August 12th, 1942
The mink stole smelt of perfume, and of mothballs. It felt lovely - heavenly, really: thick and sensually soft, it lay heavily in her arms. Pounds of ashes-of-roses, silk-lined, chocolate-brown fur. Though meant to slip around her shoulders, it would swallow her whole, she was so small.
The perfume would fade, eventually, but the stole would always smell of mothballs. The Mouse buried her face in the fur and inhaled deeply, driving the stink of its sickening acridity into her lungs, searing the memory of it into her consciousness. So she would never forget, every moment she wore it, that she was clad in a dead woman’s furs.
Herr Doktor Ortmann placed a hand on the small of her back and murmured something. The Mouse looked up at him, her eyes shining with real tears. He, of course, assumed they were tears of joy, of thankfulness. What woman wouldn’t be delighted to receive such a gift in this time of privation? What woman wouldn’t look up, her eyes glistening? Herr Doktor Ortmann’s face went red at the sight of her pleasure.
‘I would like you to wear it this evening, Veronique, my treasure,’ he said, as he pulled her into his arms, crushing the monstrosity between them. ‘It will bring me such pleasure to see you in mink.’
Of course it will, the Mouse thought, as he pressed his fat lips against hers. So that all those fat Nazi pigs will know how beautiful your mistress is, and how well you take care of her. She let herself go limp in his doughy arms and sighed. He assumed a laughable, embarrassing expression. He was about to say something he thought profoundly meaningful.
‘Veronique. My treasure. My little treasure.’ He squeezed her closer to him. She could smell the stink of his sweat, oily and heavy beneath by his expensive cologne. ‘When this is over… when the war has ended, I would like you to remain with me. We will take a house. Perhaps a cottage in Lille, and raise sheep. Or open a little hotel in Langedoc, or a vinyard in Minervois and become famous for our wines and our cassoulet. Bring up our children far from the rubbish and the slums and the rats of Paris. What a rich life we will lead, my little love.’
Never mind that he has a wife already, the Mouse thought, and two apple-cheeked children who live rich country lives far from Paris. And Berlin.
The Mouse fluttered her eyelids. ‘What heaven,’ she whispered.
Extract from World War Cthulhu
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