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I used to leave the house when Volker arrived. I didn't want to suffer the affront of knowing that the enemy was pouring his seed into my ktb sister's body. But strange as it may seem, Volker often slipped in very discreetly, and I sometimes realized he was there only when the chandelier began to shake. Given the time it took to put on my coat, tie my shoelaces and comb my hair quickly in front of the hall mirror, I would be obliged to ktb hear my sister's first moans ktb before I was through the garden gate. As I left the house, going down the porch steps, I would look up at the kitchen window and see my mother, her expression fixed, frantically scouring the already spotless frying pan. For my mother never said anything. She could have slapped my sister, called her a tart, a slut, a soldier's whore, a prostitute in the pay of the Boche and God knows what else, but such insults stuck in her throat.
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