She watched him savor what little she could give him and thought of the emergency store left in the dugout, instantly rejecting the idea to seize the opportunity to offer him more. She was not sure he knew about her little hiding place and besides, all the foodstuff was of German origin.
He finished the meager supper and, after placing the cup on the table with reverent care, rose to his feet. “I should go.”
“You can stay.”
“I can’t.” On the threshold, he halted for a moment. “I thank you for all your work.”
The open door let in a swish of cold air and a cloud of snow violated the coziness of the room. “By the way, Nathan.” She caught him on passing the doorway. “Remember the name, Grigoryev Semyon Ivanovich. A dentist. He is now with the local Polizei. Lives on Zamkovaya thirteen. I have no proof of it but heard other Polizei talking. While as a Hivi in the stalag Fifth Regiment, he personally pulled gold teeth from the prisoners’ mouths.” She saw Nathan cringe.
“I’ll remember the name. We’ll pay him a visit.” He swayed, then straightened himself, gave her a silent salute. She thought she recognized a moment of hesitation in his eyes before he disappeared into the darkness of the night. But maybe she just imagined it.
She stepped to the entranceway and, despite the icy wind, waited until he disappeared between the trees into the darkness of the grove. Nathan. Suddenly, she felt how lonely she was. But why? Wasn’t it her normal condition in the past two-and-a-half years? Her Vati. Somewhere in Siberia. Her friend Rita. The war parted them. And now, she looked forward to seeing Nathan. Sifting the unfamiliar feelings, she wondered if perhaps she was fond of him more than she was ready to admit to herself?
Ulya dozed off and woke with a start, sensing something murky creeping into her mind. It was the truth: Nathan was becoming too important. Not sure she wanted it, she felt an unsettling emotional discord. I should get my head straight again on my goals, she urged herself.
One of the axioms she’d learned in SHON was: Don’t fall in love because the object of your infatuation can turn out to be your enemy.
36
Natasha
February 1, 1942
A chunk of a snowball shot at the window made Natasha startle, sending her pulse into erratic beats. She threw the mending aside and lifted the curtain a bit. His back shielded from the street by the current bush, Sergey Vladimirovich gestured at her, asking if there were anybody else in the house and if he can enter.
“Come in,” she said as though he could hear her and immediately realized how stupid it was of her. She waved her hand, signaling invitation and hastened to the door. It was not latched, according to one of the many new Administration rules—any violation resulted in execution or placement in a labor camp—but she wanted to welcome him on the threshold.
Hardly had he time to step inside before his knees gave way. He lay at her feet, his padded jacket torn and saturated with melted snow, his face hidden in his hands. Oh, dear. So drained. How much she wanted to press him to her chest and sing him a lullaby. She knew it was crazy of her, but she could not help it. So, she lowered onto the floor by his side, took his fur cap with earflaps away, and placed his head on her lap. The words and the melody came on their own. “Sleep little one, go to sleep, so peaceful the birds and the sheep, quiet are meadows and the trees, even the buzz of the bees . . .”
He slept like a child, his breath noiseless. His face, which bore two or three days of bristles, relaxed. “Serezha,” she whispered endearingly and loved the sound of it. Choking from almost unbearable tenderness, she stroked his tangled hair.
Was it ten minutes or an hour that passed before her legs became numb and she needed to change her position. She moved a bit.
“What?” He stirred then lifted his head. “Natasha?” In his eyes, she saw surprise and worry.
“My aunt is at her friend’s, helping her daughter with child delivery,” she said, though he hadn’t asked her.
Dropping their eye contact, he pushed himself up from the floor and stretched his hand to help her up too.
An awkward silence ensued. “After the deputy burgomaster was killed yesterday, the SS and the Polizei are all over. The Germans more savage than ever. Sorry, I had nowhere to go.”
“Who killed him?” Natasha asked, though according to the rumors that spread through the city, some adhered to the opinion partisans condemned him to death for his collaboration with the Nazis while others argued Jews did it out for revenge. But this was nonsense since no Jews were left within and around the city.
He left her question without answer. “When is your aunt back?”
“I don’t know. She may not even return home before going to her night shift in the hospital.”
“I have a question to ask,” he uttered as though not sure if he should bother her with what he wanted to say.
“Ask,” she said, taking in the dark circles around his lovely brown eyes, his filthy looking attire. “Ask,” she repeated, sensing his hesitancy.
“What do you think of the Germans?”
“The same as others think.”
“There are some who embraced the new power with unbridled enthusiasm.”
“Ah, these, you mean Polizei. Do you remember Anton from my workshop? Kanankov?”
Sergey Vladimirovich broke eye contact. “No. I don’t recall the name. Perhaps he wasn’t a Komsomol member.”
“He was, but he betrayed it to become one of them.”
“And not only him then.”
“Let’s cut to the chase, Serezha.” She felt heat stealing into her face, and she hurried to correct
