Galina shuddered. She turned to Musa. Eyes shining, she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I will never forget this day.”
“Nor I,” Musa said quietly. He placed a hand on Filip’s shoulder. “Your wife is cold. We should be going. There is a very good stamp dealer near my apartment. We can stop there on the way.”
“I have no…” Filip faltered, torn between responsibility and desire.
“My treat, old man. For old times’ sake.”
While they walked, Musa filled them in; how, after leaving school, he had worked at one of Yalta’s better seaside restaurants, learning the culinary craft and perfecting German in his spare time. They all knew that people from the Tatar villages were less likely to be taken to labor camps, those villages being a key source of provisions and information for the occupying forces. Through the restaurant, Musa had caught the eye of a Nazi colonel who took him on as his personal cook and interpreter, attached him to his staff, and arranged to keep him on when he received orders to return to Germany.
“Then you’re a…” Galina could not get the word traitor out. She blushed deeply and lowered her eyes.
“Call it what you will. You Russians are in a tough spot there, caught between the monster at home and the tyrant who wants his land. Hitler’s plan is to decimate the Slavic population, or reduce it to slavery, working for good Aryan colonizers, while he and his circle enjoy the heavenly Crimean climate and feast on your delectable fruit. Here, take some more of this.” He served them veal schnitzel left over from the colonel’s table, with fresh peas and wide buttered—buttered!—noodles. Galina could not be sure, after the rich dinner and half a glass of wine, whether his hand had brushed her arm by accident or by design. The gesture annoyed her, but she was too dulled by the welcome warmth of the room and the comfort of real food to give it much meaning. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she felt a vague stirring of urgency; they had to get back to the train station, where she knew her parents would be worried about their long absence. But for the moment, she was blissfully content.
“…the Ukrainians, the ones who work the land, raise the livestock and grow the food, they have it much, much worse,” Musa was saying. He refilled Filip’s wine glass, then his own. “It’s ironic, don’t you think? Persecuting the very people whose labor is most essential to your survival.”
“And the Jews?” Filip ventured, no longer caring how safe it was to talk freely with this man of questionable allegiance. He was unable to stifle his own curiosity; there had been so little reliable information. And the wine had gone to his head.
“Well, yes, the Jews, of course. Unfortunately for them, Hitler has never considered their contribution as essential to society, nothing that can’t be done as well, or better, by beautiful upstanding blue-eyed Christians. No, they can simply be disposed of.” He sipped his wine, then added quickly, noticing how both his guests had gone pale. “I’m not saying I agree. History will sort it out. Right now, it’s everyone for himself. Chocolates? They’re very good. Made right here in Dresden.”
“How do you mean, disposed of?” Filip reached for a bonbon but did not eat it, placing the square confection on the edge of his plate. “We were told they all got passage to Palestine.”
“Palestine,” Musa snorted. “They might be dreaming of Palestine, if the dead can dream.”
“Avram…” Filip blinked rapidly, as if trying to erase the image of the kindly grocer, an echo of the gruff voice rumbling in his ears. “Surely not…”
“I don’t know your Avram, but I doubt his fate was different from the others. Sadly, this is one area where Hitler and our Comrade Stalin were in agreement. I thought you knew. I’m sorry to have spoiled our pleasant evening like this.”
Galina rose and began to clear the dishes. “We must go, Filip. How far is it to the train station?” The uneaten chocolate square fell off the edge of Filip’s plate and rolled, like gambler’s dice, several times before landing facedown on the tablecloth. For a moment, no one spoke.
Musa cleared his throat. “There is a curfew. Nine o’clock. The train station is too far for you to get there in time. The colonel has a car, but I could not use it to drive you there, even if it were available this evening.”
“So let’s go now, quickly!” Just then, the child flipped and kicked, forcing Galina to sit down heavily on her chair. Musa placed a light hand on her shoulder and ran it down her arm. “Don’t touch me,” she said, her eyes steely and her voice expressionless. Coward was the word in her mind, but she restrained herself. She could not wait to get away from this despicable man.
“It’s better if you sleep here. I must leave early myself, to prepare the colonel’s breakfast. I will show you the way.”
They wasted more time arguing, Musa countering all her objections with calm, infuriating logic: “If you are stopped after curfew, you will be detained and miss your train. Your parents will be forced to leave without you.” These last words defeated her; she had to concede there was no alternative. Through it all, Filip remained unaccountably silent.
They placed three chairs against the length of the narrow bed, pulling the mattress partly onto the seats, filling the gap with extra blankets. Galina lay down first, facing the wall, with Filip next to her and Musa on the chairs.
In the morning they took to the streets almost at a run, weaving among preoccupied people on their way to work or some equally pressing purpose. The train station turned out to be closer than Musa had suggested the night before.
“We could have left after dinner,” Galina said. “Instead of worrying my parents and sleeping with that collaborator.”
“Collaborator? You could call him that. More like an opportunist, I’d say. And what about your father, and all those Nazis coming to your apartment to pick up their pins and carved boxes?”
“How dare you! My father accepted their orders because he’s a craftsman, and unlike our own people, those officers had money to spend. But he never served them breakfast or polished their boots. And he never told them anything.”
“Don’t be angry, Galya. I’m only saying he did business with the enemy, and took the food parcels they brought him while everyone else subsisted on rations. I never said he was a spy.”
“Everyone else would have done the same, given the chance, and you know it. As if you ever turned down a bite of that extra food! And what about your work interpreting? What do you call that?”
“That was in a labor camp. I’m not much good at digging ditches or hauling rocks.” He yawned. “That was the most uncomfortable night, but the food was good.”
“I don’t know why he was so generous. How well did you know him?”
“He’s two or three years older. We met while buying stamps at a collectors’ shop in town. Made some good trades, too. I don’t know what came over him. Maybe he’s homesick.” He did not mention the hand resting on his waist, or the erection pressed against the back of his thigh, Musa whispering, “I know you’re not asleep,” his voice thick with wine. Filip first not breathing at all, then imitating the rhythm of deep slumber, until the older man’s body went slack, his soft snoring hot on the back of Filip’s neck. “Who knows why his colonel found him valuable enough to bring along? Forget him.”
When they found the others, Galina broke down weeping into her father’s arms. “Nu, nu,” he crooned, smoothing her hair. “Stop, now.” Amid apologies and explanations, Ilya told them what he and Ksenia had learned.