She hesitated, then nodded in a servant’s bow and picked up the wicker basket. He watched her cross the muddy yard. Personalize it. What had her war been like? Maybe she’d been one of the faithful, shouting her lungs out at the Sportpalast, now doing laundry for the enemy. Or maybe just a hausfrau, lucky to be alive. He crossed over to the bed, dropping his shirt. What did it matter either way? Losers’ stories. Back home they’d want the glamour of the conference, Truman horse-trading with Stalin, the great world they’d won, not the rubble and the people in the Tiergarten with the future knocked out of them.

He took off the rest of his clothes and wrapped a towel around his waist. The bathroom was at the end of the hall, and he opened the door to a rush of steam and a surprised yelp.

“Oh.”

Liz was in the tub, her breasts barely clearing the soapy water, wet hair swept back from her face.

“Don’t you knock?”

“Sorry, I-” he said, but he didn’t move, watching her slide down into the tub, covering herself, her flesh as pink as the vanity ruffle.

“Have a good look?”

“Sorry,” he said again, embarrassed. A soft woman’s body, without the uniform and gun holster, now hanging on a peg.

“Never mind,” she said, smiling, a veteran of shared tents and field latrines. “Just keep your towel on. I’ll be out in a sec.”

She plunged her head into the water to rinse, then smoothed her hair back and reached for a towel.

“You going to turn around, or do you want the floor show too?”

He turned his back to her as she stepped out. A splash of water and a rustling of cloth, the sounds themselves intimate.

“I suppose I should take it as a compliment,” she said, wrapping herself in a robe. “You never noticed before.”

“Sure I did,” he said, his back to her.

“Uh-huh.” He could hear the water running down the drain in gulps. “Okay, decent.”