A Vude Avakening
As the sauerkraut and potatoes came to rest in Adolf's belly, he let out an audible sigh. The kind of sigh that comes only with complete satisfaction. 'Aaaah. Zat was abzolutely top notch Pet' he murmered, his weasley features contorting in pleasure.
Eva beamed lovingly from her armchair, fingering the crucifix that hung loosely around her neck. The crucifix her Mother had given her all that time ago. 'Eva my girl' she had said. 'Vun day you vill meet a man zat makes you gushen like a drippy fridgen'. She had been absolutely right of course, as Mothers invariably are. The moment she had laid eyes on Adolf she had known he would be the man for her. She allowed herself to daydream; cast away on the tide of her own memory as a warm rush of nostalgia swept over her. She had first spied her husband to be in Nuremberg, 1937. Although she had been a small girl, she still remembered how majestic and proud he had looked aloft his podium, sexily gesticulating and shouting. Her knees had gone weak and the soft dribble of her loins had seeped silently into her lederhosen. What authority he commanded. What power!
The opening theme tune to 'A Question of Sport' brought her back with a jolt. 'Nein nein NEIN!' bellowed Adolf, who had been teetering contently on the brink of sleep. 'I simply vill not TOLERATE zat fucking Ally McCoist'! This statement was not entirely true. He actually found the cheeky ex-Glasgow Rangers striker-come-tv pundit really rather funny on occasion. He had even stayed up one night to watch 'Match of the Day' on ITV. He loathed football with a passion, but the charasmatic wit of McCoist had made his moustache twitch with glee. No, it was a dark glint of pure jealousy that motivated his actions now. Those stolen late-night moments he shared with Ally were for them alone, and as much as he loved his wife, there were certain boundaries to adhere to. Even in marriage.
Sensing this, Eva sprung to life, straightening her pinny and darting into the kitchen. I'll get ze brew on dahkling'. Almost simultaneously, the telephone that lay on the side table beside Adolf rang shrill. This was the final straw. 'Aaaaah I sort you had unplugged zat infernal contrapshun voman!?, Vill I EVER be able to enjoy a peaceful Sontagg vizout some bleeding saga or anuzza'? Adolf threw down his Daily Mail in annoyance and reached for the phone. 'Ja!' he shrieked, with all the resonance of someone who had been disturbed on the Lords day that he could muster.
...Nothing.
'Heilo'? More bewildered than annoyed this time, as it slowly dawned on him that in the fourty five years since their secret exile, the telephone had never ever rung.
A sharp pang of fear seized his lungs, threatening to throttle him from conciousness. Had they been discovered? The blood drained from his face in pure unadulterated terror. Eva's head jutted through the serving hatch, alerted by her husband's silence. Poised like a rabbit in headlights, expecting the worst.
A familiar voice crackled down the wire. It was European alright. Monotone flat vowels punctuated by cold clinical consonants. It was not German. It was Russian.
'Adolf. It ish important that you remain calm. I have shum extremely dishtreshing newsh'....