and splash onto her lower lips. Then he was entering her, stretching her and hurting her.
"Ow, oh, God, no!" she sobbed as he held her around the waist and pushed deeper in. "It hurts!"
"Shut her up, will you?" Kolya breathed, pulling slowly back and thrusting into her harder.
"With pleasure," said the unnamed one. A second later, through the ringing pain and her ragged breaths, Klara heard the unbuckling of a belt for the second time.
"No," she choked out. Her hair was tugged, sliding her head and shoulders toward the edge of the table. Hot, hard flesh filled her mouth, cutting off her breath.
"Mm, yes, like that, baby," he grunted, holding her jaw and hair by the root.
While she gasped and shook, they pumped into her without cease. Though the situation was awful, a not-so-awful sensation was spreading through her, almost calming her down. Then the unnamed one pulled out of her mouth and shoved Kolya out of the way. "I need to fuck her now. I'll bet her cunt feels as good as her mouth."
"Let's see," Kolya replied, replacing him at her side.
"When's it my turn?" Lev whined from somewhere yonder.
"Shut the fuck up already, Lev," the unnamed one snapped. "You'll get your chance once I've filled her tight hole."
Klara's eyes were so puffy, she could only see a flesh-colored blur coming closer just before sliding into her mouth. Tangy fluid mixed with her saliva as she choked it down. Again, they both thrust into her in synchrony. That merciful bliss made a brief appearance, ending swiftly when her mouth filled with hot, sticky liquid.
Kolya withdrew, trailing his seed across her cheek and into her ear. "Ah-uh, swallow it," he commanded, clamping a hand over her mouth. Klara had no choice but to gulp it down, gagging from the thick texture clinging to her throat.
A few pumps later, the unnamed one also released his seed inside of her, sending a stream straight into her womb. "Mm, now she's good and ready for you, Lev," he said, holding open her quivering thighs. She felt the fluid dripping out of her and onto the tablecloth under three amused gazes.
"Hold this," said Lev to one of them, lowering the Kalashnikov and advancing toward her.
"Sling it over your shoulder, idiot."
Whether he took the suggestion, Klara knew not, eyes raised to the ceiling. She was beyond the point of fighting, wishing they would just finish and get the hell out already. The possibility of them killing her was still very real, but she couldn't even muster the energy to care about that, either.
After the other two breaking her in, Lev took her without much pain. While they cheered him on—apparently this was his first sexual experience as well—he slammed into the still, limp girl. He came quite fast, adding his seed to the hot fluid filling her womb and splattered between her legs.
"Ah, good, she's definitely knocked up now," Kolya said in triumph. "Now she'll give birth to one of the true 'master race.'"
They shared a hearty chuckle at that. Kolya slapped her swollen, leaking flesh again, and then finally, they were retreating. Through her erratic breathing, Klara listened to their footsteps leaving the house.
Get up, they're gone, clean up, her mind prodded her, but several minutes passed before she could move again. Her body howled in pain as she rolled off the table and stood on precarious legs. On the tablecloth was a spot of damp, fluid mixed with a tinge of blood—her virginity, it reminded her. Before she even dressed up, she yanked it off and dumped it into the sink.
Later, she would deal with her aching body. Now she had to pull herself together and clean up before anyone found her in such a state. The crushed cigarette was thrown out, the cross hung back up, and the tablecloth scrubbed. Just keep going, one foot in front of the other, she recalled Mama saying often after Papa was sent to war.
And so, swollen and dripping and wishing she could take a scalding bath and ease her trembling, Klara washed dish after dish. Just keep moving on, forget about it, pretend it didn't happen…
Easier said than done, a cruel voice answered back, almost in a sing-song.