Gilda Engel
"You can tell me," Gilda said with a mock pout. "I like to know what you're doing at work. It makes me feel important."
She met his eyes. He felt like he was drowning. Blue eyes like deep pools, like ocean waves...
"We're liquidating the ghetto in the morning," he heard himself saying. He wasn't supposed to tell anyone that. He hadn't even told his subordinates yet. But what did it matter? This was just some silly girl, a pleasant diversion from the stress of war. "As soon as the sun rises, I'll give the order."
"Oh, you will?" she said, her expression suddenly unreadable as she looked away from him. When she looked back, though, her face was as coy and worshipful as ever. "Let's drink to it, then!"
Gilda poured two glasses of champagne, and raised hers in a toast.
***
She poured him another glass, and another. Did he realize he'd polished off most of the bottle? He probably didn't care - as far as he knew, the worst thing he had to fear was a hangover.
He was already stumbling as she took his hand and led him into the street, her high heels clicking on the cobblestones as they made their way to the spot with the broken streetlamp. She stopped dead center between the two lanes, gripped both of his hands, stared into his eyes, and began to sing. Minutes passed, and he didn't look away. He couldn't.
She waited until she heard the hum of the incoming bus. Then abruptly, she dropped his hands, turned from him, and walked away.
He stood alone in the street. Dazed. Unsure how he had gotten there or where he was supposed to go.
The bus horn just made him blink in confusion. He didn't so much as turn to look as the brakes squealed and metal met flesh.
***
Morning came.
Party headquarters was informed that a terrible accident had taken place. No one thought to relay the news to his mistress - but of course, Gilda already knew.
The order was never given. People who would have no idea how close they came to death saw another sunrise. And Gilda moved on to her next mark.
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