“But it’s not all about Berlin. There is a myriad of beautiful residential neighborhoods. You have lived in this one, here.” He pointed at a dot on the map then pulled a stack of pictures and a thin bunch of paper with a text of fine print from his briefcase. “You will study them later. Tomorrow, you’ll tell me your story.” He smiled as though inviting her objection to the enormity of the task. Getting none from her, he went on. “However, let’s start with the most important thing.”
“And what could it be?” she said, expecting a catch.
“What Berliners eat for Frühstück, Mittagessen, and Abendessen. Not the least, the coffee etiquette.”
“Coffee etiquette?”
“Yes. On the tea tray, milk jug to the top right, sugar bowl to the bottom left. A slice or two of homemade cake in the middle. You’ll find recipes in here.” As if by magic, a cookbook appeared in his hand. “Learn them in your spare time.”
The next several weeks enriched her with many more amazing discoveries, which Herr Wagner produced like from a ruptured water butt.
“It is not common in the Soviet Union, but in Germany, men kiss women’s hands.”
“What for?” Ulya kept her surprise out of her voice. “Is shaking hands not enough?”
He burst out laughing, showing a perfect row of his white teeth. “That’s how men express their admiration to women. And . . .” He made a pregnant pause. “German men open the car door for their women too. So, you must not be surprised if the man who brings you wherever you are going, climbs out of the car, walks over to the passenger’s side to open the door for you, takes your hand to help you out, and closes the door behind you after that.”
“Why would he do that? I can climb from the car with nobody’s help.” Ulya’s words provoked an infectious laugh from him again. If only he knew the only vehicle she’d ever ridden in was a public bus.
One day, he placed a stack of glossy-cover magazines in front of her. “This is for you to check. Later. Otherwise, I think, I can’t maintain your attention.”
The next morning, as he met her in front of their room, a mischievous smile touched his lips. “Bad night?”
She bobbed her head. “Is it how German women dress?”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“Yes. In Berlin. Well, in some other big cities, as well.”
“Do they dress this way while going to church service?” She thought she recognized some bafflement in his eyes.
“That’s the talk of our day’s subject. And not only how to be dressed for church but how to behave inside.”
Never being allowed to pray and go to a service, Ulya learned from Herr Wagner the history of Protestantism and loved how the prayers sounded. Truly, he came from an unknown world!
For three months, he filled her in on all possible facets of life in Germany, starting from the time of Ulya’s “parents” birth. She would not admit it to somebody else, but she realized she already loved that imagined atmosphere of living in Germany except for one specific aspect.
Herr Wagner did not shy away from the particulars about the German inner politics against Jews, Communists, others who opposed the Nazi regime. He showed her pictures of concentration camps, of beatings of the opposition members. Without any explanation or expressing his opinion, he let her absorb it all.
How was the Stalin regime different from what she heard from this Berliner and saw in the pictures? The question circled in her mind. Her father was arrested. Gleb’s father was executed and Gleb . . . Did he do it to himself, or was he taken out? Where and why had Arkash’ka’s family disappeared? Aside from her father’s case—and yes, they were human toward him since he could live, albeit behind the Urals, and work and communicate with her—the residue of the doubt settled down like an ever-pressing presence. What if her father and the people close to him were opportunists? Could she be sure her father did not belong to the opposition? What if he did? And if he did, on which side was she, his daughter?
The Soviet people, her included, were taught the highest authorities led by Stalin used their power to improve the lives of their citizens. And yes, the signs of it showed everywhere in their everyday life. Wasn’t it what she proclaimed while “carrying the truth to the masses” as an Agitprop Brigade member? She couldn’t deny it to herself, she still believed it in her head.
18
Natasha
May 1941
Lipetsk
Linden trees were in full bloom, saturating the air with their characteristic aroma, bumble bees flying from blossom to blossom. Sunshine flooded the street on one side while on the other there was shade. On the west, dark, ragged clouds hung in the sky. Now and then, lightning quivered and twitched like the wing of a dying bird. It was so far away the thunder couldn’t be heard.
So as not to be caught in the storm, Natasha took a shorter route to her settlement, Stone Log, which led her past the Flying School, raising up a painful memory that still clutched at her heart. The sight of a familiar figure in a pilot uniform exiting the building caught her off guard.
He stopped to talk with another officer. They smoked for some time then shook hands and headed in opposite directions.
In a hurry, she crossed the street and moved to meet him face to face.
“Natasha!”
She halted, observing him and taking her time in pretending not to
