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The Women at Hitler’s Table. Rosella PostorinoЧитать онлайн книгу.

The Women at Hitler’s Table - Rosella Postorino


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      THE WOMEN AT HITLER’S TABLE

      Rosella Postorino

      Translated from the Italian by Leah Janeczko

HarperCollinsPublishers Logo

       Copyright

      Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

      1 London Bridge Street

      London SE1 9GF

       www.harpercollins.co.uk

      First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

      Originally published in Italy as ‘Le Assaggiatrici’ by Feltrinelli, 2018

      First published in the USA as ‘At the Wolf’s Table’ by Flatiron Books, New York 2019

      Copyright © Rosella Postorino 2018

      Translation copyright © Leah Janeczko 2019

      Rosella Postorino asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

      Source ISBN: 9780008377274

      Ebook Edition © 2019 ISBN: 9780008377298

      Version: 2019-07-29

       Epigraph

      A man can only live by absolutely forgetting he’s a man like other folk.

       —BERTOLT BRECHT, THE THREEPENNY OPERA

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Copyright

      Epigraph

      Part One

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Part Two

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

       Chapter 24

       Chapter 25

       Chapter 26

       Chapter 27

       Chapter 28

       Chapter 29

       Chapter 30

       Chapter 31

       Chapter 32

       Chapter 33

       Chapter 34

       Chapter 35

       Chapter 36

       Chapter 37

       Chapter 38

       Chapter 39

       Chapter 40

       Chapter 41

       Chapter 42

       Chapter 43

       Part Three

       Chapter 44

       Chapter 45

       Chapter 46

       Chapter 47

       Chapter 48

       Notes and Acknowledgments

       About the Publisher

Part

       1

      East Prussia, 1943

      We entered one at a time. We had waited for hours outside, lined up in the hallway. The room was large, its walls white. In the center of it, a long wooden table already laid out. They gestured for us to sit.

      I sat with my hands clasped on my belly. In front of me, a white ceramic plate. I was hungry.

      The other women had taken their places without a sound. There were ten of us. Some sat up straight and poised, their hair pulled into buns. Others glanced around. The girl across from me nibbled at her hangnails, mincing them between her front teeth. She had doughy, blotchy cheeks. She was hungry.

      By eleven in the morning we were already hungry. It wasn’t because of the country air or the journey by bus—the feeling in our stomachs was fear. For years we had lived with this hunger, this fear, and when the smell of the cooked food was under our noses, our heartbeats throbbed in our temples, our mouths watered. I looked over at the girl with blotchy skin. We shared the same longing.

      THE STRING BEANS were served with melted butter. I hadn’t had butter since my wedding day. The aroma of the roasted peppers tickled my nostrils. My plate was piled high. I couldn’t stop staring at it. The plate of the girl across from me was filled with rice and peas.

      “Eat,” they told us from the corner of the room, more an invitation than an order. They could see it, the longing in our eyes.

      Mouths sagged open, breathing quickened. We hesitated. No one had wished us bon appétit, so maybe there was still time to stand up, say thank you, the hens were generous this morning, an egg will be enough for me today.


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