He lifted his head and the next moment, she saw him cramming bread into his mouth. “Sorry,” he mumbled and, after swallowing, said, “And you?”
“You eat. I have enough at the canteen when Krieger has his shift, as today. He spoils us a bit. From the other one, we call him Fat Dickhead, none of us could get dirt.” She poured hot water into faceted thick-wall glasses and stirred. “Here, tea.” She pushed it his way.
He lifted the glass to his nostrils and sniffed. “Smells like black currant leaves.”
“Yes. With a bit of mint. We saved plenty.”
Without uttering a word, they drank the aroma infused hot water. “More?” she ventured to break an awkward silence.
“Enough for me. Thank you, Natasha.” He turned his gaze away. “Let me sleep here, at the stove.”
“Yes, of course, Serezha, of course, but the stove cools out in no time, you’ll freeze in the kitchen. Together, it’ll be warmer.” Her body tensed deep inside. “My aunt and I, we sleep together when she doesn’t have her night shift.” She got up and went to the other room, leaving the door open. Without undressing, she slipped under the padded blanket and lay sidelong.
A minute or two passed, perhaps longer, till he joined her.
Hot all over, she tried to throttle the thudding of her heart. They lay so for a long time. Unmoved. Only the barest contact.
“Serezha.” She brushed his shoulder with her hand, just a slightest touch. “Do you know how to love somebody?”
“You mean physically?” The line of his beautiful mouth tightened.
“Serezha. I love you.”
His eyebrows flickered a little.
She thought she understood his silence and hesitated for a moment, watching him. Her mind told her to take the initiative and she moved closer, impelled by her own passion.
With a little push of her hand, she prodded him to get on his back and unbuttoned his padded jacket then his trousers. He closed his eyes and seemed to hold his breath.
Trying to control her trembling fingers, she pulled up her skirt and freed herself from the woolen underpants and the stockings. It took her a bit of time to encourage him with soft strokes before she could mount him, conscious of where his warm flesh touched hers. He gasped and, with his eyes still shut, let her bring him to the moment when his body squirmed beneath her.
She dropped her chin on his chest and had no desire to back out. His touch on the top of her head was oddly soft.
It was not how she imagined this in her heated musings about him. It was so different from all her experience, but she melted in him. For the first time in her life, she felt trust for a man. As though he could save her from the cruel world behind the walls of her defenseless hut.
She slept so deeply only the alarm clock woke her at half past six and she stretched, enjoying a warm glow that flooded her inside till the reality struck: she had an assignment to carry out. “Serezha?” Silence was the answer. Only from the street, the noise of trucks and motorcycles driving by was audible. She jumped from the bed.
At six fifty, Natasha left the house. She needed about three minutes to reach Liberty Square. From afar, she noticed the shoe polisher stand was empty but did not put another thought to it and hurried to the newspaper stand. “Give me New Way,” she said.
“That’s truly a new way,” the seller, an ageing man of about fifty, mumbled, jerking his head to the right. In the distant corner of the square, several people gathered at the gallows. “Just a boy. Fourteen. Polished their boots. What kind of partisan could he be?”
Shocked, she turned away so as not to see a single puny figure swinging slightly by the gusts of wind. Gripping the pages to steady her hands and feigning interest in the front-page article, she let her eyes trace the lines of print. Punitive measures for the heinous attack by the bandits on the village . . . It’s an undisputable obligation of the population of the freed provinces to report to the German authority all the actions of the bandits who call themselves partisans, about all their hangouts, and their possible accomplices. Despite that, several villagers . . . on the contrary, they provided active assistance to the bandits . . . To punish . . . the German Command ordered 100 people to be shot, including their family members . . . Natasha took her eyes off the article when she felt somebody’s presence behind her back. She pivoted and, after a glance at the Wehrmacht-clad figure with a riding crop in his left hand beating against the seam of his freshly pressed breeches, let the newspaper drop from her hands.
The officer bent to pick it up from the ground. “Sorry I startled you.”
“Entschuldigen Sie, Herr Offizier. Ich war im Lesen vertieft.—Sorry, Herr Officer. I was immersed in the reading,” she uttered in her broken German, willing her pulse to slow.
He didn’t show any reaction at her smile—or maybe it was a grimace—and only said, “Ah, Russische Intellektuelle—Ah, Russian intellectuals,” and turned around to stroll away.
At work, time dragged, burdened with the ceaselessly circling questions in her head: Had she done all right? And what next? But most of all, when would she see Serezha again?
And how much she rejoiced when two days later, he appeared on her doorstep. “I saw your aunt go.”
“What did you say?” She was about to throw herself onto his chest but his unemotional demeanor stopped her.
“Your aunt.”
“Don’t worry, she’s on her way to the hospital.”
“I know.” A little smile appeared on his face. “You’ve done everything right with that German officer. I have a new assignment for you.”
She sensed a twitch of disappointment and dropped her lashes quickly to hide the hurt. “I’ll do what you want. What’s necessary,” she corrected herself.
“Good. I knew I was right
