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.Next to it stood a railway station, complete in every detail except one.No tracks passed before the passenger platform.Construction of the spur from Ruhpolding to Inzell had stopped in February 1943.After Stalingrad, every ingot of steel, every bar of iron, and every cord of wood was diverted to the protection of the Reich.Setting down the wheelbarrow next to the fountain, Ingrid lifted the harness from her neck, then peeled the foulard from her hair and dunked her head into the cold water.A shiver of pride and relief swept her body.After rinsing her hands, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and smoothed her dress.Her damp fingers made sure it clung in all the right places.Now she could do business.“Good morning, Frau Gräfin Bach,” chirped Ferdy Karlsberg as she entered his tiny store.“How are you this lovely day?”Like every grocer she’d known, Karlsberg was short and fat and, if not a pincher, at least a leerer.He had ginger hair and bright blue eyes and cheeks so bloated she swore he must be caching a dozen acorns for the winter.As usual, he was having a great deal of trouble keeping his eyes from her dress.Today, though, she welcomed his interest.“Good morning, Herr Karlsberg,” she answered, determined to match his good cheer.“I’m wonderful, thank you.” She didn’t dare say it was much too hot for trudging down the mountain with a thousand-pound wheelbarrow.Instead, she chose her most vulnerable smile.“The usual, I’m afraid.”She removed a yellow card from her dress and passed it across the counter.Her ration card entitled her to three loaves of bread, two hundred grams of meat, one hundred grams of butter, one hundred grams of sugar, a pound of flour and a pound of wheat each week.Theoretically, it was enough to ensure a daily intake of twelve hundred calories for three adults and one child.But theory died a quick death in the real world.The meat—sausage, actually—was often rancid.The butter, sour.The bread always black and stale.There was nothing wrong with the sugar, flour, or wheat once one removed the rat droppings.Karlsberg tore a square of brown paper from a dispenser on the wall and laid it on the counter.Turning his back to her, he ran a hand along his shelves collecting first the bread, then the sausage.Naturally he chose the smallest ones.He measured out the flour and wheat, weighing them on a scale she was sure ran a few ounces heavy, then placed each in a paper sack.When she asked about her sugar and butter, he shrugged.“The food authority failed to provide any in the latest delivery.I am sorry.”Ingrid offered Karlsberg her best smile.The food was hardly enough to feed a growing boy, let alone Papa, Herbert, and herself.She’d spent hours figuring how she might get her hands on a ration card entitling her to more food.Miners in the Ruhr were receiving double rations, as were farmers and skilled laborers.A widow and her child were hardly vital to the nation’s reconstruction.There was another way.She recalled her visit from General Carswell, his kindly smile and flirtatious manner.Would she be interested in answering some questions about her father’s activities, say at the Casa Carioca in Garmisch? Eyeing the meager provisions set on the counter, she decided she’d been naive to decline so quickly.Karlsberg wrapped the bread and sausage, and using both of his stubby hands, slid them across the counter.“Is there something else I can help you with?” His eyes were fixed on the only thing he found more appealing than her wet dress—the wheelbarrow outside his front window.Ingrid smiled coyly, baiting him.“Are you sure you don’t have any sugar?”Karlsberg blushed, then grew angry at his shame.“Come around back and don’t make any trouble.”Ingrid guided the wheelbarrow to the rear of the building where the grocer was already waiting.She found the charade ridiculous.Everyone in the valley knew Ferdy Karlsberg was a black marketeer.She supposed Herr Schnell, the local constable, had insisted he run his operations from the back of his store.It was just like a Nazi to condone an illegal activity as long as it didn’t soil the impression of legitimate business.“What do you have to offer today?” Karlsberg asked, his smile back in place.In the two months since the war had ended, Ingrid had become an expert in the workings of the black market.Reichsmarks were practically worthless, yet Germans were not permitted to own dollars.A new currency backed by a new government would not be introduced for a year or two.Still, people wanted something to eat, smoke, drink, and wear—in that order.The fiat of the new Germany was cigarettes, preferably American, preferably Lucky Strike.Want a pound of ham? Three cartons of Luckies.A bottle of White Horse scotch? Five cartons.A pair of hose? One carton.But most Germans did not have access to the American post exchange.For them—and Ingrid, who included herself in this number—any household item of value would do, provided you had someone to sell it to.Cameras and binoculars were in particularly hot demand.Wine, unfortunately, less so.For her, men like Ferdy Karlsberg existed.Ingrid handed him a bottle, gauging his reaction as he removed the linen cloth.Karlsberg’s eyes glowed when he eyed the label—a 1921 Château Petrus.“Is it all this quality?”She nodded.What did the fool expect Alfred Bach kept in his cellar? A few Rieslings and a Gewürztraminer?For the next hour, Karlsberg examined the bottles one by one, making notations on a block of paper.Petrus, Latour, Lafite-Rothschild, Eschezeau.Wines fit for a king.When he had finished, he tallied up his figures, and pronounced, “Ten thousand Reichsmarks.”“That’s all?” Ingrid was unable to conceal her disappointment.Ten thousand Reichsmarks sounded like a lot, but these days it was only equal to a hundred prewar marks.“The market dictates the prices, not I, Frau Gräfin.” He led her up the rear stairs into his back room.“How may I be of service?”Ingrid handed Karlsberg a prepared list.His eyebrows rose and fell as he studied the paper.He gave her breasts a final ogle, then said, “Let us see.”Karlsberg drew a blue linen curtain to reveal a wall of cardboard cartons and wooden crates.Spam.Peaches.Pears.Corned beef.The bounty of the American army.He took several cans from each and set them on the counter.An ice box squatted in the corner.He opened it and took out a half dozen boxes of Danish butter and a dozen eggs.A burlap bag full of sugar slouched against the wall.He emptied two brimming scoops into a paper bag.Apples.Potatoes.Corn.Soon the counter was covered with enough food to keep her household fed for a month.She sifted the goods.Something was missing.“I asked for steaks.Last week you assured me that you would have some good U.S.chops.”Karlsberg removed his spectacles and cleaned them with his apron.Several times he glanced up at her, only to look away when he met her gaze.Clearly he was mustering his courage.“I have the steaks,” he said haltingly, “but I’ve given you all I can for the wine.”“You said ten thousand reichsmarks.”“And I’ve given you ten thousand reichsmarks’ worth of groceries.”“Nonsense!” she exclaimed.“These bottles cost at least that much before the war, if you were fortunate enough to find them.”“Certainly, Fräu Gräfin is correct.However, customers are less discerning these days.A Latour may bring more than a simple vin du table, but not much [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]