At last! Natasha buried her face in his padded, campfire smelling jacket.
He wrapped his arms around her midriff and whispered into her ear, “Natasha, you must get involved with that officer you met. His name is Friedrich Hahn.”
She recoiled and shook her head slowly, fighting back tears. He did not have feelings for her. He just wanted to use her to achieve his goals. “What do you mean? How involved?” She felt resentment and bitterness flood her.
“Natasha, Natasha.” He grabbed her hands again. “No way would I ask you to—We need you both pretending. It’s for others to think you have a relationship. Hahn is our access to important information. He will pass it to us. Through you. We’ll assign a liaison who’ll come to pick up the intelligence.”
“Not you?”
“Not always.”
At the uneasiness in his voice, her breath caught in her throat.
“But we’ll see each other again, Natasha.”
With her heart returning to its usual rate, she braved to ask, “Why would the Nazi help you?”
“He has no choice. Otherwise his pranks, which are considered a crime in the Third Reich, are punishable by concentration camp. Or death.”
“And what is this crime? And how did you learn of it?” She should know before she agreed to step in this murky water, she thought. To blot her reputation? Just the thought of being seen with a fascist nauseated her.
“He . . .” Serezha looked aside. “He has relationships with men. We learned of it when Deniska, our liaison, reported his solicitation.”
“Pfui, how disgusting!”
“It took us some time to get proof of his . . . peculiarity. Presenting certain pictures to him was intimidating enough for him to accept our offer of cooperation.”
“How do I approach him?”
“Do you know Nadezhda Konstantinovna Petrovskaya?”
“Petrovskaya? From the theater?”
“Yes. She is your gate to get to our Nazi. From time to time, she hosts parties for the Commandantur officers, and you are invited too, on Saturday. Hahn will be there. At some point, he’ll say to you, ‘You are a beautiful girl. How is it possible no other officer swiped you away?’ This is proof for you he is ready for contact. Your answer is, ‘I don’t like gatherings.’”
She inclined her head in compliance and, on instinct, looked at her hands, which bore traces of lubricating oil and the dirt lined under her nails. Her cheeks burning, she attempted to conceal them in the pockets of her cardigan and winced in surprise when Serezha reached out and caught one of her hands in his. “It’s nothing, nothing. You still have three days to . . . prepare yourself for the mission. Be at Petrovskaya at eight in the evening.”
When, in the morning, he left, she felt the immense longing to touch his face, to gaze into his eyes, to hear his voice. Again. And again. And again.
37
Ulya
February 1942
Ulya’s cigarette dispatches disappeared from the toilet room with remarkable regularity, undeniable evidence that Nathan had his people in the Council. It gave her a feeling of “I’m not alone among these wolves.” But who was that man? Or was it the cleaning woman, the middle-aged, grave-faced female who, never looking up at Ulya, brushed past with her bucket and mop?
By now, Ulya had learnt to pretend to smoke and hated it, but it helped with her eavesdropping. What else would give her a credible reason to open her window time and again when behind it some days was up to minus thirty? To her relief, the “window-radio” worked in any weather without disruption.
Today, she recognized Kanankov speaking. “What reason was there for killing the old men?”
“Not of our concern to see a reason,” Zhdanok retorted.
Kanankov cleared his voice. “Our own people hate us more than Germans.”
“What of it? We serve the new masters well, and they reward us well.”
“Yes, because we carry out their orders, even if those orders are—” Kanankov’s voice was now laced with contempt.
“Tripe! Stop whining. Just carry out the superiors’ instructions without questioning the reason.”
The acrid smoke from their cigarettes flew into the room through the split open window. Ulya lit up one of her own and drew on it without inhaling, recalling a queasy feeling as she’d tried the first time.
“But burning people in their houses? Our people!” Kanankov wouldn’t let up, his voice tainted with anger.
“Our people are now the Germans.”
Can one be blamed for the natural instinct to survive at any cost, even at the cost of others? The questionable idea ran through Ulya’s mind, interrupted by Zhdanok’s voice outside the window. “Besides, such actions scare the rest. Let them think twice before helping partisans.”
“How would you feel if those were your family burned alive?”
“My family has nothing to do with the forest bandits. By the way, do you know what the Germans pay the best for?” After a long silence, he continued, “For infiltrating partisan units. There is a special school where the volunteers are trained. Smirnyuk told me, his brother got a big plot of land attached to his house after he returned from the partisans. Whatever was left of them after the Germans sent their Jaegers—huntsmen. The other one who carried the assignment with him got . . .” Their voices grew fainter but were soon audible again.
“I’m aware of it.” Kanankov’s voice again. “That’s not their only trick. After training, they send a group into a village disguised as partisans and after eating and drinking with the inhabitants, pointed out the ones who gave them a warm welcome.”
“What idiots these country bumpkins are!” Zhdanok guffawed. “Ingenious. I admire Germans.”
The sound of someone walking along the corridor made Ulya freeze. The steps seemed to stop at her door. Trying not to make a noise, she closed the window, and in two strides was at the shelf and placed her hand on the stack of empty files. The steps resumed and soon the clattering of hobnail boots died in the distance.
Returning her mind to the conversation she’d just heard, she noted to herself that
