Eva, extremely thin, but stylish in a wide-shouldered dress cinched in at her tiny waist, waited with her father on the porch of their old house in Berlin. Her hair, somewhat grown out, had a slight curl.
She and her father watched as Olga, a chubby version of her younger self, and her parents hurriedly moved their things out of Eva’s house. Two American servicemen, with guns and broad grins, supervised.
As they left, Eva held out her hand to Olga, who stared at Eva’s thin, outstretched hand.
“The war may be over, but that doesn’t mean people feel differently,” Olga said, as she turned and walked away. It was Olga’s turn to be displaced with nowhere to go.
“I don’t believe that. Germany is as much mine as it is yours. You’ll see. Germany will rise again!” Eva shouted after her.
Bert reached over and put his arm around her and smiled. “I should have let you hit her the night they took our house.” They laughed together like the old days.
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