She went to the tub, shut off the taps, and carefully stepped in. The water was hot, her feet tingling after the chill of the tile floor. She stood a moment in pleasure as steam rose to dew on her hair, the down of the soft delta between her thighs curling slightly. Then she lowered herself, gasping gratefully, and lay back, floating in the heat. She felt herself calm as the warmth crept inside her. She looked down. Her breasts floated like twin icebergs, the penguin swimming between them, and the image brought a smile. Meeting Owen already seemed like a dream except that here was tangible evidence, smooth and hard. For nearly six years he'd carried this jewelry! It was an amazing thought.
She soaped a sponge and squeezed. A glacier of suds slid down from her neck to melt into the Southern Ocean. Greta, the white continent! She let her knees break clear of the water. Atropos Island! Her lap was the volcanic caldera and the cave, well, she knew where that was… She felt herself there. It was as if her body was awakening from a long slumber. Faintly embarrassed, she pulled her fingers away.
Her mind had hibernated as well, she realized. Owen's reported death had destroyed her interest in Antarctica. She'd published no papers and written no reports from the voyage, which was veiled in official secrecy anyway. It was beginning to come back to her now: the whales, the krill, her microscope, the hideous petri dishes and their spawn…
She hugged herself. Think of Owen, she told herself. Think of his strong hands, his mouth on your throat.
The whales! The war had severely curtailed research of the natural world. Her university supervisors remained condescending and opportunities to collect new specimens had been shut off. It had become impossible even to keep up with developments in biology. And after the inevitable German defeat, what then? It would not be easy for the country's scientists. In America, however, science would explode. Could she reconstruct a career? The possibility intrigued her.
She was going to leave with Owen, she realized. The decision had been made. She was planning a future, something she hadn't done in a long time.
Then the lights went out.
Startled, she sat upright. It wasn't unusual to have the power fail during the raids. And yes, there it was, the mournful wail of an air raid siren prodding at the sleeping city in the night. Damn. She'd never been caught in the bath before, and it was disorienting. She stood, water streaming off her. Doors were slamming as Arnold and Ingrid and Jürgen hurried downstairs.
She was so tired of retreating to the cellar in the night. But then that was the point of the raids, wasn't it? To make Jerry tired.
She lifted one foot out of the tub, put her weight on it, and slipped, coming down with a crash. Water sloshed out with her, spilling across the floor. "Clumsy, Greta." She fumbled in the dark for towels. It felt comical to be mopping naked on her hands and knees in the dark. The siren droned on.
She stood finally, sore, and felt her way to the bathroom door. Her bedroom was just as dark. She groped toward the end table with her arms outstretched, scolding herself, planning to find the oil lamp and matches so she could have light to get dressed.
Then the door burst open.
"Greta!"
It was Jürgen. He was dressed in hastily pulled on trousers and a sleeveless undershirt, holding a lamp. Instinctively she used her hands to cover what she could of herself and they both froze a moment in surprise.
He hadn't seen her nude in years. He stared, his intended statement choked off.
"What are you doing here?" she managed. "You should be in the cellar."
"So should you." He closed the door behind him and stepped forward, emboldened by their words. "I was worried when you didn't come. I thought perhaps you hadn't awakened with the sirens." His voice was hoarse. His eyes roamed her.
She didn't like it. She turned and briskly lifted her bed's comforter, heedlessly spilling her bag and clothes on the floor. She pulled it around her, standing straighter. "This is my room. You never come to my room."
He set the lamp on a table, aroused now, irked at her covering. "Our room. We're married, remember?"
"My room. You know you keep to your own, that was your decision as much as mine. My goodness, you frightened me, storming in like that. The bombers caught me in the bath. I nearly broke a leg."
He was looking at her hungrily, sadly. She looked away. It made her uncomfortable. Guilty. "We'd better get to the cellar." She limped to a dresser and pulled out a nightgown. "Please don't watch." Surprisingly, he obeyed. She dropped the comforter and swiftly pulled the bedclothes over herself while his eyes cast impatiently about the room. They came to the heap by the bed. A look of doubt appeared. When she tried to move past him he caught her arm.
"Wait." He pointed to the clothes and bag. "What's that? Are you going somewhere?"
She looked at the heap as if surprised it was there. "I'm simply sorting clothes."
"In the middle of the night?"
"Jürgen, I fell asleep!" They could begin to hear the stuttering pop of antiaircraft guns. "Hurry, we must go." She pulled but his grip tightened.
"A bath too, in the middle of the night?"
"To help me get back to sleep! Stop holding me!"
He seized her then by both shoulders, yanking her close. "I'll hold you all I wish. I'm your husband, dammit!"
"Jürgen!" She twisted in his grasp. She couldn't stand this intimacy, not now, not this night. "If you don't let us get down to the cellar we're both going to be killed!"
He bent then to kiss her, roughly, angrily, and she turned her face away. "Stop it!" Pulling one arm free, she slapped him, the impact stinging her palm. "Get control of yourself!"
For a fraction of a second he looked shocked. Then he instinctively shoved. She went flying backward, slamming down on her bed with a whoof.
They glared at each other, panting. Somewhere they heard the dull concussion of falling bombs. Finally he nodded, sneering. "Fine. Find your own way to the cellar. Live alone, frigid. Like an ice queen." He picked up the lamp and moved toward the door, stopping to contemplate her. "You know, I've given you everything, Greta. In return for nothing."
"No," she said without thinking. "I lost everything."
"Bitch." He seized the handle to go out. Then he stopped, hesitated and swung about again. "What did you say?"
She was silent.
"What do you mean you lost everything? When? What are you referring to?"
"Jürgen, just go."
He was suspicious now. He raised the lamp, peering at her. "What's that?"
Her heart began to accelerate. "What's what?"
"That thing. On your neck." He walked into the room again, striding toward the bed.
Instinctively her hand went up to her throat. She'd forgotten she was still wearing the locket. "Just some jewelry." She grasped it in protection. "Leave it alone."
His hand fastened over hers, the powerful fingers prying hers open. Then he grabbed the locket and yanked, the chain snapping. He held it up. The golden penguin swung rhythmically in the dim light.
She stared at it dumbly.
"A penguin." He said this flatly, considering. "Shades of Antarctica. An odd choice, given our history. I don't recall giving you this."