“Was Schroeder in on that with you?”
Detwiler did not answer. As far as he was concerned, the conversation had ended. They had reached the north side of town, where the River Road ran diagonally from the east toward the west. The houses, spaced well apart at this end, were large, some even two-storied. The homes probably belonged to wealthy farmers before the revolution, Angst thought, and then later, under the Bolsheviks, the local party leaders. The houses varied in the degree of damage; all were looted and several partially burned. “Why don’t you look these over,” Detwiler said, indicating the three houses nearest the square, “While I scout further down the road?” He headed east, in the direction of the workers’ settlement, lugging the heavy MG42 over one shoulder and a belt of ammunition over the other. The weight did not seem to hamper his stride. Angst decided on a house, one of three that was nearest the square, as the lieutenant had requested, which from outward appearances possessed the least damage. The sloping tin roof was blemished with rust, and the gray wash on the planking had become streaked with chalking. An attempt had been made to burn the place; a section of the wood siding on the left side of the house was blackened with soot. No doubt the weather had dampened the flames and saved it from conflagration. What appeared to be draperies of a dull mustard color lay in a sodden pile on the ground in the front yard. A lavender-colored door, blistered and peeling, stood open. Angst stepped up on to the small stoop, entered, and took in the first floor at a glance. A small round-topped table lay overturned on the floor, and the only other piece of furniture was a tatty upholstered chair. The ghost outline of framed wall hangings was evident on the crème-colored walls. Although now empty, Angst sensed the house had once been furnished in a typically German middle-class manner, or at least as much as was possible under the circumstances, way out here in the wild eastern frontier. A small pantry lay to his left, the stove tiles smashed, and to the rear was a parlor or sitting room. He did not venture deeper into the house but immediately climbed the stairs to the second floor. A loft space had been converted into two bedrooms. Dust balls remained from where the furniture had been carted away. A cracked mirror leaned against a wall. Something caught his eye, an object on the floor, and he picked it up. It was a faux tortoiseshell ladies compact. He put it in his pocket. A musky fragrance lingered, perfume, and a rough human odor that was not entirely unpleasant. He heard thumping down below and called out “Detwiler, I’m up here.” There was no response so he returned to the first floor. The machine gunner was nowhere in sight. “Detwiler,” he called again. He walked into the parlor. The room smelled of stale beer, and he immediately understood why. At the far wall to the right was a small bar with two stools. The shelving that formed the back bar had been ransacked. Broken bottles and splinters of glass lay on the floor. Automatically, he stepped around behind the bar to see if any schnapps or whatever dregs might be stored underneath and had not been consumed by the bandits outside. What he saw took him by such surprise it took several moments to register. A red floral-patterned fabric stretched tightly across a wide, pear-shaped bottom. Someone knelt on all fours, a woman, in an effort to hide. The worn cloth slippers showed the callused heels of her feet. He poked her in the bum with a toe. “Rukiye verch!” he practically screamed. The woman scrambled to her feet and uttered a short cry. She turned and looked at Angst with bulging brown eyes. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” She shook her head to both questions. “Rooska-ya?” This she understood and kept nodding. He motioned for her to come out from behind the bar, waving the submachine gun threateningly. He told her to sit down and pointed the muzzle of his weapon at a barstool. “Elenya,” she said, introducing herself, and spoke in Russian or Ukrainian. Angst could not distinguish between the two languages. He then heard words spoken in German, but her accent was so deplorable, he found it difficult to follow. It sounded as though she had been a maid or cook for some colonel and the “railroad men.” Then she uttered something that sounded like “Don’t hurt us.”
“‘Don’t hurt us’? Is that what you said? Who else is here?”
Elenya did not understand, or pretended not to. She looked to be in her late twenties and, by her ample figure, well provided for. Her light brown hair was fastened with a mother-of-pearl barrette. She was breathing in short gasps, as if hyperventilating. “Don’t be afraid,” Angst said. “I’m not with that scum outside, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Fingering the dark gray patch with field gray stripes on the collar of his field tunic, he added, “See, regular army. Not SS.”
The young woman did not know how to respond. She gaped at the collar insignia, not knowing whether to look with seriousness or to smile. She tried the smile, coquettish and a little clumsy, and the color gradually returned to her cheeks.
“Are you here alone, or is there someone else? Please tell me. No one will hurt you. The SS men are leaving soon. My lieutenant will make sure that nothing happens to you. He’s a decent fellow.” Elenya crossed her arms and shook her head and prattled on in Russian. Angst decided to search the house again. “Stay here and don’t move,” he said loudly, as if the timbre of his voice would be translation enough. There was a door to the left of the room, and as he went toward it, he could hear Elenya gasp quietly. “Behind here? Inside?” he asked, but before he reached to turn the knob, the door opened of its own accord. Angst brought up the submachine gun. A pale, thin brunette stood in the doorway and regarded Angst and his pointing weapon with relative unconcern. She could have been attractive at one time, Angst thought, but now, in her late thirties, the finer, more appealing aspects of her face had aged and hardened. She wore a dark gray skirt and suit jacket and a pale gray blouse. There were no insignias or badges, but the clothes were definitely Wehrmacht. “There is one more in there,” the woman said in fluent German, “Valeria. She’s not well.”
“Come in here, Fräulein, and take a seat.” After she stepped aside, Angst peered into a small room cluttered with worn sofa pillows, curtains, lampshades, and boxes. A girl in her late teens sat on a small pile of luggage, dressed for traveling. A scarf was tied about her head, and she wore a raincoat and rubber boots. A small valise lay on her lap. “Will you step in here, please?” The girl did not move; she seemed to shrink deeper into herself and continued to stare at the same spot on the floor. “What’s the matter with her?”
The brunette sneered at the question. “Are you joking? With all the goings on around here, had we been discovered, we would be hung along with the rest. And a whole lot worse besides.”
“Come and get her. Bring her out.”
The woman did as she was told. “Get up, Valeria. It’s all right.” She coaxed the girl to her feet, still holding onto the handle of her little valise, eyes remaining downcast as she skirted past Angst. The thin woman slid the upholstered armchair from the foyer into the parlor and made Valeria sit down. “You’re German, aren’t you?” Angst said. The woman nodded. “I’m from Hamburg, originally. Monika Glammers. Elenya you have already met, and that poor creature sitting over there is Valeria. Have you a cigarette?” Monika went over to the bar and stood facing Angst, her elbows leaning on the bar top. Her bearing struck him as defiant. He continued to look at the fabric and cut of her jacket: field gray, like his own. “You’re an employee of the Wehrmacht.”