A week later, as she entered the office, she found something wrapped in a snow-white napkin on her desk. “Udolph, how did it get here?”
Wulff only grinned and returned to his papers.
Without unwrapping the parcel, she knew what it was. Should she eat it? For Nathan’s daughter, she resolved and slipped the priceless gift into her handbag.
In the evening, she was not particularly surprised when she noticed her strudel-man—so she had dubbed her unexpected well-wisher—on the street as she closed the entrance door behind her.
He broke into a smile, showing a white row of perfect teeth. “Fräulein Kriegshammer, sorry I didn’t show up for several days. My responsibility kept me in Ogorodniki.” Suddenly, perhaps at the slip of information, he crimsoned, which made his otherwise pale face, most likely from the low temperature, less frozen. “In any case, I’m here and ready to supply you with more strudel.” Not getting a word from her, his glowing look faded. “But maybe you did not like it?”
“I did, Herr Demel. Very much.”
“Oh, you still remember my name,” he exclaimed with evident joy.
“I do, but I don’t recall when I’ve eaten something as delicious as your strudel.” She marveled in her lie, in hopes the girl liked the pastry.
“You see? No partisan can cook like a member of the Demel family.” He launched again into his mild pleasant laugh. “We have a cafeteria and patisserie in Vienna.”
“So, you are from Austria.”
“Yes, I’m Austrian, not these—”
Was he trying to make her drop her guard or, maybe, just loosen up himself, she speculated?
They walked on along the street, paying no attention to the heaps of snow and the demolition waste, which were pushed away from the road and the walkway by the hands of prisoners or the civilian population.
“Do you have some special sweets in Russia?” He broke the silence.
“Where I lived, on the Volga River, apple strudel was baked in almost every house. But my very favorite was the shortcake with custard and wild strawberries on top.” The nostalgia for those peaceful times and her father, their last celebration together swept over her like a wave. The familiar pull as apprehension coiled around her heart whenever her thoughts turned to her Vati.
“Ah yes, you are a Volga Deutsche.”
She glanced at him.
“Sorry, I made inquiries.” Perhaps to distract her from the unpleasant situation, he blurted, “You look like my future wife.”
“Ah, I see.”
They kept walking for a time. “Here I quarter.” Ulya pointed to the wreck of a house.
“May I be invited in for a coffee?” He colored, and there was something childish, innocent in his eyes, pleading her in his embarrassment.
“I can’t offer you coffee, but if you drink tea—”
“I do like tea. Thank you.”
Inside her cold and austere abode, not daring to take off their overcoats, they settled on the sofa, soon drinking the hot, tasteless drink she called tea.
He watched her over the brim of his cup. “Do you have a family? A husband? Children?”
She shook her head, no.
“Want to tell me more?
“No. Another time, maybe. You tell me about yourself.”
With a frown on his face, as if her inquiry reminded him of something he did not want to remember, he said, “I’m almost forty-five. Had two wives, and neither gave me a child. I wanted a son. Many sons would be even better.” The faint smile in his eyes held a touch of sadness. “But not all hope is lost. Recently, my sister met a young woman whose husband was killed on the front, and she agreed to marry me. She has a son, so I hope she’ll bear one for me too.” He took a thin stack of letters and a picture from his chest pocket. “Didn’t I tell you that you look like my Annchen? I can’t wait to meet her.”
After they peered at the picture, there was a long pause as they sat side by side, each in their own thoughts.
Ulya disturbed the silence. “I already know the name of your future wife but—”
“Oh, sorry, I’m so excited to talk to a woman who understands my language that I forgot to introduce myself in a proper manner.” For some reason, he jumped to his feet, straightened himself, smoothed his uniform jacket, and rapped out, “Ewald Demel. Heil Hitler!”
She also jumped to her feet. “Ursula Kriegshammer. Heil Hitler!”
For two beats of her heart, they both stared at each other then plopped back on the sofa and burst out laughing, Ulya, almost choking into her palm. It took her a moment to collect herself and a thought came. When was the last time she even smiled sincerely? Forget about laughing.
The clock chimed eight. He rose from the sofa. “Time.”
She got up too and saw him to the door.
Before closing it after him, he reached down to find her hand and kissed it.
Ulya returned to the sofa that still held the warmth of their bodies and felt like crying. Since the start of the war, she did not remember having any normal human encounter. This Herr Demel. Who was he? Why did she feel something unfamiliar, something she could not put a name to?
Caught in disbalance between gratefulness and suspicion, she was undecided whether she should consider his attention an honor or a trap.
51
December 1943
“What would you like to order?” A soft, shy voice.
Agnesya. It was something in the expression of the girl’s eyes that made Ulya search her face for an extra beat. “Coffee, please, and a piece of cake.”
“We also have meat and mushroom pie, potato pie, stroganoff,” and then, like a bolt from the blue, in a lower voice, “Too many wolves in the local woods,” then louder, “blini—pancakes, and all kinds of sandwiches.”
Agnesya? For a moment, Ulya was speechless, watching the girl’s eyes widen in either fear or pain. “We can get them all quickly eliminated.”
The girl’s face relaxed. “I’ll be quick with your order, Fräulein Kriegshammer.”
Agnesya. The last person she’d expected to be a contact.
After finishing her coffee and
