“Good evening, my name is—”
“German—” the woman chopped her off, the last word hissed in Byelorussian, most likely a curse. The words and the fierce glare from her hushed Ulya into silence, and she never finished what she was about to say. The disgust written on the woman’s face produced a little shiver up Ulya’s spine. It was hard at times to close herself off from emotions, especially in cases like this, to keep to her role in the double game she played.
It was a sinister feeling being in the wolf’s lair, her every step watched—as though being hunted while being a hunter as well. How could she describe the sensation? Exciting and terrifying at the same time. Terrifying because for weeks, she’d had no contact with the Underground. Her attempt to inform them of Nathan’s fate had proved futile. The day after his execution, she’d gone to the news kiosk with her message “Nathan killed in SD jail. Requesting a contact. Hunter” in invisible ink only to find the place in mangled pieces of metallic rubble, burned boards still smoldering.
For months, she was left to her own devices. In any case, gathering information sitting in the same room with Hammerer’s adjutant, an unemotional and fanatical in terms of his duty, Unterscharführer Wulff proved complicated. Impossible. If she’d first thought her employment by SD would give her first-hand knowledge into the inner workings of the intelligence agency, she had been mistaken. All papers changed hands from Hammerer to his adjutant and back. Her days consisted mainly of translating some official directives to be passed on to the local civil administration but never information of intelligence or of military importance.
What was her position? Not even a secretary: Hammerer’s adjutant prepared their superior’s day calendar so Ulya seldom knew where he was heading or when he’d be back to the quarters. Wulff even emptied Hammerer’s ashtray. Ulya had learnt to enter Hammerer’s office only with his permission and only when his adjutant was in the waiting room.
Most talk with his colleagues Hammerer held behind the closed doors, yet sometimes, before it was shut, she would catch tidbits of phrases that would have provided useful clues for the Underground if she had contact. Nevertheless, back at her flat, she made notes of what she overheard and hid them in the many crevices under the kitchen windowsill.
Her expectation that Nathan must have left some instructions in case of his arrest or death still did not materialize. She had to find a way to restore the connection and, after careful consideration, resolved to try the older place on Nikolskaya Street.
One day, after Hammerer let her leave the office, she hastened to her apartment, slipped from her elegant working two-piece attire—a dark blue skirt and jacket with a starched long-sleeved white blouse, the clothing intended for her planned mission in Germany—and changed into pants and a baggy man’s jacket that made her look as drab as other civilians on the streets, sticking to the basic rule of reconnaissance: You see everything, but nobody sees you. As she examined herself in the mirror, she blinked. She must have been born a boy. Broad-shouldered and her hair under the cap—by this time short, her plaits long gone—no one would suspect there was not a boy underneath. She left the house and headed to the outskirts of the city.
Hardly was she two blocks away, when a car honked and stopped meters ahead of her.
“Fräulein Kriegshammer?” Hammerer’s voice brought a wave of terror to her chest. He waived his hand through the open window, inviting her into the car. “I’m not used to seeing you dressed like—”
“A man,” she interjected. “It gives me a sense of security. You know what I mean.”
He opened the car door and nodded in understanding. “Yet I would suggest you not walk around the city after curfew. Even with your Ausweis. As you probably know, the city is infested with partisans. Or maybe it’s what you want? To encounter them?” His lips twisted into a cynical smile.
“Do they still roam the city streets?” She allowed herself a smirk.
“And? Where were you heading, if I may ask?”
“I thought I needed to update my wardrobe. And since I still have some things left in the house I occupied before you offered my move . . .” It was too late. She’d created a trap for herself. Why hadn’t she given him another explanation? To breathe fresh air, for instance. To—Stupid. What else could she do in the occupied city close to curfew hour?
“In this case, I’ll be more than happy to drive you there.”
“Oh, no, no, Herr Hammerer. I don’t dare to ask you for such a favor.”
“You did not ask. I offered it myself. You are too valuable an employee for me to risk losing you to the members of the Underground or our own soldiers. Nikolskaya,” he said to the driver.
After twenty minutes at most, the street came into view. More huts burnt to extinction. “That one on the hill,” Ulya addressed the driver.
By the look of it, the padlock seemed intact, the house most likely saved from intrusion by her status of working for Germans.
“It won’t take much time.” While in the car, she knew she wouldn’t have access to the hiding place, but at least she had an idea of how to divert Hammerer from his suspicions, if he had any.
He climbed after her from the car and stretched, turning his head around, taking deep lungful breaths. “So peaceful. Just like around my cottage near Dresden.”
As she unlocked the door and took a few steps into the house, she had a feeling as if somebody had disturbed it with their presence. Ulya glanced around and saw all the precautionary measures
