With Stepan, it was different. It was love, and she knew, he didn’t cease loving her. Whatever the reason was for him to marry Lyuba, she, Natasha, would get him back. He did not love his wife. That was obvious. And from what he had told her about Lyuba, she didn’t have any feelings for him. Maybe even despised him, which would make the execution of Natasha’s plan easier.
She took a deep breath, reliving again and again the memories of their nights and days together, loving each other with shameless passion, always as if it was for the last time in their life. It all will be back. Soon. Very soon.
Natasha was shaking in anticipation when at four in the evening the next day she took a position on a bench behind the rose bushes across from the Flying School. No way would she miss Stepan leaving the building.
Her meeting with Lyuba an hour earlier invaded her thoughts, bringing back Lyuba’s first confusion and then aggressiveness after Natasha attacked her with her accusations. Now, recalling her own curses, Natasha felt a strange satisfaction. “May you never find love in your life. May you never have your own children!” she whispered the words she’d breathed out into Lyuba’s face. You’ll get what you deserve, you shameless floozy. I’ll win Stepan back.
Natasha pulled out a small oval mirror, applied fresh lipstick, and peered at her reflection. Her hair shone in the beams of the setting sun and a heavy layer of black mascara emphasized her long, thick lashes. The suffocating bitterness passed, and she again was in absolute control.
He’ll be mine, she repeated with the determination of a vow to herself.
Stepan did not show up. She realized it was night, only when the streetlamps came on, and she headed back home to spend a restful night, hardening herself to carry out her plan. She knew what she’d do.
At seven in the morning next day, she placed herself on the observation post as on the previous evening and waited. She had only three hours before her train’s departure for Vitebsk. Five before eight, she saw Stepan stride along the street. Her heart singing with joy, she jerked from the bench and crossed the street on the run. “Stepan!”
He spun and his face contorted as if from a toothache. “You.”
Irked by his cool voice, she shriveled.
“You—” His right hand jerked to his temple, responding to a saluting officer who walked by, “must not come to my house.” Another jerk of his hand to another salute. “You—” His voice gave out, and he cleared his throat to start again. “You stay away from my family.” The words were like stones thrown in hate.
“Otherwise what?” she gave a choked, despondent laugh.
“You better not—” He left her on the street, in front of the heavy door behind which he disappeared. Bypassing her, the other officers eyed her with undisguised interest.
She gulped hard, fighting against the urge to scream out her pain.
Two hours later, a train was taking her to Vitebsk, away from the city that brought her so much pain.
19
Ulya
June 1941
Balashikha, Engels, Vitebsk
A new letter from her father arrived with the same phrases of “all is well” “feeling good” “looking forward to seeing you soon.” Again, the unsteadiness of his handwriting alarmed her. Was he ill? Or, perhaps, he didn’t want to make her sad or the editor to waste his black ink on his behalf?
A man of exemplary patience, Vladimir Kharitonovich waited, smoking, till she read the letter and wrote her answer. As it was on previous occasions, both disappeared in one of his drawers.
“Cadet Hunter, I’d like to deliver more great news to you. You are entitled to a two weeks’ leave. From Monday next week. Where would you like to go?”
“Home. To Engels.”
As though he knew her answer in advance, he tilted his head in a nod. “But before going home, you’ll visit your place of work.” He plucked an envelope from a drawer and slid it to her across the table. “Money. The address of the Down syndrome children orphanage. As a dishwasher working there, you must know how it all looks and what your responsibilities include. You’ll pay attention to the details at the place. I need not remind you that you are not relieved from your responsibility of secrecy and that you are still in the line of duty.”
“You need not.”
The next day, after reading her detailed cover story, he sanctioned it. “Report your arrival to this phone.” He wrote a number on a slip of paper then took it back after her, “Remembered.”
“May I go?”
“Not yet. Read this.” The director took a paper from a file.
MEMORANDUM
Agent Hunter displaces high intelligence and extreme self-restraint in terms of her emotions.
Her reactions seem to be disconnected from any feelings.
She must learn how to express cordiality even if fake. Vital for women-agents. Expressionless face is not always an answer to a particular situation, on the contrary, it can compromise her in case convincing an opponent of her innocence is important.
Her handshake is too firm for an ordinary woman. That says a lot about her character.
It was not signed.
“Comrade Wagner?”
Vladimir Kharitonovich did not say yes or no. “You are my best student, but you must learn to pretend and deceive by smiles, ohs and ahs, eyes rolling, hands clasping, and other women’s stuff. That’s all for today.” He got up from his table to see her to the door.
Ulya grabbed the doorknob then pivoted and threw her arms around his neck. “My darling.” His lips were hard and dry. When she let go of his stiffened body, she beamed, looking in his perplexed face. “Good enough for expressing women’s stuff?” She pushed the door open and heard him say to her back, “You are great, Hunter.”
On her way to Engels, she took a bus to Berezovo where she stopped at the orphanage, discovering
