“Oh Lena.” He flicks open the buttons of her top, and his breath catches in his throat as he sees the smooth pinkness of her skin beneath. He bends down, kissing her eyes, her cheek, her neck, lower and lower with each touch of his lips. “I wish I could be with you forever.” He pauses, pulling back his head to look deep into her eyes. “I love you, Lena.”
With a hand on each side of his head, she pulls him into a kiss, and as his strong body pushes against hers all the worries and horrors of the war begin to dissolve as the pleasure wipes out everything else. This is what she has been dreaming about all her life—the delight of being with her prince, her Kostya.
~
In the morning, Elena wakes to find Konstantin already up. He bustles into the room carrying mess tins and a couple of chunks of bread.
“Breakfast!” he says, handing her one of the tins and perching on the edge of the bed. She takes it and looks, unimpressed, at yet another portion of stew. That’s one thing I really miss about being back home, she thinks. A proper breakfast with pancakes, maple syrup and bacon. God, I hate this war!
“Did you know,” she asks, setting her tin to one side, “that the Bolsheviks, under the leadership of Lenin, stripped Russia of its riches? They took the great works of art and treasures from our nation’s public buildings and palaces, even looting churches, to sell what they took on the international market, all so they could fill their coffers?”
He frowns, swallowing his food quickly before speaking in a harsh whisper. “Lena, you shouldn’t talk like that. I don’t know what you think you’ve heard, but if anything like that ever really happened it was no doubt done for the good of the country, for the Party.”
“Really?” says Elena, feeling irritated at this typical, close-minded way of thinking that seems so pervasive in this country. She is desperate to tell him all the things she’s been thinking about, all the concerns about the Soviet leader that have plagued her day and night. “So what about the terrorist actions carried out by Stalin? Your beloved hero bombed people to help finance the Bolsheviks, did you know that? His damaged right arm is a reminder—proof—of his part in the Bolsheviks’ terrorism!”
Konstantin jumps to his feet, his bread falling to the floor uneaten. “Lena, enough! Please do not talk about Comrade Stalin in such a way! He is the Master, the Father of Russia. Anything he did for our Party he did out of love for his people! Whatever it might have been.”
“Oh Kostya!” says Elena, shaking her head sadly. “I am sorry for you. Truly I am.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Who are you, and what have you done with Elena?” Katya stands in the doorway of the Kiev Restaurant, an amused smile on her face.
Elena looks up from the murky tub, her hair dripping with inky water. “What do you think? Definitely my color, wouldn’t you say?”
“Black? It’ll take me a while to get used to it. What on earth made you want to dye your hair now? You do realize the Germans are pushing us out of the city?”
“Of course I’m aware,” says Elena, rubbing her hair dry with a dusty sheet. “That’s why I’m going black. I need to fit in here when the Germans settle back in.”
Katya frowns, the smile quickly fading. “I don’t understand. What do you mean ‘Fit in’? Don’t tell me you’re staying here.”
Elena lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Okay, I won’t tell you.”
“No! What’s going on, Elena?”
“It’s quite simple. I’ve been asked if I will remain in Kharkov and report back to command on what the Germans are up to here and any plans I can get hold of.”
“A spy?” Katya’s mouth, which was already wide with disbelief, somehow manages to widen even more. “You’re going to spy on the Germans?”
“Of course!” says Elena, thinking back to the eagerness of her U.S. contacts when they heard that the Soviets had come to her with this request. The Russians had clearly seen something in her that the instructor back in the States had also seen—smartness, courage, and, probably most important of all, a desire to make a real difference. A shiver of excitement passes through her at the thought of what she is doing.
“And where exactly are you going to be doing your spying?”
“Right here,” she says, gesturing to the restaurant. “The Petrenko family who own this place have already been through one Nazi occupation and they’re keen to do anything they can to help us. I’m going to work for them, posing as a waitress. Don’t you see? It’s perfect! When the Nazi officers come in to dine together, loosening their tongues with beer and vodka, I’ll be right next to them, listening to their conversations.”
Katya shakes her head as though trying to clear her thoughts. “But how will you get messages out to us? We’ll be on the other side of the German defenses.”
“Come and see,” says Elena, dumping the blackened, wet cloth on a table and heading towards the rear of the restaurant. Together the two women enter the storeroom behind the kitchens, where the elderly Missus Petrenko is busy gathering supplies for the evening, and make their way down into the basement. As they do so, the sound of gunfire, which has been slowly increasing in the main restaurant, becomes muffled and distant. There, behind a stack of old crates, Elena pulls aside a pile of canvas sacks.
Katya breathes in sharply in surprise. “They gave you a cipher machine?”
“They sure did!” says Elena, pulling off the top cover to reveal the series of rotors that would enable her to send coded messages not only to the Russian command but also to her U.S. contacts. “Look at it! All this complex machinery and yet it’s fully mobile, so I can move it around the city to ensure the Germans can’t trace the signal. It’s perfect.”
Without speaking, Katya peers into the machine and runs a finger over the components inside. A look of sadness mars her usually cheerful face and, for a moment, she seems lost in her own thoughts. Suddenly she straightens up and takes a deep breath, turning to look at Elena. “So you reckon you’ve got it all covered? You’re ready for life in an occupied city?”
“Of course.”
“I’m not so sure.” Katya reaches out a hand and lifts some of Elena’s blackened hair in her fingers, an unimpressed look on her face.
“What?” Elena looks around, wondering if there’s something she hasn’t thought of, some concern that hasn’t already been thrashed out with her superiors. “What is it, Katya?”
“Your eyebrows. They’re still blond!”
“Get out of here!” says Elena, laughing at her friend. “Go on! Before the Germans get any closer and you end up stuck here working as a scrubber in the kitchen!”
They both rush up the stairs and Katya hugs her friend before she leaves. “Keep safe,” she says. “I’ll be listening with interest to see what happens.”
“Don’t worry, Katya. I’ll be fine. Just make sure you get out of the city alive.”
Katya turns to leave and, as she pushes the restaurant door open, the sound of gunfire grows suddenly louder. Elena listens, trying to judge the distance. They’re close, she thinks, her heart jumping excitedly at the thought. Barely a kilometer away by the sound of it. Better black up my eyebrows and get ready!
~
The following morning, less than one month after the Soviets reclaimed the city, the Germans force the last of the remnants of the Red Army out of Kharkov and seize occupation once again. Missus Petrenko receives this news with a stoic lack of concern.
“Forwards and backwards they go,” she says with a shrug, pausing in the act of cutting up potatoes. “First it’s the Germans, then it’s the Russians. Now it’s the Germans again… but no doubt the Russians will be back. All this to-ing and fro-ing doesn’t make life any easier, my dear, but then when has it ever been easy?”
With that she turns back to her preparations for the day, putting together a stew for customers that may never even appear. Elena watches her, amazed at the old woman’s attitude.
“So you don’t mind having Germans in the city
?” she asks.
“It’s not a case of whether I mind or not,” says Missus Petrenko, waving her knife towards the front of the restaurant. “It’s a case of making do. They might be evil bastards, but we’ve got our fair share of them whether we’re at war or whether we ain’t. As long as they like good, wholesome Ukrainian food and are happy to pay for it and not trash the place, I don’t care who the hell they are.”
Elena watches the knife slicing through the air, fascinated. “You think they’ll come here, then? As customers?”
“Don’t see why not,” the old woman brought the knife down suddenly, slicing cleanly through a potato before flinging the two halves into a large pot of water. “They did the last time they were here and no doubt they will again.”
And she is right. Once the Germans have settled into the city and set up their barracks in the many deserted houses around the main square, the soldiers begin to arrive—the common soldiers during the day, officers in the evenings. For most of them, the restaurant is a place to come and escape the pressures and the reality of the war. As they sit together in twos and threes, enjoying Missus Petrenko’s cooking, while knocking back their shots of home-made vodka or downing glasses of beer, they chat about life back home and their plans for the future. And all the while, the dark-haired waitress moves among them, always listening, always smiling, always ready to serve. Everything of interest that Elena hears, which might prove valuable, she relays not only to the Russians camped behind their defenses beyond the city wall, but also to her U.S. contacts. Despite the constant fear of discovery, she delights in her new role as a double-agent.
This is what all those months of training were for, she thinks, as she heads back from a table where two officers, the beer loosening their tongues and raising their voices, are discussing news of what they call “Operation Citadel”, clearly a reference to their plans for a forthcoming attack on Kursk. It may be dangerous, and I may have to keep dying my hair with that horrible black mess, but I’m really making a difference here. Serving my country and saving lives, that’s what it’s all about!
Later one evening, a month or so into the German occupation, Elena is busy wiping down the bar when she notices one customer still slumped over a table in the back corner, his head resting on the table. His hat lies nearby, its skull and crossbones clearly visible—the insignia of the Gestapo.
“I’m locking up in a minute, Herr Officer,” says Elena, effortlessly slipping into German as she approaches the table. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now, please.”
There is no answer from the man except for a slightly muffled snoring.
“Sir?” she says, giving his a shoulder a gentle shake, her fingernail catching on his armband, bright red emblazoned with a large, black swastika. “Time to leave!”
The man mumbles something in a drunken slur, but Elena can’t make out any of the words. She returns to her cleaning up, stacking the chairs and mopping the floor, occasionally glancing back at the man, but he doesn’t show any signs of waking up.
Right, she thinks, when her chores are at last complete. Guess I’d better help get this guy back to his rooms.
With some difficulty, she manages to rouse the man and get him to stumble, leaning against her, out of the restaurant and to the restaurant’s delivery wagon, parked at the side of the building. As she loads him into the passenger seat, an envelope falls from inside his coat and she catches it, slipping it back into his pocket, but not before she has read the name, Kriminalsekretär Hans Schmidt, written across it in neat German script.
Kriminalsekretär, she thinks. I’m not very familiar with the ranks of the secret police, but that’s a fairly senior role, isn’t it?
Once they are both in, Elena drives him across the town to the where the German officers are housed. One of the soldiers standing outside recognizes her and waves towards a building along the street, where the Gestapo have stationed themselves.
“Here we are, Mein Herr,” says Elena, opening the passenger door. “All home and safe.” Hans blinks up at her, his eyes bleary from sleep.
“Ah,” he grunts, gathering himself together slowly before wrenching his weary body out of the wagon.
Elena watches him straighten up, getting a bearing on him. He looks like the German ideal: tall, blond and, despite his current state, clearly very fit. She smiles. “Go and get some sleep. It’s got to be more comfortable in your own bed than on that table!”
“Ah, yes,” he says, waking up slightly and rubbing the red mark on his forehead from where it had rested on the hard, wooden surface. “My apologies, fraulein.”
“Not at all! You’re welcome to nod off in the restaurant any time.”
“You are too kind,” he says, looking her up and down and slowly breaking into a smile. He hiccups suddenly and breathes strong alcohol fumes at her. “Let me show you my appreciation. How about I take you to the movies tomorrow afternoon? It’s my day off.”
Elena raises her dark eyebrows as she considers this. The U.S. military want me to recruit a German spy, she thinks. This is my opportunity for sure.
“Certainly,” she says. “Tomorrow at the movies it is. For now, though, go and get some rest.”
“Until tomorrow,” Hans replies, clicking his heels and delivering a crisp salute, only slightly spoiled by knocking off his hat. He gropes for it drunkenly and shoves it back on his head. “Good night, fraulein.” He turns on his heels and walks towards the doorway, stumbling as he does so.
~
A sparse crowd of viewers files out of the hall as the movie draws to a close, mostly a few lone officers and a group of soldiers. This last group makes their way noisily along the road towards the lights of a nearby restaurant. As Elena emerges into the street, Hans offers her his arm.
“Come, Elena,” he says, pointing in the opposite way to that taken by the soldiers. “I know a small café in the east of the city. Will you join me for a cup of tea with cake?”
“Thank you,” says Elena, taking his arm. “That sounds lovely.” They do not attract the attention of Germans. Elena and Hans look like a couple; she a pretty, slim brunette and he a tall, blonde officer in the striking black uniform of the Gestapo. “So tell me, Hans, do you have any family back home?”
“My wife and our two children, Heinrich and Karin.”
“Really? You must miss them terribly.”
He nods and steers their course down a narrow side street. “Of course. But it is better they are home in Berlin rather than being here. They are safe there.”
“So tell me,” she says, watching him out of the corner of her eyes. “Why do you drink so much?”
Hans stops and looks at her, his eyebrows raised, and for a moment Elena worries she has offended him. But then he sighs and starts walking again. “To help me sleep. I find it almost impossible to settle at night and drift off unless I’m drunk.”
“How come?”
“No… it’s a long story.”
Elena laughs. “I’ve just sat through a two-hour-long film about Frederick the Great. I reckon I can handle any long story you’ve got after watching that!”
“Fair enough,” he says, but he doesn’t share her laughter. Instead, his face takes on a haunted look. “I was just a kid really when I joined the Nazi party, almost ten years ago. At the time I believed we were doing what was right, both for our homeland and for our people, making Germany great again! When an opening came up with the Gestapo I leapt at the chance to serve my country, desperate to help in the fight against partisans who were killing our men out here in the east. I was told Russia was a land filled with foul smelling barbarians, thanks to their homemade vodka and cheap tobacco, nothing more than animals that needed to be put down for their own good.”
“Well,” says Elena, as they emerge into a large, cobbled street. “I hope you don’t have the same opinion of Ukrainians!”
“No. I don’t even think that about Russians anymore. Not after Bolotino.”
“Bolotino?
”
Hans clears his throat before he continues. “It’s just a small Russian village near Pskov, barely thirty or forty houses clustered together around a narrow strip of river. Or rather, it was… not any more. The few men that lived there were farmers from the kolkhoz, struggling to provide a little bread for their wives and children. There were Russian partisans holed up in a nearby forest. My team, together with an SS division, was headed through the region and these partisans opened fire on us, killing a number of our men. We tried to flush them out, but nothing seemed to work. Our commanding officer, the gruppenführer, insisted we interrogate the Bolotino villagers to find out where partisans were hiding.”
“Why?” asks Elena. “Were partisans in touch with the villagers?”
“I don’t know, but the gruppenführer certainly thought so.” Hans sighs, recalling the painful memory.
“What happened?”
“We interrogated the village leader, who was the head of the Bolotino kolkhoz, but he refused to tell us anything about the partisans.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Quite. We promised him rewards. Then we threatened him, but when he still refused to give us any information, the gruppenführer shot the man in the head. Right there, in front of his family!” Hans pauses, shaking his head as if to shake off the ghosts of the memory. “Then he ordered us to gather up all the villagers, including the women and children, and lock them in one of the barns. I helped, assuming this was nothing more than an attempt to scare them into giving away information about the partisans.”
“I’m guessing it wasn’t.”
“Oh, Elena,” says Hans, his voice breaking slightly as he tries to share what happened. “It was awful. Such horror! Once the barn doors were boarded shut, we were ordered to pour gasoline around the base of the walls, all of which were made of wood. And again, in my naivety, I thought this was all part of some trick to get them to tell us what they knew. But then the gruppenführer barked out the order to set fire to the barn.” He turns to look at Elena, the pain of the memory evident in his face. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even move. I just stood there staring in disbelief. And then he walked over and thrust a flaming stick in my hand and pushed me towards the barn. I still couldn’t do it, though, it was so inhuman! Even with the gruppenführer screaming in my face, I didn’t move. In the end, he grabbed my arm and lifted it up so the fire licked over the straw of the roof. It burst into flames immediately, and all around me men were busy lighting the petrol covered walls. In minutes the whole barn was on fire. That was when the banging began. Those poor villagers tried the break through the door, throwing themselves at it, but there was no way they could get out. It was nailed shut. I can still hear it now, the desperate prayers of the men, the screaming of the women, the terrible crying of the children. Before long it all mingled in a single frenzy of screaming as the fire engulfed them. Awful screaming, beyond anything you could imagine. That’s the screaming that keeps me awake at night.”
Redemption: Supernatural Time-Traveling Romance with Sci-fi and Metaphysics Page 29
