Hahn pulled a key from the pocket of his britches and opened one of the two inner doors. No different from what Natasha would call a standard room—furnished with a bed and a sofa, a table with a chair and a massive wardrobe with a tarnished mirror—it astounded her with its perfect order and cleanness. Was it the landlady who deserved the credit or was it Herr Hahn who demanded impeccable neatness?
In no time, the hostess’s silhouette appeared behind the window. Taking her by surprise, Hahn pulled Natasha to him yet instantly broke away as soon as the hostess banged the shutter closed. He stepped to a small table with a brown leather box on it, which appeared to be a gramophone, then turned his head to her. “Do you like music?” he asked in Russian with some ridiculous accent, surprising her greatly.
“Music? What music? But of course, I like it.”
“I can offer you Strauss if you like waltzes. Or Tchaikovsky if you prefer your Russian composers. Or Hitler’s favorite, Richard Wagner.”
Natasha shrugged. “Tchaikovsky maybe?”
“Wrong, my dear lady, we’ll listen to Wagner.” Leaning to her ear, he whispered, “The hostess is a nosy old woman and in this case what we need is The Valkyrie.”
Heavy, raucous, disturbing sounds more like sharp scratching with a spoon on an aluminum pot assaulted Natasha’s ear. Again, he took her by surprise when he grabbed her shoulders. What is he about to do? For an instant, she suspected he would kiss her, and the thought made her shrink. Her heart pumping loudly, she could no longer hear so much of the music, only felt a dry nervousness in her mouth.
He shifted his face closer to hers. “Let’s start our first performance for the nosy-thing.”
She bit her lower lip, uncertain what to do next. The moment the dragging steps behind the door suggested the woman approaching, he flung her on his lap.
The hostess pushed her way in without a knock, balancing a tray with steaming coffee cups in her hands.
“Frau Dobrova, didn’t I ask you to knock before entering?” The threat of warning in his voice was not hard to miss.
The woman became red as a beet. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I have my hands full.”
With a slight move of his head, he sent her away and got up to turn the key in the door. “Please.” He offered Natasha one cup then, after picking up another one, positioned himself on the opposite corner of the sofa.
She took a sniff of the thick, brown substance then slurped at it but did not enjoy it. Like castor oil.
Before drinking his coffee, he dipped his hand between the seating cushions, fished out a tiny round capsule with yellow-blue-red markings, unscrewed its cap, and dropped something into his mouth. In no time, he became more animated. “I have some sweets for you.” His mouth curved into a smile as he pulled a bar of chocolate from his briefcase.
Natasha took it with an inner shudder of gratitude and, after breaking off a tiny piece and savoring it while holding it against the roof of her mouth so it melted slowly, raised her eyes to him. She was surprised by how vague her feelings toward this man were. Not at all handsome, there was some gentleness in his face and his manners and, despite her prejudice against him, she resolved to endure her role for a good cause.
“As soon as the music stops, please start making noises.”
“Noises?” She smirked.
“Yes, that nosy creature must think we are making love.”
“But why noises? We usually make no noises when we—” She giggled.
“I know why. Your people live in communal apartments or share a house with relatives.”
The music stopped, only the hissing of the record still coming from the gramophone. Natasha forced herself to shriek, “Oh, please no!” Hahn pinched her forearm, as though urging her to produce another scream. Natasha got it. Between his pretended loud grunting and groaning and her screaming, “Yes, yes!” he whispered into her ear, “This is to pass on.” He pushed into her hand a similar capsule marked Pervitin.
“What am I supposed to—”
“Not my business.” He cut her short. “I can only say the information is critical.”
39
Ulya
March 1942
Every day was exactly the same as the day that had gone before. Each morning met Ulya with a mound of paperwork on her desk. She kept translating the endless orders and directives of the German Authority into Russian and reports from the Civil administration for the Germans, but also the leaflets for the population, which she then would find posted everywhere. The early birds, before the leaflets would be ripped off, could see them stamped with words like “Death to German occupiers!” The Underground in action.
The information she gathered was overwhelming. She no more trusted her memory and, despite a great risk, switched to photographing documents with the small camera hidden in the cigarette lighter. The crevice above the doorpost in the toilet room provided enough space to hide the valuable roll of film.
Occasionally, while handing her an especially thick bunch of papers, Klimko would say with fake politeness, “I wonder if you could ever get through all that by six.” Sometimes, adding, “Do you need a hand?” To which one day she asked him if he was not satisfied with her work. His face twisted with what she read as annoyance and next morning, he brought a young woman with him. “Nina taught German in the school. She’ll help you.” Without waiting for Ulya’s reaction, he walked out. Nina turned out to be a nice woman who could not type.
All other women Klimko sent to her occasionally, Ulya rejected on the pretext that one made many mistakes while typing, the other one was too slow, the next one seemed to state her skills only to get a ration card and begged Ulya not to report her to Klimko. But Ulya did. Such cases, considered a ruse for gaining personal benefits, were dealt with by execution. To
