"That's a better explanation that I've come up with," Mikhail said. "What's the third verse?"
"The horde is vast, Boundaries removed. Evil strengthened, Power consumes."
Jakob picked up another twig, bending this one around and through the first. "To me, it's referencing the German Army, which would definitely be considered vast. Hitler has removed all European boundaries, and it's fueled with evil and corruption."
"Here's the last verse," Aleksandra said. "The secret held close, Hate devours. Time grows near, The submissives' last hour." She shook her head. "The secret, hate, and time parts, I understand." She glanced at Jakob. "What would the submissives be?"
Natalya leaned forward. "What was the title again?"
"Two by two"
Her eyes narrowed in thought, her finger tapping a rhythm on her knee. "What if it isn't just a poem? What if there's a hidden message as well, and the title tells us how to decrypt it?"
"Two by two..." Mikhail thought aloud. "Two words, two lines, every other word?"
Aleksandra stared at the page, her smile slowly widening. "What if it means the second word?"
Jakob met her gaze. "And, every other line."
She nodded. "I'll read only those words. Nightmare, horde, grows, hiding, horde, strengthened, secret, grows." With a quick head shake, she scowled. "Still makes no sense."
Jakob pulled out a pen from one of his bag's side pockets then grabbed the paper from her hand. She leaned over and watched as he wrote the words down underneath the poem. He rolled the tip between his fingers a few times before adding punctuation. "How's this? Nightmare horde grows—hiding. Maybe it could mean in the forest? Next, horde strengthened—secret grows."
"Maybe the army is secret and strengthens with time?" Aleksandra suggested. "Or, we're running out of time because they're preparing for an attack."
"Either way," Natalya said. "If someone is sending this as a warning, our side is in trouble." She held out her hand, and Aleksandra handed her the paper, watching the play of emotions on her friend's face as she studied the poem. "Whoever wrote this has beautiful penmanship. I'm no professional, but the large flourish reminds me of a man's handwriting."
She gave the poem back to Aleksandra. Tracing the letters with her finger, she agreed. The writing held an assuredness. There was a certain virility about it. "That still gets us no closer to figuring out who wrote it or why warn us?" She met Natalya's gaze, her own eyes widening as a single thought flitted through her mind. What if the person somehow knew who they were and what they were about?
Unfortunately, you may be correct in that thought, young one. Freyja's voice whispered through her mind. She jerked, not used to having someone talk to her like that. When she and Jakob mentally conversed earlier, she had reconciled it as a fluke—her severe distress.
How am I hearing you? she asked with a quick glance at Natalya and Mikhail, who were both staring at each other. Are they talking like this, too?
Yes, they can hear me. Think of it as a magical telephone conversation. It's a perk for being...well, me.
You need to work on your humility, Natalya chimed in. Aleksandra heard the laughter in her tone and grinned.
Goddesses don't have humility, little warrior. It's what makes us, us. Now, tell me about the poem.
We believe it's some kind of warning, Mikhail answered. He leaned forward and kissed Natalya's cheek, pressing his mouth close to her ear, as if he whispered something. Aleksandra hoped he was pretending to whisper and that he was trying to cover their strange conversation to keep Jakob from wondering why they had stopped talking.
I'm afraid I need to split up your little group. Natalya and Mikhail, I have asked a few of my friends to divert Hitler's attention and will need you to help it along. You will both go to Vinnytsia where Hitler has moved his headquarters and convince him he must abandon Kursk and rescue Mussolini. Thanks to my friends, the Italian dictator has backed himself into a corner, which is exactly where we want him to be. The Red Army has overrun the German troops, but Hitler is not allowing them a place to fall back to and hold, but rather he insists on preventing a retreat. He created his East Wall, better known as the Panther-Wotan Line, for this very thing.
What should Jakob and I do? Aleksandra asked. I assume you mean for us to stay together since he's here with us now.
You are correct, Aleksandra. He has his own talents and, from what I've seen from one possible future event, you will need him—and he, you if you are both to survive. You have already caught a glimpse of his rage. Don't try to alleviate it—use it. It is one of the strongest human emotions, and he uses it well. Rage keeps him alive. It will keep you alive, too. To me, there is one word in the poem that stands out. Submissives. The two of you will go to Vilna and help those being persecuted. If you succeed, many people will be saved, and the camp's horrors will become known.
Aleksandra exhaled, unsure she was cut out for this kind of work. She wasn't strong like Natalya, and deep down, wondered if Freyja had made a mistake when she'd chosen her.
No, young one. There was no error in my choice. You have yet to discover your own strength and abilities. You are as strong as Natalya, just differently. Believe in yourself.
"What's going on with the three of you? Why do I feel left out?" Jakob asked. Using the boot of his heel, he kicked dirt onto the fire until the flames were extinguished.
Aleksandra choked. Covering her mouth with one hand, she coughed several times, trying to cover up her surprise while Jakob unceremoniously slapped her back.
"I think we need to split up." Without a hitch, Mikhail eased into Freyja's plan, so Jakob wouldn't be any more suspicious than he already was. “Natalya and I will head south and scout around the führerhauptquartier at Vinnytsia and see if we can discover something new. There have been rumors for a while now about some kind of camp north of here."
"You're talking about Vilna, aren't you?" Jakob asked, his easy expression replaced by his familiar harshness. The one where his face looked as if it had been chiseled from granite. She couldn't help it, though, there was something about this man. Every minute she spent in the mysterious Jakob's company, the more she found herself liking him. It was both disturbing and exhilarating.
Aleksandra didn't understand why he'd closed himself off, nor why Freyja wanted them to go to this place. "What's at Vilna?" Her gaze moved around their tight circle. "What kind of camp is it?"
Jakob stood. Picking up his bag, he slung it over his shoulder, followed by the strap of his rifle, his hazel eyes dropping to hers. "Some things are better understood when they are seen firsthand instead of trying to explain them."
He readjusted the weight, shifting to get everything in the right spot, then glanced at Mikhail, who now stood as well. "What are we supposed to do once we get there? You know as well as I do, there isn't much one or two people can do against a German encampment."
"Observe them. If you can get close to the ghetto, do so. Just be careful. Bernard told me the Jews there have created a united partisan organization against the Germans. I believe he said they call themselves the Fareynikte Partizaner Organizatsye, or FPO for short. Try to make contact with their leader and get as much inside information you can—anything we can use to help liberate them. You know as well as I, the camps are guarded by the SS—their Death’s Head Division. These men are ruthless and the best of the best. Stay out of their crosshairs. If the Nazis follow their previous plan of action, they will continue to liquidate these camps." Mikhail gripped Jakob's shoulder hard enough for Aleksandra to see the knuckles turn white from the pressure.
"We can't let that happen, my friend. We can't. You know as well as I that the stakes are too high and simply unacceptable. Do this for both our families," Mikhail said, his voice low and charged with an emotion she hadn't heard from him before.
She glanced between the two men, a frown furrowing her brow as an unsettled, fearful, sensation crawled through her.
What in the hell was she getting herse
lf into?
10
Jakob trudged along with Aleksandra by his side. The four of them had walked for hours last night before finally settling down to get some sleep. It had been the first night of uninterrupted rest he'd gotten in the past week. This morning, though, the group split up, Mikhail and Natalya heading off toward Kursk.
He'd been surprised at Aleksandra's ability to keep up with him. At the onset, he made a bet with himself she wouldn't be able to keep his fast pace. He had also expected her to start complaining about something after the first five or so hours of walking. Instead, she stayed silent, which was a bit disconcerting. All the women he'd known loved to talk. He'd lost the bet.
With the countryside's silence pounding at him, he cleared his throat, trying to think of something to say. Anything at all, but his mind was blank. Rolling his eyes, he gave a slight shake of his head in disgust. His mother would be so unhappy with him about now. Nothing he'd done since leaving Berlin had been positive.
Aleksandra intrigued him though. There was something about her he couldn't quite put his finger on. Since her disappearance, all he could think about was witches and magic. They, of course, didn't exist, so there had to be a rational and logical explanation for what he'd seen. Maybe he'd blacked out and wasn't remembering it correctly? That thought almost made him laugh. He would have known if he'd blacked out. And whoever heard of someone blacking out and remaining standing?
"Jakob, are we going to walk to Vilna?"
There it was. The question he'd dreaded. Now the floodgates would open and all she would do was complain. Just like a woman. He kept his gaze on the rutted road, occasionally dodging a mortar hole or the deeper ruts that could trip him up if he wasn't careful. Looking clumsy wasn't something he tried to do or wanted to do in front of her.
"Can't keep up?" He didn't bother to keep the patronizing tone from his voice.
"No, it's not that. I need to know, so I can put on a second pair of socks and avoid painful blisters. Nothing worse than trying to walk when your feet hurt."
He jerked to a stop and stared at her. "You are nothing like the women I know."
With laughter in her eyes, she pinched her lips together. "Thank you—I think."
He chuckled and continued walking. "Oh, it's definitely a good thing. Most of the females I've known talk a man's ear off about everything and nothing all at the same time. I've also heard a lot of complaining. My father used to say never invite a woman if there's exercise involved. It's easier that way."
"Oh, I don't know. I hiked with my father in the mountains all the time. There wasn't much talking, unless he was showing me the different trees and plants. Birds, too. He loved bird watching. He also taught me to fish. Not small stream or lake fishing but out in the ocean. I love being on the water almost as much as I love flying."
"You're really a pilot?"
She nodded. "I was in the 588th Night Bomber Squadron until my crash. I miss it."
He let out a low whistle. "I'd heard of them even before meeting Natalya. The Germans nicknamed you Night Witches, right?"
"They did, and we consider it an honor to have such a name. I loved what I did, as did Natalya."
They walked in silence until they came to a crossroads. The small town of Sychkovo wasn't too far, and he decided it might be a good idea to see if they could find transportation at least to Minsk. He turned left, hearing Aleksandra's soft footfalls in sync with his.
"You've never mentioned your family before. Where did you grow up?"
His mouth went dry and his heartbeat increased. She didn't know him well enough and had no idea he never talked about his family. Ever.
"I'm sorry. If you don't want to talk about it, I understand. The war has made all of us touchy."
Despite his brain screaming at him not to say a word, he found he wanted to tell her—at least a little. "That's okay. I usually don't discuss my past. You're right, though. Since the war began, I've discovered it's not only easier to not say anything but safer as well. If people don't know your background, you stay unnoticed." He inhaled. The fresh breeze soothed some of the inner turmoil caused by thinking about his parents. The hint of moisture hung in the air, but he also smelled the surrounding pines, which was a tangy scent he loved.
"I was born and raised in Berlin."
She gave him a funny look. "You don't look German to me."
Keeping a straight face, he said, "What's a German supposed to look like?"
"Every race has distinctive features. In Russia, my family kept a low profile since there’s no love lost between the Russians and Japanese. After the government began to move away from the prescribed Russification, my parents thought minority cultures would begin to come back, but Stalin changed all that when he began deporting minorities to Siberia for supposed collaboration with Germany. Russian propaganda is everywhere. They depict Germans as blue-eyed with blond hair. I know not everyone could have the same hair and eye color, so it's nice you don't."
"You don't look Russian."
"I suppose not. My mother was Japanese and my father, Russian. They met in a small village in eastern Russia. You've probably never heard of it. Vladivostok."
"Why wouldn't I have heard of it? It was the staging point for the Allies' Siberian intervention, wasn't it? A multinational force including Japan, China, and the United States in the late 1920s against Russia?
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "You know your history."
"I was attending university to become a history professor. The war ended that dream."
"The fighting won't last forever. You can finish school after the war."
He let the statement go. It wasn't worth the breath to explain to her the conflict would never be over for him until his parents were safe. "Tell me more about your family. Do you have siblings?"
"One older brother, although I haven't seen him since I was fifteen. My parents believed he left to attend university in Moscow, but I never did. I think he joined the army."
"The Red Army?"
She shook her head, her gaze traveling away from him, focusing on the tree line to their right. "No. I think he returned to Japan."
"The Japanese have their hands full on all fronts right now in their fight against the United States, Britain, and China."
She grabbed his arm, forcing him to a stop in the middle of the road. "I was told the Japanese bombed Hawaii, but have you heard anything about the Japanese navy? Anything at all?"
He frowned. "They didn't just bomb Pearl Harbor, they all but devastated it. The Japanese declared war in a huge show of air and naval power. From reports, I know Japan's aircraft carriers are top-notch, rivaling America's. Of course, they sunk a good majority of the American battleship with all but two repaired and returned to service. Luckily, their three carriers were at sea, but the loss of more than three hundred and fifty airplanes was devastating to the Americans as well."
A bewildered expression on her face, she reminded him of shell-shocked soldiers. "I can't believe he did it."
"Who did what?"
His question seemed to shake her out of her stupor, and she dropped her hand. "My cousin, sort of. It is an old samurai tradition to adopt a boy to carry on the family name if a man only has daughters. My uncle adopted Yamamoto Isoroku, who is now commander-in-chief of Japan's Combined Fleet. I grew up knowing him as family—my favorite cousin actually." A soft smile appeared, erasing the stress from a few moments ago. "When I was very little, I followed him everywhere. Remind me later to show you the picture he painted for me. I have it with me always."
He stared at her in wonder. "The commander-in-chief of Japan's Combined Fleet was your cousin?"
"Yes. Small world, isn't it?" She hesitated. "Wait...you said 'was'... the commander-in-chief of Japan's Combined Fleet was my cousin."
He nodded. “We've been able to intercept reports here and there regarding the war in the Pacific. All I know is Yamamoto's aircraft, a T1-323 was shot down by an American P-38 over the island of Bougain
ville sometime in mid-April." He laid his hand on her arm and gave it a tender squeeze. Seeing the tears pooling in her eyes, he wished he'd never said a word. "I'm so sorry, Aleksandra. I thought you knew."
She shook her head. "We never heard anything about Japan or any other country not directly involved in our fight." She tried to smile, evidently trying to recapture some of her lightheartedness moments ago. "I'm so grateful I got to talk to him one last time."
"Are your parents still in Vladivostok?" he asked, changing the subject.
Her shoulders drooped a little more. "No," she whispered. "My parents died in a house fire. The police investigated, of course, but couldn't find any answers."
"Again, I'm very sorry, Aleksandra."
"Thank you."
They walked in silence for another twenty minutes or so before she cleared her throat. "You mentioned growing up in Berlin. Do your parents still live there?"
The low rumbling of an engine came up behind them. Turning, he held up his arms and waved the vehicle to a stop, praying whoever was driving was going to Minsk. He walked to the driver's door and greeted the man in Russian.
"My woman and I have been walking for hours now and would appreciate a lift. How far are you going?"
"I'm picking up a delivery in Minsk," the man said.
Jakob studied the driver. The man seemed worn, although with the bushy mustache and beard, it was a bit hard to tell. His clothing was old but clean, the elbows of his worn jacket patched with a different color denim. "I don't have much, but I can pay you for your trouble. We don't mind riding in the back and enjoying the nice day." The man agreed and Jakob breathed a sigh of relief. He'd walked so many miles in the past week, his feet ached, but he wasn't about to admit that to Aleksandra.
They moved to the back of the pickup. With his hands spanning her waist, he ignored the way his heart fluttered in his chest and lifted her into the straw-covered bed then jumped up to sit beside her. With a hard jolt, the vehicle started moving, and he could have sworn the tires bounced over every rut in the road.
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