Daughters of victory, p.26
Daughters of Victory, page 26
The poison descended upon me, harsh and unforgiving. My stomach felt like it was tearing itself apart. I staggered through the back door, where a guard waited. Suddenly I was grateful for the soldier who had thrown me against a hard surface with all his force: He had given me an explanation for my unsteady steps.
Not even the frigid January gusts alleviated the drops of sweat forming against my skin. The arduous walk resulted in a kind farmer offering me a ride on his wagon when he saw me stumbling down the road. After he dropped me off, I kept going toward the farmhouse, a hazy speck in the distance. Urging me closer, promising relief from the biting cold, rest from my aching insides, yet fading alongside the evening light.
My gray valenki reached my knees, but the felt boots sank deeper into the snow with every step; perhaps the snow would soak through into the lambswool interior, chill my toes, spread upward, eradicating the heat surging through me. About ten meters from the door, the searing pain brought me to my hands and knees. I retched, vomited, collapsed in the snow, lying in my own filth.
You cannot go on, the arsenic whispered. You have failed, Mila Lvovna.
True, though not a total failure. Not like before, with Friedrich. Surely Mama would be pleased to learn her daughter had been so devoted to the cause—or maybe that devotion was the very thing she despised in me. Persistence, relentlessness, each accompanying my quizzical glances and repetitive questions until each Stop prying, Mila presented me with another failure.
I had lost this time, this final time, but I wasn’t going to die at a Fritz’s hand. Didn’t I deserve credit for a minor victory?
The poison merely sliced through my insides, giving me no credit. Neither did the icy wind or the snow holding my vigil.
Once the snow had buried me, snowflakes would soothe my parched throat and cover me in a blanket to cool my burning brow. It would save my grandparents the trouble of a funeral, trying to dig into frozen ground. I imagined Babushka’s cane sweeping through the snow and ice, on her way to visit my final resting place.
A gale tore across my skin, but the sound of my grandmother’s cane remained. It hadn’t been inside my head. When I opened my eyes, the increasing darkness failed to shield the familiar figure moving toward the house.
“Babushka.” I meant to yell but only whispered. “Babushka.” Though my voice remained faint, she stood still and turned in my direction.
“Where are you, Mila?”
She didn’t sound worried, but of course she wasn’t.
Another retch overtook me. When it passed, everything I intended to say condensed into one small plea. “Help me.”
She found me in seconds. “What happened?” The sound of more heaving coupled with the stench around me revealed the answer. “What did you take?”
I shivered with cold and heavy terror. “Arsenic.”
She muttered a curse. “Get up.”
Her voice was difficult to discern through the haze of pain, heat, cold, trembles, shallow breaths. When I realized what she wanted me to do, I shook my head slowly, though she couldn’t see the gesture. “I can’t.”
“Then I hope you’re comfortable out here. I’m sure the wolves and bears will take excellent care of you.” Babushka crouched beside me, wry humor gone. “Get up, Mila.”
Even now, I lost the courage to disobey that tone. I pressed my palm into the snow and managed to push myself into a sitting position. Once I was there, Babushka drove her cane into the ground with one hand, gripped my upper arm with the other, and brought me to my feet in one smooth lift.
“You have to walk,” she said as she wrapped her arm around my waist.
Despite the agony ripping through my body, I turned an incredulous glance upon her. “How did—?”
“You’re not so heavy, and I’m not so old.”
After a few moments of shuffling through the snow, I was faintly aware of Babushka pushing the door open and calling to Dedushka, telling him to fetch buckets, blankets, washcloths, cups, water, and whey.
She deposited me onto a bench, stripped off my soiled garments, then dressed me in a clean nightgown. A large, warm hand found my cheek—Dedushka. One arm slipped around my back, another beneath my legs, then I was pressed against a broad chest smelling of earth and wood. I closed my eyes, feeling small, fragile, wishing to be held like this until the poison inevitably stripped me away.
Gently, he placed me upon the pech’s wide, flat space used for sleeping due to its warmth. As pain overtook me, I clung to every folktale I had ever heard of the stove’s healing powers, every household spirit said to live around it; if any cared to cure me now, I would devote the rest of my life to ceaseless gratitude.
Chapter 37
Vitebsk Region, 13 January 1943
I propped myself up as far as the space between the pech and the ceiling allowed, watching as the morning sun stretched across the fields. Vomiting and dizziness had overtaken my entire night. I remembered little—only Babushka by my side through it all. This morning, though my insides were still churning, the pain had considerably lessened. And I was due at the garrison soon.
If only I could get a message to Daniil. I had promised to stop by on my way home last night to deliver a report; since I had failed to do so, he was probably convinced the Fritzes had thrown me in prison.
As I tucked my blankets and furs more securely around me, trapping the warmth, the front door swung open. “More alert this morning?” Babushka called as she stepped across the threshold, shaking snow off her valenki.
“Much. I might be able to keep some tea down.”
She didn’t fetch the samovar, though; instead, still clutching her cane, she approached until she stood beside me—eyes like twin dark rings, an indication she had hardly slept last night. “Mila, get out before it gets worse.”
Her voice was not its usual snap, a bullet leaving a pistol; it was belladonna seeping into the bloodstream. Slow. Deadly.
No longer did she question what I spent my days doing; perhaps it had been a long time since she had last questioned it. When I responded, my voice matched hers. Unrelenting.
“And if I refuse?”
She knew I was determined to see this fight through to the end. Our differing opinions and family secrets were the constant divide between us.
“If it goes too far—” Then she stopped, her face drawn, oddly stricken. Though we had endured nearly two years of foreign occupation, I suspected her life prior to this had been quiet, untouched beyond the hardships of farming, despite having lived through a revolution. Perhaps this war and seeing her granddaughter on the cusp of death had struck her more than either of us had expected.
Babushka returned to the door, calling over her shoulder as she went outside. “Your young man has requested a word.”
I opened my mouth, but Daniil was already entering.
I had given him strict orders to stay away from the house, even when he visited me in the shed. Babushka disapproved of the resistance enough as it was; the last thing I needed was her meeting those I worked alongside. She would spare me no questions, draw conclusions like your young man—
“What are you doing here?” I asked, keeping my voice down.
“When you didn’t stop by, I had to locate you.” He fetched a small wooden chair from the table, pulled it closer, and sat. “Svetlana Vasilyevna told me it was arsenic, and that you are an idiot.”
“You can ask Svetlana Vasilyevna what she would have done if her choices were eat the food she poisoned or give away her entire operation,” I replied bitterly, slumping against the wall.
“You want to go back, don’t you?”
I nodded. I hadn’t swallowed poison just to quit. “Alscher never saw me get sick, and I’m well enough to work.”
“Still, if you’ve been accused of poisoning them . . .” Falling quiet, Daniil removed his ushanka and toyed with it. An indication that a plan was coming. “What you’re doing is already collaborative on its surface—a Soviet working for the fascists. We might be able to use that to draw suspicion away from you.”
Though I resented the word collaborative, falsified or otherwise, he had a point. It was part of my infiltration. But I didn’t need reminding that I looked like a traitor. The mob that had attacked me last October had made that very clear—as had Babushka when I had come home that evening, battered and bruised. I tried to hide it, considering her inability to see the wounds, but her ears heard my shuffled steps, sudden winces, until she demanded the truth. She shook her head, cursed my stupidity, muttered that she knew my role at the garrison would lead to assumptions, then consequences.
Daniil leaned closer, eyes bright. “Even the Fritzes can’t resist a bribe. One accepts them from me in exchange for information; I’ll convince him to sneak me into the garrison tonight. After you leave, I’ll leave a threat against you outside the kitchen door—maybe a cartridge and a note saying this is what Soviets who collaborate deserve.”
Let Daniil put himself at risk for my safety? That sounded even worse than swallowing arsenic.
“Once I’ve done that and my contact has gotten me out, a few Young Avengers and partisans will fire on the garrison, as if attempting an attack before retreating. Then, tomorrow morning, you can find the threat and show it to Alscher. He’ll assume someone from the attack got in and left it.”
My chest tightened. “Can’t you bribe the contact to plant it for you?”
“He wouldn’t be stupid enough to take on that risk no matter what I offered. And what kind of outraged patriot would let a Fritz do his work for him?”
“Why not give me the note and let me plant it? If your contact betrays you, or if you get caught—”
“I won’t have you getting caught with it. Not after you were nearly caught poisoning them.”
“Can your Fritz be trusted?”
Daniil gave a dry laugh. “Can any Fritz be trusted? He’s paid well and hasn’t betrayed me yet.”
That was the problem: There was always yet.
Daniil passed a hand over his beard. “The contact will believe I’m planting a legitimate threat against you. He won’t know that you and I are working together, so you won’t be implicated.”
“And if you’re implicated?” Glaring, I swung my legs over the side of the pech; with Daniil’s help, I eased myself down. “I knew the risks I was taking on with this infiltration. I’ve accepted them, so why can’t you let me?”
“What would Fruza say if I sent you back to your death? It’s my position I’m protecting as much as yours.” Daniil glared in return as he watched me take cautious steps to test my strength. “I’m not forbidding you from going back. But if you are going back, it will be under these terms.”
I let out a huff. The risks I had accepted were not ones I wanted Daniil to take, certainly not on my behalf.
“Fine. Carry out your plan, but I don’t agree with it.”
“It’s not your job to agree with it.” He caught my shoulders as his voice softened. “It’s mine to keep the work safe. To keep you safe. I told you, I don’t intend to lose anyone else to them.”
Those words he had said so long ago, in that strange tone—tight, weighty. He wasn’t naïve, knew death was a risk that came with this work. Other than various resistance members who had given their lives to the cause these past months, the only other person he had lost to the Nazis was Yelena, the young woman who had been slaughtered alongside her family during the invasion.
But he had loved her. Not so with us, despite those moments when my heart had driven me to him, longed for something more meaningful. Yet, as he met my eyes, I found no words to respond.
Daniil released me, closed the door softly behind him, and left me with the infinite darkness of his gaze, a sea of a love and loss he couldn’t bear to repeat.
Chapter 38
Vitebsk Region, 13 January 1943
Please, Katya.” I followed her up and down the pharmacy aisles. “What if I trade you money instead of produce and take just arsenic, not cyanide?”
All this time she had been silent, jaw set, eyes narrowed as they roamed the shelves and checked stock against the list in her hands; now she rounded on me with finality. “No. I told you, my father said the Fritzes are getting stricter about inventory. If I keep supplying you, they might notice.”
Sighing, I followed her to the front counter. The soldiers had seized control of countless businesses like this one, permitting Katya and her family to continue doing all the work while the Fritzes reaped the benefits. But our arrangement had never been an issue before.
“You’ve been covering it up all this time. Can’t you continue?”
Katya glanced toward the door, probably to ensure no customers were entering, then caught my arm with sudden speed and pulled me close. “My mother’s brother married a Jewish woman and moved to Taganrog,” she began, her voice sharp. “The fascists rounded up my aunt, uncle, and their four children alongside thousands more, took them to the Gully of Petrushino, and massacred them. Young and old, men and women and children.”
She fell silent, perhaps giving me a chance to answer. I had nothing to say.
“If the soldiers are watching us more closely now, adjusting the numbers would be reckless,” she went on without loosening her grip. “I’m not afraid to die for this cause, but I am afraid to be the reason my family is sentenced to death.”
She swallowed hard, the intensity leaving her eyes, and she released me. She turned back to her list, staring at it while I pictured my own family sentenced to death because of me. My parents in Leningrad. My grandparents.
“I’m sorry about your family in Taganrog,” I murmured at last.
Katya responded with a small nod, eyes on her list.
When she was adamant, I knew better than to pursue the subject. I had various mushrooms and plants tucked into my pockets as well as some chemical poisons. I would have to make do with those in the event I needed them tonight.
Katya would change her mind when the Fritzes relaxed. She had to change her mind.
Mumbling a farewell, I departed. The morning was as quiet as the snow cascading around me. Still, I had to hurry; I had spent more time at the pharmacy than intended, and it wouldn’t do to be late to the garrison.
A sharp wind gripped me, powerful as Katya’s hold, the vehemence in her eyes. I increased my pace along the bare dirt roads, past the railway platform, where Daniil and I had come across Orlova’s victim nearly a year and a half ago. The image of the mutilated body filled my mind. I almost wanted to find more soldiers’ corpses there, a warning powerful enough to scare the Fritzes away once and for all rather than prompt reprisal. Then there would be no need for Daniil to carry out the plan that had left an ever-present ache in my stomach.
When I reached the garrison, the guards seized me at once.
It was so abrupt, so unexpected, that I forgot to struggle. Surely they didn’t suspect me. Not when I had taken such lengths to prove my innocence and had dragged myself back this morning, despite spending an entire night writhing in agony. Each step across the snowy grounds intensified the lingering ache in my stomach.
When they pulled me into the kitchen, Zina was there—unharmed—gathering pots and pans, as was a familiar figure in a spotless Wehrmacht uniform.
“Do you remember what happened to the girl who held this position before you?” Alscher demanded; I bobbed my head vigorously. “Tell me.”
“S-she . . . she was . . .” I let my voice tremble even as my heart thudded against my chest. My mission and my life depended on these next few moments.
I poured all my trust into my tiny amulet, begging it to ward off these demons who surrounded me, feeding off my fear as if sucking the blood from my veins. Then I bowed my head and sank to my knees, voice rising, breaths sharpening.
“I told you the truth last night, I swear, I—”
Alscher’s firm grip caught my chin and forced my head up. “What happened to the other girl?”
I took a moment before answering in an unsteady whisper. “She was executed.”
He nodded, then lifted my chin higher. “And I do not think you would face death as defiantly as she did, Nadya.”
With that, Alscher and the guards released me. I stayed where I was, heart racing. My actions last night coupled with my presence this morning must have convinced him of my innocence; it was the only explanation for why I was still breathing. Even so, Daniil’s plan was the reinforcement my story needed.
As the day progressed, Zina and I worked in overwhelming silence. I gathered some soldiers had recovered from the supposed disease, others had died, and some carried lingering traces. Despite Alscher’s threat occupying my mind, the news made me want to open a bottle of vodka or fill a mug with German beer and drink to my success. Perhaps I would lace a handful of dishes tonight to let a few others catch the disease before I permitted it to leave the garrison for a time. Best to make the most of the false illness.
Daniil planned to slip into the kitchen once I was alone. Then, after I left safely, he would plant the false threat against me, escape with help from the bribed soldier, and stage the false attack. It was to mask my resistance involvement, to ensure the continued success of this mission; yet, he had been so insistent. So determined not to lose anyone else. But what if that determination had led him to trust the wrong man, to breach the barbed-wire fence for my sake, only for his plan to go terribly wrong?
I lifted a hand to my chest, pressing it against the amulet hidden beneath my clothing. Too late to stop him now.
The closer we came to the end of the evening, the more my heart raced. Every sound, every man’s voice, every footstep turned into Daniil’s. Perhaps I would feel better once I laid eyes on him, saw the contact had let him get this far—unless the contact let him come to me so the soldiers could ambush us together.
Once dinner ended, I sent Zina to the pantry to check supplies, silently imploring her to hurry so she would leave. I wiped lingering grease stains from the stovetop and brushed wine off a tiny corkscrew, hands already shaking. A few minutes more, only a few . . .
