Daughters of victory, p.25
Daughters of Victory, page 25
Anton made a dramatic show of rolling up his sleeves. My theory withered. Perhaps they intended to do more than frighten me, after all.
“Do not touch me,” I said through my teeth, if only to delay the inevitable a few seconds more.
“Scream all you want,” he replied as he approached, clenched fists corded with veins. “Your fascist friends won’t hear you.”
Then he swung a fist into my ribs.
My knees buckled against the overwhelming pain, while another blow found my stomach, another my jaw. The hands released me. Cold, wet mud squelched beneath me as I gasped for breath, then a kick struck my shoulder. I shielded my head from the onslaught, while voices rose—some cursing me, others reminding their comrades not to finish too quickly, and to get off the road.
The blood in my mouth tasted rancid. They wanted to drag me into the woods, beat me, slaughter me, leave me until the worms had picked my bones clean.
Or, worse, turn me over to Orlova, as they had apparently done to that woman.
I swung my legs at the nearest set of feet, earning a startled cry as the man collapsed. If I got up, if I could run—but another series of blows sent me back down.
More hands brought me upright; Anton gripped my chin. “When we’re finished with you, you’re free to go, then we will contact the local NKVD and have them send word to Moscow.” He pressed his free thumb to my eyelid, forcing it wide open as he lowered his voice. “Orlova will be eager to make an example of an anti-Soviet.”
A tremor broke what remained of my resolve. Whether Orlova came here, they took me to her in Moscow, or she instructed one of her agents to carry out the task for her, the other woman’s body was proof this was no empty threat. Even if I swore my garrison involvement was a resistance scheme, she would consider me a liar, a cowardly fascist desperate to save her own skin. Yuri would vouch for me, surely, but if Orlova received reports about me from dozens of loyal Soviets, would she take one NKVD agent’s word over theirs?
And, if Orlova killed me, who would poison the soldiers in the Wehrmacht garrison? Who would help my grandparents on their farm? Who would listen for reports on Leningrad, hunting for ways my parents might escape the siege? Fruza was doing all she could, I knew, but the tides of war could shift at any point. If a change occurred, one that might alleviate my parents’ suffering, I needed to know and share it with her.
A dead girl could do none of those things.
Neither could a Young Avenger tell the truth to this mob without jeopardizing her mission.
As the crowd swarmed toward me, a gunshot broke through the uproar, accompanied by an unmistakable voice.
“Lay another fucking hand on her, and the next bullet is yours.”
When they let me fall again, I blinked past the mud obscuring my vision while Daniil shoved the crowd aside, pistol at the ready. Most dispersed; others lingered to see the next spectacle.
“Have you been drinking like your father, Daniil?” Anton asked with a sneer. “Why else would you be interfering with summary justice?”
Though I drew my knees closer to defend myself from the next blow, Daniil had already stashed the pistol, punched Anton across the face, and caught his collar with both hands to keep him upright. “Is it justice to attack an unarmed woman?” Daniil tightened his hold, suppressing Anton’s struggles and lowering his voice to a growl. “Coward.”
The other man’s glare abruptly shifted, blood streaming from his nose. He glanced from me to Daniil, as though he had uncovered something unspoken.
“Are you fucking a fascist?” This time, he regarded Daniil as though he were the treacherous one. “What a way to honor Yelena’s memory.”
The pain coursing through my body faded, pushed aside by the fury twisting my heart. Whatever they assumed about me, about us, did not warrant this for Daniil, certainly not for Yelena.
Tense silence fell while his eyes ignited with pure, deep rage. Then he shoved Anton into the filth and fell upon him. A few shouts, muffled curses, and though Anton managed to strike once, it only took Daniil a few more blows to render him unconscious. When Daniil stood, he turned at once to me.
While he helped me to my feet, some remaining crowd members left me with hateful glances; others directed a few at him. With his support, I stumbled toward his izba, every breath aching, mind thick as the mud caked all over me.
Inside, he settled me in a chair by the warm pech, returned the coat he had picked up, and gathered a bowl of water, clean rags, and antiseptic. Anton’s blow hadn’t drawn Daniil’s blood, so he had fared much better than I had. I shivered despite the fire’s warmth while his eyes swept over the filth covering me.
“Take off those clothes.”
Of all the ways I had imagined such a conversation between us, following an attack from an angry mob was not one of them.
Daniil offered me a spare dress from the trunk of clothes the Young Avengers kept here, since most missions took place outdoors and often led to torn, stained, bloodied clothing. “Change while I find Katya. You need medical attention. The crowd will know better than to come here for you, and I won’t be long, then I expect a full report.”
When I extended a hand to accept the dress, a sharp pain stabbed my chest. Wincing, I shook my head.
“Katya will have to help me.”
Daniil brought the kerosene lamp closer. He touched a muddy patch on my sleeve, assessing how damp the garments were, then knelt and began unfastening the buttons on my skirt. “Tell me what happened.” Direct, focused. Leader and Young Avenger.
“They think I’m a fascist and they intend to give my name to Orlova.” Straightforward, clipped, matching him. “I didn’t reveal the truth.”
The lines across his forehead deepened. “I’ll have Yuri draw up a report for her to explain your infiltration.”
As his fingers found my shirtwaist, one I’d purchased from a shop in Leningrad, I drew an uneven breath. Button after button sprang free until the lamp’s orange glow fell across my pale skin, my slip, the twine around my neck. The little amulet had guarded me from so much, yet failed to protect me from the need for him. But if I whispered for him to come nearer, I knew where such prompting led: to his arms releasing me, to the distance that always remained between us. Instead, I stayed silent. Exposing one’s body was far less dangerous than exposing one’s heart.
This was our work. I had a report to give.
After the final button, Daniil helped me to my feet. I braced myself against the pech, hoping to steady my balance as well as my breaths.
“A soldier I poisoned isn’t dead.”
“A Fritz survived your toxins and an angry mob attacked you and threatened your life?” He passed a hand over his beard, then sighed in resignation. “I’ll tell Fruza the operation is over.”
“No, I don’t want out. The mob won’t . . .” I paused. Would they come for me again? Daniil had scared them away for now, but I doubted their fear would last. Not if they thought a traitor remained in their midst. Another breath. Another stab of pain through my chest. “If the Fritz is aware it was poison, he’s given no indication,” I said instead.
“Do you want to go home after the war or not?” Unexpectedly sharp, prompting me to meet his glower.
“Of course,” I snapped, then gritted my teeth when my aching ribs protested.
“And I intend to send you there, which will be much more unlikely if you stay at the garrison. The chance of Gestapo capture was already high, and now the villagers want your blood, too.”
I had no time to retort. Daniil eased the skirt and blouse away with painstaking care, leaving me in the old, tattered slip I had brought from home.
“When risk transforms into death sentence, it’s become too dangerous.” Gentle, softening my own stiffness in turn. He caught the twine around my neck, running his fingers over it until he cradled the vial, tracing his thumb over the smooth glass. An unsteady breath, matching my own. “I can’t leave you there.” Gruff, hardly a murmur.
I covered his hand with mine, tightening his hold on the vial, holding both to my chest. “If I want out, I’ll tell you.”
His eyes lifted—dark, intense, as though seized by a sudden longing, yet something interfered. Something always interfered.
Daniil broke my hold.
The pech’s fire crackled and popped, jeering at me for almost believing that, this time, something would not interfere. While he doused a rag and squeezed excess water from it, I focused on the blood and muck staining my skin, fetid and thick.
When he returned to my side, Daniil draped his own sheepskin coat across my shoulders, large and heavy and warm, then dabbed a cut on my cheek. “If the soldier has realized he was poisoned, you might walk into arrest tomorrow.” His touch remained light, his voice husky.
“If I try to quit, they won’t believe whatever lie I tell them. Let me stay.” I placed a hand over his, encouraging him to meet my gaze. “Trust me. You’ll be the first to know if I don’t feel safe.”
Since I had stayed the hand holding the rag, Daniil brushed his free thumb over my lip. His eyes searched mine while my blood on his finger turned burgundy in the lamplight. “Do you feel safe, Mila?” he murmured. “Do you really want to stay?”
Ignoring the stab of pain in my chest, I reached for his cheek in return, as if wiping away mud—though nothing was there—and responded in a whisper. “Very much.”
Chapter 36
Vitebsk Region, 12 January 1943
Over the past months of working in the garrison, I’d poisoned dishes without Zina’s knowledge, making it appear as if illness had struck and resulted in a few deaths. My system was simple and effective: Lace a few dishes, spare others. Give some men a full dose, others half, others less. Each time, I observed my work from the security of the kitchen.
One January evening, Zina returned from serving the main course, adjusting her headscarf over her graying auburn locks. Often a sign of nerves. “Many empty seats,” she said. “And this morning, my son Viktor—the one home from the war after his back injury—woke complaining of a stomach ailment.”
“The same one that has struck the garrison?” I asked, knowing very well that it was not.
She said nothing, though her mouth tightened with worry; the one plaguing the garrison had killed a few. I resisted a smile. Since failing to poison Friedrich—a mistake that had since gone undetected—I hadn’t failed again.
As the night neared its end, I tossed the last of the dirty dishes into the sink and grabbed a bottle of vodka, preparing to ask Zina to offer a final round of refills, but I had no chance before the kitchen door burst open and ten soldiers flooded inside.
Amid Zina’s startled yelp, I spun toward the back door while the Fritzes swarmed toward us, yelling in German. If a guard saw me running, he might shoot, might spare me from whatever was about to happen if I stayed.
Hands caught me, pulled me back with such force that my feet left the floor, then slammed me face-first onto the counter.
It was like swallowing poison myself, pain splitting across my head and dancing before my eyes, robbing me of breath, twisting my stomach into knots. The room spun until a sudden jolt of pain demanded my focus when the soldier forced my arms behind my back. With a cry, I struggled to alleviate the agony, but he pulled me upright and dragged me toward the remnants of prepared food.
Only then did all the shouts fall silent, aside from my shuddering breaths as I stood before the hostile crowd, pain coursing across my scalp and down my shoulders and arms.
Zina had also been restrained, her chest heaving in panicked breaths.
Alscher stepped forward. “You are to be questioned,” he said to us, then he jerked his head at Zina’s captors. They led her from the room, though she left me with a final glance, her eyes wide.
Questioned. Was this to do with our employment? Had something happened in the village? After five successful months, surely they didn’t suspect my poison.
“Why did you try to run?”
“Because I’m unarmed, facing the armed men who barged into my workplace.” Not the most respectful answer, given Alscher’s frown, but the pain swirling through my head prevented me from caring.
He picked up a bowl of kasha and brought it beneath my nose. “These dishes contain poison.”
Silence met this pronouncement. Perhaps I’d gotten a little overzealous with the arsenic. Why did I continue using arsenic when I had much more faith in mushrooms?
True, I had laced the rye bread as well as the porridge, but I had distributed carefully—two different batches of porridge, one with arsenic and another without. I varied the proportions in each serving so none of the soldiers would be affected in the same way, and I had been using arsenic this entire week so they would get sick on different days, as though infecting one another. My usual process, one that had always yielded satisfactory results.
As Alscher set the bowl down, I put on the appropriate mask of shock before scowling. “Poison? That’s a rather weighty insult to my cooking.”
Another unappreciated response, judging by the severity of Alscher’s glare. Even if appeasing him with respect had been my biggest concern, I had no time before one man pushed forward, assessing me with heavily guarded eyes.
Friedrich, naturally. My failure would haunt me for the rest of my days, limited as those might be now that I had come under question. I hadn’t laced his dishes yet, afraid of a second failure and drawing his suspicion—much like I had anyway. My caution had amounted to nothing.
“The night we met, I suffered from stomach pains,” he said. “You poisoned me.”
They were convinced I was guilty, every one of them. If I didn’t figure a way out of this, my sentence was certain. But another thing was also certain: Nadya had made it clear to Alscher that she did not want to die.
This was my weapon, my fight, my patriotic war. And there was only one way to win this battle.
“No, I didn’t do anything wrong, I wouldn’t!” I shouted, resorting to the frantic desperation I had presented to Alscher upon our first meeting, struggling as my guard began ushering me to the door. “Please, Herr Oberstleutnant, let me show you the food is safe!”
Alscher held up a hand. My captor paused, then released me.
Arsenic. One of the first poisons I studied with Katya. I would have about thirty minutes before its effects set in. Before my body absorbed a lethal amount if I consumed too much.
Whatever it took to protect the mission.
I tore into chunks of bread, then inhaled a few mouthfuls of kasha—the safe batch, thankfully, since it was closest to me. Once finished, I grabbed the bottle of vodka from the counter and lifted it to them in salute.
“Prost,” I said, utilizing one of the German words I’d learned from eavesdropping on many dinner conversations. I took a sizable gulp and slammed the bottle onto the counter. Let them challenge me now.
As long as they did so before my thirty minutes were up.
After a moment of bewildered silence, they started talking and gesturing to me, likely convinced this had been a misunderstanding. Alscher nodded to the door. One by one, they began to leave while a rush of relief coursed through me.
But Alscher remained. Staring at me. “Many of the men say illness set on quickly, so I will wait here to observe you.”
Once again, I had lost the battle. In proving I was trustworthy, I had signed my own death sentence.
I assumed the appearance of calm, as though certain I had done enough to avoid the fate that would have awaited on the other side of interrogation and torture. I lifted my shoulders in a nonchalant shrug and grabbed the vodka. “Do as you please.” I brought the bottle to my lips again, but he confiscated it—and with it, my plan to drink myself to death before the poison killed me first. The clock hanging on the far wall ticked in ominous warning; I glanced at it. Six minutes gone.
Babushka’s familiar whisper echoed in my ears—Mila, you stupid girl, what the hell were you thinking? Her scolding was not what I needed to escort me to the afterlife.
“May I have the vodka back?” I asked. Based on his scowl, I gathered the answer was no. I stole another peek at the clock.
Fourteen minutes gone.
At least my crossed arms hid my shaking hands.
Panic served no purpose. This was a noble death, after all. A death for my cause. Such a shame I wasn’t going to take more Fritzes with me first.
Though I fought to breathe evenly, I already felt the poison’s impact on my stomach. What had started as a few milligrams of white powder was now pummeling my insides without mercy.
Not much longer.
Alscher watched me like an eagle preparing to swoop down on its prey, making it even more imperative to mask my symptoms. How had I not convinced him? I imagined Babushka at my funeral: Stupid girl, of all the idiotic ways to die . . .
A soldier opened the kitchen door briefly to shout something—another partisan attack, perhaps? Daniil had mentioned a plan to bomb a power plant; I held my breath while Alscher muttered what sounded like a curse, then looked me over with disdain.
“I have more pressing matters to attend to than peasants.” As if it were my fault he hadn’t ordered someone else to observe me. “Do not give me reason to suspect you again, or I will see to your execution myself.”
Alscher’s threat upon my ears was as beautiful as a chorus of Soviet voices singing “The Sacred War.” Was he truly letting me go? Had I won this battle, after all? And Zina was ignorant of my actions; when he questioned her, surely she would convince him of her innocence.
I bobbed my head, while he spun around without waiting for me to leave. Definitely a partisan attack; nothing else ever made him this anxious. When the door closed behind him, I checked the clock one last time.
Twenty-six minutes gone.
I tore through the refrigerator and snatched the whey. The sight of the watery, milky substance with little white curdles floating in it was almost enough to do what I required, but I had no time to rely on sight or smell alone. I rushed to the sink, tipped my head back, and guzzled it until my stomach rebelled. The creamy sourness of the whey mingled with acidic bile. I drank more, vomited more, until the jar was empty.
