53
End of January 1944
In the Only For German Soldiers Cinema, on the screen, the newsreel washed over her without taking her in. In the background of a bravura marsh, German troops arrived in Budapest . . . the brave German soldiers repulsed the Soviet attack in Pripet marshes and continued their offensive toward victory in Russia . . . happy faces . . . mouth harmonica playing . . .
As though it was the most natural thing to do, Ewald placed his arm over her shoulder and, turning her head slightly to him, kissed her mouth. She was carried away by her own eager response to the touch of his lips.
When gallows, rows of them, filled the screen, the camera zooming in on the lifeless bodies with cardboards dangling from their necks reading “For helping partisans” “Communist” “Saboteur”, he leaned to Ulya and whispered into her ear, “I can’t hold it any longer. Let’s go out and watch the sunset.”
Was he as appalled by what was unfolding on the screen as was she? Or was it something else that prompted him to get to his feet without waiting for her reaction?
They headed to the exit and, both in unison heaving a sigh of relief, stepped into the surprisingly mild late January evening. A quiet, twilight peacefulness hung over the destroyed city. “Splendid, isn’t it?” In his eyes, she could see a warm attraction, nothing like passion or desire. Most likely a pleasure to have a human being at his side after years living under the pressure of fear and brutality. “Hungry?”
“Famished,” she admitted.
“I have something to entertain you with but no strudel, I’m sorry.”
Silently, she followed him up along Suvorov Street to a solid five-story house, a rare sight of a structure intact, surrounded on all sides by destruction.
The apartment he occupied had two high-ceilinged rooms separated by a broad corridor. He disappeared in what she realized might be a kitchen, leaving her in a warm, welcoming, nicely furnished world. She took a chair at the table and looked around, her eyes lingering on the military style bed. Soon, he returned with sandwiches of salami and cheese on a big plate.
“That smells delicious,” she said, and, sending to hell all the good manners Herr Wagner taught her, stretched her hand to grab one of them.
He watched her munch without touching a piece himself.
“You? Not hungry?” She pushed the plate with two remaining sandwiches across the table.
He shook his head. “I love watching you eat. You know, since I laid eyes on you, I felt driven to feed you.” After a long pause, he added, “And to protect you. Not that I can shield you from this goddamned war, but at least I can be sure you are well-fed.” His soft, trusting gaze nearly gutted her.
Caring and sweet. Had she had it before? Vati. Her Vati. The memory brought pain—she’d had no news from him since June 1941. How was he? She shook off the aching memories. Only the hope he was safer behind the Urals was a relative relief.
“Let’s drink champagne but first, let me feed the stove.” Soon, logs burned in the hearth, and she felt the warmth of the flames. “I love these Russian stoves,” he said and took a bottle from a cupboard. He uncorked it and poured two glasses of the bubbly, yellowish liquid. She was conscious of his hand touching hers as he passed the glass over. Lifting his and clinking with hers, he toasted, “To the rapid end of this senseless war and the beginning of a new life.”
“Yes, for your new life. You’ll marry your Annchen and have many sons. I wish you happiness from the bottom of my heart.” The sensation from her own words felt no more than a touch of sadness.
For some time, they sipped champagne in silence.
“A new life for us.” He touched her hand, the stroke of his fingers almost unbearable in its tenderness, then poured her another glass.
Spellbound, she enjoyed the prickly drink. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the lingering taste, overwhelmed by the surfeit of pleasure from the meal and champagne and from the faint light that twinkled in the depths of his kind eyes, beckoning her irresistibly. The warmth of the room and the effect of the alcohol seeped into her muscles, loosening and soothing them, and her head felt dizzy. Suddenly, as if a merciless hand lifted a veil of her subconscious expectation for something beautiful between them, she shuddered. A feeling akin to a premonition like a snake sneaked into her heart, whispering into her mind that sooner or later, he’d leave her or would be killed. Back in control, she said, trying to keep her voice quiet, “Ewald, I have to go home.” She got up and, stumbling on the first step, grabbed him by the arm.
“I’ll help you to the bed.” The closeness of his lips to her ear made her knees grow weak even more.
“No!” she said, realizing it wasn’t what she wanted to say and let him set her on the edge of the bed and lean down to slip off her boots. It was all new to her and all wrong. Very wrong, she thought.
Her lids struggled to stay open. In vain. When she opened her eyes after a short nap, she found herself in bed and him lying beside her and staring into her face.
When he touched her back, his hand brushing along the spine, her body lit up like . . . There was a tingling in the pit of her stomach. What was it? She had nothing to compare it with. Pressing her legs together in an unsuccessful attempt to stop her body from trembling and, admitting to herself she was standing on thin ice and it was about to crack, she attempted to get up.
