Daughters of victory, p.27
Daughters of Victory, page 27
“Missing something?”
Gasping, I whirled toward the accusatory voice. Friedrich stood in the doorway. One hand leveled a pistol at me; the other presented me with a vial—empty aside from a small amount of white powder.
I gaped at the label: arsenic.
“After we confronted you last night, I came back to search the kitchen and found this.” He waved the vial; it must have fallen from my pocket during the scuffle. I bit the inside of my cheek to suppress a wave of panic.
“Did you tell Alscher?”
“If I had, you would be dead.” Not the answer I expected, though I masked my surprise while he strolled closer. “I’m the one you tried to kill, so shouldn’t I get to decide what to do with you?”
“You withheld evidence from your superior.” If I kept him talking, maybe I’d have time to figure out what to do next. “Won’t Alscher be angry?”
“I’ll tell him I went to the kitchen after dinner tonight, caught you with the poison, and interrogated you, then I will present him with my evidence and your confession.” He looked at the tiny vial. “That will earn me a promotion, don’t you think?”
Well, at least his arrogance had led to a foolish mistake. If Friedrich was the only one aware of my guilt, he was the only one I had to worry about for now.
And then Zina emerged from the pantry.
“Everything is in place, so I—” She stopped, staring at the pistol while I muttered a curse.
Friedrich showed her the arsenic. “I don’t think this is yours, but you are going to be my witness, and I will tell you exactly what you are going to tell Alscher during interrogation.” He waved his gun toward a pile of twine and butcher paper from the sausages I’d unwrapped for dinner, then nodded to me. “Bind her.”
Zina grabbed the thin string in shaking hands and brought my arms behind my back. She wrapped the twine around my wrists, cutting into my flesh, then stepped away from me. I kept my back to the stove and swallowed past the sudden knot in my throat.
“On your knees,” he ordered.
Zina reacted with a sharp intake of breath. Meanwhile, I obliged.
I had to break through my restraints. While Zina and Friedrich had been distracted by the butcher paper and twine, I’d swiped the little corkscrew from the countertop and hidden it in my fist. Now I gripped its wooden handle and worked my fingers up the spiraled iron until I located the pointed tip. Carefully, I sawed through the twine. Back and forth, fiber by fiber.
Toying with the vial, Friedrich strolled closer. Zina’s eyes darted from him to me, her breaths shallow. My hand moved little by little, pressing the tip of the corkscrew into the twine and pulling it away.
“Do you work for the partisans?”
I said nothing, though I swallowed a rise of panic. Panic wasn’t going to break my bonds. I needed time.
“I can kill you slowly or quickly. That depends on how much information you give me.”
Somehow I had to keep him occupied without betraying the resistance, without prompting him to take action.
When he raised the gun, Zina shrieked.
“Don’t!”
Friedrich drew back, then a gunshot rang in my ears, eliciting my automatic cry. With a moan, Zina fell to the kitchen floor, blood pouring from her chest. She gasped, clutching the wound as if desperation alone held the power to extract the bullet.
“I was going to let you live,” he said while she writhed. “Now I have to tell Alscher you interfered.”
She looked at him with unmasked hatred and managed a gasping claim. “The vial is mine.”
His lip curled in contempt. “Liar.”
Perhaps Zina was a partisan, or had realized what I’d been doing these past months, or was simply one woman defending another. I stared at her, hoping my eyes communicated my gratitude, and how much I wished the price of her efforts had not been her life. Then her hand fell and she lay still, drenched in blood, wide eyes locked on mine.
Friedrich pressed the gun to my chest. I pulled my shoulders back, though perhaps he felt my heartbeat pulsing, making its way up the gun barrel and into his steady hand.
“You aren’t going to tell me anything?” He stepped back, evaluating me before settling on my knees against the hard floor. “A slow death it is.”
He angled the gun toward my left kneecap.
“Wait, I’ll talk, I’ll talk!” As he paused, glancing at me with renewed intrigue, I combatted unsteady breaths. “I . . .” Another little shudder as the twine broke with a light snap. Then I lifted my head and flashed a devious smile at him. “I did poison you, you stupid Fritz.”
I drove the corkscrew into his wrist and knocked his hand aside, loosening his grip on the gun amid his furious shout. When both my corkscrew and the weapon clattered to the floor, I sprang to my feet, grabbed his arm, and held with all my strength.
He turned back to me, eyes wild, free hand reaching for me. His fingers closed around my throat. Gasping, flailing, I sought something, anything, to use as a weapon, clawing at his grasp while he squeezed tighter, tighter. As my vision darkened around the edges, my fingers found something next to the stovetop. I gripped the object’s handle and drove it into Friedrich’s stomach.
With a choked cry, he released me and staggered back, leaving me coughing, spluttering, clutching a butcher knife.
I stared at the red streaks against the gleaming blade, then looked up when a sudden thud reached my ears. Friedrich had collapsed, blood seeping from the hole in his stomach. He twitched one last time, then no more.
Friedrich and Zina, surrounded by crimson pools. A bloody knife in my stained hands. I, Mila Lvovna, already accused of poisoning the Wehrmacht soldiers, had now stabbed one.
What the hell was my plan now?
The back door creaked open. I spun around, still clutching the knife.
Daniil rushed to meet me; I stood in dumbfounded silence, while his incredulous gaze roamed from the arsenic vial to the corpses, settling on Friedrich’s.
“What the fuck happened, Mila?”
My hands shook, unable to loosen their grip on the knife. New plan, we needed a new plan. A way to explain to Alscher how a dead soldier ended up in my kitchen . . .
All at once, the solution fell into place, as perfectly balanced as one of my experiments.
I placed the butcher knife near Zina’s bloodstained hand, then kicked Friedrich’s gun closer to him. Once finished, I assessed my clothes. A few marks, but not many, since Friedrich had fallen so quickly. A little blood was easy enough to justify.
I returned to Daniil’s side. “Hit me.”
He narrowed his eyes in dispute; before I could urge him on, he found his voice with a little bark of incredulous laughter. “No, absolutely not.”
Fine, I’d do it myself. I grabbed a metal measuring cup and smacked it against my cheek—enough to leave an impact but no lasting damage. When I yelped, Daniil ripped the cup away, while I blinked to clear my vision. Gingerly, I touched my face; my lip and cheek were cut. Glancing down, I watched a drop of blood fall to my chest, joining the other stains. Exactly as I had intended.
“What the hell are you doing?” Daniil tried to wipe the blood trickling from my mouth, so I pushed his hand away.
“The Fritzes know I’m the last to leave the kitchen at night. If they find one of their own dead in my space and a supposed partisan threat against me, it will look like I killed him and planted the threat myself to make them believe I’m innocent.”
“We can clean up before morning. Toss the bodies, get you somewhere safe, carry out the original plan, and—”
“If someone comes looking for Friedrich as we’re wiping his blood off the floor? I don’t think anyone heard the gunshot, but they could walk in at any time.”
“They already suspected you once. If it happens a second time, you won’t fool them again.”
“I’m not running. And if I come back tomorrow as if I know nothing, they won’t believe me.” I presented the lacerated skin on my wrists, a sure sign of my involvement thanks to Zina’s bonds.
Daniil’s eyes fell to my neck; he brushed his fingertips over the marks Friedrich had left. At his light touch, I reached for his hand, but he let it fall before drawing it across his face.
“You want them to find you here. With the bodies.”
Despite an unsteady breath, my voice was sure. “It’s my best chance if I’m going to convince them I’m not involved in the resistance. Call off the Young Avengers and the partisans. Will your contact get you out safely?”
“If not, and if Alscher doesn’t believe you, then this time tomorrow will see us both in interrogation.”
After I reviewed what had taken place, followed by my more detailed plan, I scrubbed the blood from my hands, then Daniil bound my wrists the same way Zina had and followed me to the pantry. Once I stepped across the threshold, he closed me inside. I allowed my eyes to adjust, then I pressed my ear to the door, listening as he slipped out through the back entrance.
I had forgotten to ask him to tell Babushka I wouldn’t be home tonight. Maybe I would be better off remaining locked in the pantry forever. Twenty years old now, yet my grandmother’s chastisements still held the power to make me feel like a little girl—even if they held no power to change my actions.
Now I had one more step to complete my story. Blinking through the darkness, I stumbled over a sack of potatoes, turnips, or something of the sort, then located a lower shelf, sat, and lined up the back of my head against it. I took a deep breath, gathering my courage. This was going to hurt much worse than the measuring cup to the face.
I threw my head back and slammed it against the shelf. Heavy pain surrounded me while everything slipped away, but not before one paralyzing whisper seized my thoughts: This was all for nothing. The most incriminating piece of evidence was still out there. The one Friedrich had used to confirm my guilt.
Neither Daniil nor I had picked up the vial of arsenic.
Chapter 39
Vitebsk Region, 14 January 1943
Maybe the splitting headache roused me. The numbness spreading from fingertips to shoulders. The scuttling on the shelf beside me, a sound I often heard in the stable, right before Dedushka advised me to spread rat poison. Perhaps all three took turns, poking and prodding me even though the darkness refused to relinquish its firm hold. I slipped in and out of a heavy sleep, conscious of little more than drowsiness and pain.
At last, I tried to rock into a sitting position, but abandoned the attempt when my stomach gave a nauseous turn. Instead, I remained on the cold concrete floor, cheek and lip covered in dried blood, head pounding, surrounded by the smell of burlap sacks, wooden crates, and spices. Opening my eyes required too much effort, so I kept them closed, focusing on my prepared story instead of the cords cutting into my wrists.
Startled German cries sounded from the kitchen. My original plan had involved yelling to get their attention, but no sound came.
The arsenic. Had they found the arsenic yet? To think I had gone to all this trouble just for one misstep to lead to my downfall. Even if I convinced them it wasn’t mine, they would figure out the vial had come from the pharmacy. Neither Katya nor her family would be spared.
When the door to my prison burst open, I squeezed my eyes tighter against sudden light. More exclamations fell on my ears, then various hands picked me up, cut my bonds, supported me as I staggered out of the pantry. The room spun. My stomach jolted as the soldiers ushered me past the bodies.
After the men led me to a stool, something wet splashed my face, leaving me gasping and coughing, then a rough cloth followed, smothering me as it wiped the dampness away. Another hand found the back of my head, holding me still even though I yelped as his fingers pressed against the knot left by the shelf. When the cloth released me, my blurry gaze focused on Alscher, who set a dish towel beside an empty glass on the counter. He reached for me again, this time smacking my cheek—not hard, but hard enough.
“Wertlose Sau,” he muttered—Worthless sow, so I had learned. A phrase he used often when referring to me. “Wake up.”
I imagined shoving arsenic down his throat as payback for his methods, and for the way he and his men equated women to farm animals. As the pain dulled and my arms returned to life, I took in the gruesome scene, trying to come up with an explanation for the poison.
But the vial was nowhere to be seen. Neither were the bonds I had originally broken with the corkscrew, or the bloody corkscrew. Either the Fritzes had already found them—probably not the case, considering I didn’t have a noose around my neck—or, before leaving, Daniil had staged our scene one last time. Gathered any evidence that pointed to the Young Avengers or discredited my story. Ensured the Fritzes would never suspect me, Katya, or her family.
A savior, Daniil Ivanovich was.
“What happened here?” Alscher demanded.
“I . . . I think it was her all along.” I met his gaze with wide eyes before dropping my voice. “Zina.”
Alscher sat in rapt attention while I fed him my story. That I had confronted Zina last evening, suspecting she had been poisoning the meals without my knowledge; it was the only way to explain why the men had gotten sick after she delivered the plates I had prepared, but I had been fine after eating the same unserved food. That I had intended to gather proof before taking my theory to Alscher, but she had struck me. Said she hated the soldiers; called me a traitor for my planned report. Knocked me unconscious and tossed me into the pantry. And when I roused, it must have been a few minutes later and Friedrich must have overheard the commotion and come to investigate, because I heard his voice, then startled cries and a gunshot.
When I finished forcing my way through the lies, silently assuring Zina it was noble of her to take the blame to protect my work, Alscher spoke with another officer, presumably relaying my story. I waited, hoping he would draw the intended conclusions: Zina had stabbed Friedrich, then he had shot her before both succumbed to their injuries.
I stared at the glass of water in my tight grip—one I was permitted to drink after Alscher had doused me with the first. Were my hands still red, coated in hot, sticky blood? When I looked again, the glass was the knife, my hands tinged crimson.
“Clean yourself up.”
I nearly jumped at Alscher’s order, while his eyes roamed over the bloodstains on my clothes. To poison a man was one matter, but to kill him with my own hands left my mouth tasting like belladonna, its bitterness coating my tongue and sliding down my throat.
The bodies. Was I supposed to remove them? I resolved not to ask. No need to put ideas in Alscher’s head.
I wet the cloth but had no time to wipe the blood from my clothes before the kitchen door swung open again, then German voices broke through the rush of water pouring from the faucet.
Two soldiers entered, dragging a tall, dark-haired young man between them. Handcuffed, blood pouring from a gash on his forehead and into one eye; he looked to me, but I was too busy swallowing a gasp to read what I found in those rich brown depths.
My fear all along: betrayal.
When Daniil’s captors pulled him to a halt, his gaze darted from me to the corpses before he fixed Alscher with a deadly glare. “Nadya didn’t come by last night. Why didn’t she come by?” He drew a sharp breath and took a forcible step closer, despite his guards’ resistance. “Son of a bitch, answer me! Why did you keep her here?”
No, not betrayed, not if he was using my alias and attempting a ruse . . . Had he come back?
His voice trembled in a way that nearly had me convinced—as though he were truly furious, truly terrified of the unspeakable reasons I might have been detained—before he looked to me. All eyes followed.
“Nadyushka.” Strained yet softer around its edges as he took in the cuts on my face. “What have they done?”
So sincere. So concerned. A most convincing act.
Before I could attempt a response, the Germans started prattling, then Alscher addressed Daniil. “Sneaking around the perimeters, were you? Not a bright decision if you wanted to stay alive.”
“I was trying to find someone to ask about her whereabouts.”
“Is that so?” The words weren’t mocking, simply observant, which was almost worse. Alscher looked him up and down. “Do you know what we do with Red spies?”
Daniil’s lips quirked into a little grin as he dipped his head toward the corpses. “Let me guess: spies?”
He probably expected the blow as much as I did; when Alscher’s fist met his jaw, he responded with nothing more than a little grunt. As Daniil spat blood from his mouth, Alscher crossed toward me in a few strides and grabbed my arm, drawing a gasp from my throat. He hauled me off the stool while Daniil strained against his captors; they held him securely until I stood before him.
“Her name?”
“Nadezhda Olegovna Kharitonova,” he responded without hesitation.
“And his?”
“Aleksandr Stepanovich Averin.” I named his alias with just as much assurance, despite a slight strain. Then, softly, “Sasha.”
Daniil held my gaze, tried to move closer again. Whether for the ruse or involuntarily, I wasn’t certain.
Alscher spent a few more minutes quizzing us until he finally shoved me away. “While you’re here, you can make yourself useful,” he said to Daniil, jerking his head toward the corpses. “Give my soldier a proper burial. The woman will be a reminder of what awaits those who defy the Reich.”
Daniil gave no reaction, though the eye unobscured by blood glistened with hatred.
“And you.” Alscher took my chin between his gloved fingers—firm enough to make me tense. “I can find any number of peasants to take your place. Shall I make an example of you, too?”
My terror, my ignorance, my desperation, always what he sought to reassure himself of my obedience. He pressed his pistol between my eyes, eliciting my gasp.
“Please, I’ve done nothing wrong.”
