The purse was a harshly glittering beacon from the past as it lay there in the dim light of early morning; the brazen beauty of the thing cast against the increasingly threadbare gray and black wools that had crept determinedly into the wardrobe like drab lichens over the war years. It must have slipped off one of the shelves during the jarring of last night's bombing, Gerda decided as she picked up the small satin pouch with its gaudy shell of geometric glass beads and black sequins. The artifact was picked up gingerly, for the gas was out and, unable to bathe properly, the housewife's fingernails were dark with grime from scrabbling about in the garden the night before; hefting up the iron ring hidden behind the tulip bed so she and the three remaining children could scramble into the vault Kurt had constructed before he left. Gerda hadn't seen the purse for years, and its sudden appearance now was both enticing and mocking. She studied the beaded exterior briefly, almost compulsively admiring its luster, before tossing the bag, again almost compulsively, onto one of the shelves suspected of harboring the thing all these years.

There was a time, Gerda reflected as she disinterestedly chose one of the dull dresses at random, that she'd actually been somewhat ashamed of her lack of utilitarian clothing, when that defiantly pretty little bag would have gone with nearly any dress she had at hand. That had been a long time ago; she could still remember the first proper day of her marriage, when she'd resolutely gotten up to perform her initiatory wifely duties and found that the most practical dresses she'd worn as a secretary looked far too gaudy for the home. Even the most modest piece of the lot, a long-waisted frock of peach colored cotton, had been proudly embroidered with intricate designs in white linen thread; its collar resplendent with freshwater pearls. Gerda grimaced slightly as she recalled the lovely thing, and the other frocks that had followed its loss throughout the years; they'd be moth-eaten by now anyway, no doubt, but it was a shame nevertheless. Upon coming to Berlin, and into her own income, she'd developed an ardor for fashionable clothing that was only questionably matched by the attachment she formed with her employer shortly thereafter. Perhaps she couldn't have afforded so many gowns as she desired, but every long-coveted dress that had made it into her wardrobe had been of the highest quality.

The feeling of loss over those bits of frippery was foolish enough, but it was nothing new, having been felt long before the grim finality of mobilization, invasion, and privation had definitely sealed any last slim hopes of those happy carefree times returning. As if to prove this to herself, Gerda took a step back from the musty wooden cavern, half-turning to confront the body-length mirror behind. The tall, pale figure that greeted her was not a bad one for a woman of thirty-seven, but the stretch and sag of child-bearing was evident in the purplish-silver scars that trailed up from her frayed nylon slip. At nineteen, the burden of motherhood had been merely another form of excitement, it had seemed—a novelty of sorts, a promise of some vague and rosy future, despite its coming in questionable timing in relation to the wedding. There had been no indication then, of how her life, along with her body, could be so full, and then be left so amazingly empty shortly thereafter.

No matter though—stuffed into a girdle (somewhat worn now, after so many years of rubber shortages), harnessed within the stiff confines of brassiere and thick cotton stockings, even a mother of five could be decent, presentable. It was a depressingly precarious thing, to have one's structural integrity defined by so weak a frame.