The Huntress. Kate Quinn
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throttle his wife was now warring with the urge to laugh. “Well, help me clear up my Soviet bride’s mess.”
“She was putting files away as she read. It’s not that bad.”
“Without order lies madness.” Ian believed that in his bones.
With order came peace and law; without it lay war and blood. He’d seen enough of both to know it was true.
He locked that thought away as Tony sat back on his heels and asked, “When do we head for Salzburg, and are we taking your Soviet bride?”
“I don’t know.” Ian paused. “What does luchik mean?”
Tony grinned. “‘Little ray of sunshine.’”
“Does it bother you that she’s a Soviet?” Ian knew how suspicious the Yanks were of the Reds these days. Five short years from the end of the war, and benevolent ally Uncle Joe had become everyone’s enemy, but the Americans seemed more paranoid about the Communist Menace than anyone.
“She hasn’t gone around quoting Das Kapital. She hasn’t done anything except desecrate your tea and lie about her origins, and there are plenty of reasons for people to do the latter.” Tony slid a cabinet drawer shut. “We listen to lies day in and day out, not just from war criminals. Refugees and good guys lie too. About whether they’re Jewish or gentile, about their war record or their imprisonment record, about their health and their age and how they got their papers. Good reasons or bad, everybody lies.”
“Maybe.” Ian rose. “It’s time I talked to Nina. Will you smooth Frau Hummel over, make sure we aren’t being evicted?”
“Some glamour in this job,” Tony groused amiably, slouching out. “Become a Nazi hunter for the thrills, and it’s all paperwork and sweet-talking the landlady …”
Nina padded out of the washroom, tossing Ian’s shirt at his desk and sending more papers to the floor in a shower. Ian ignored that, fixing his wife with a level stare.
“You aren’t Polish. Let’s dispense with that lie first. You’re Russian.”
Nina looked up at him, wariness falling across her face. Then she shrugged. “Yes.”
Ian blinked, so braced for a denial that her acknowledgment caught him off guard. “You aren’t denying it?”
“Why?”
“You told me you were Polish. In the Red Cross hospital—”
“No.” Her eyes were as opaque and bottomless as two blue lakes. “You assumed. I let you.”
He tried to remember. Nineteen forty-five, the steely hospital scent of antiseptic over blood. Nina still half starved and woozy from pneumonia, Ian desperate for answers about his brother. The language barrier, the chaos all around. No, Ian thought, she hadn’t said she was Polish. A girl found near Poznań, with the name Nina, which was so common in Poland … everyone assumed. “Why did you let everyone think you were Polish?”
“Easier.” She flopped into his chair, propping her disreputable boots on the desk. “I wasn’t going home. I say I’m Soviet, is where they’d send me.”
“Where is home, exactly?”
“Go east through Siberia until you fall off the world edge into a lake as big as the sky. All taiga and water witches and ice eating railway stations whole; everything needs you dead and everybody wants to leave.” Amusement gleamed in her eyes. “Would you go back?”
“If my family were there.” He’d cross Siberia barefoot if his brother were at the end of it.
“My family isn’t.” If there was pain in her eyes, it flickered by too fast for Ian to catch. “I spend my whole life going as far west as I can from that lake. Poland? Is just the next stop.”
“Dangerous. You were nearly dead when the Red Cross found you.”
“I’m hard to kill.”
Ian pulled up a chair, gazing at Nina across the desk. She gazed back, unblinking. “Where were you trying to go after Poland?”
“As far west as I can without falling off that edge of the world. You help me get to England, I look around and think not bad. It’s ugly, there’s rationing, but the ice in winter doesn’t eat you alive.”
“How does a Soviet girl end up in Poland in the first place?”
“Assigned to the front. Surprised? Soviets, they use women in their wars, not just for factory jobs or behind desks.”
Ian knew something about that. One of his fellow war correspondents, a motherly-looking American woman with nerves of gunmetal, had written a pointed article for her paper about how Soviet women were employed as tank drivers and machine gunners, whereas the great and enlightened United States of America just told their women to plant Victory gardens, and be thrifty with their bacon grease. Ian looked at his wife from the Siberian wastes and wasn’t terribly surprised to discover she had been assigned to the front. No wonder we won the war.
“So,” he said at last, “you defected.”
“Not so official as that, luchik.” She grinned. “You think I go to an embassy, ask for asylum? I see chance in chaos, I take it.”
“Not very patriotic,” he couldn’t help observing. “Walking away from your countrymen in the middle of a war.”
Her smile disappeared. “My countrymen, they want to stand me against a wall and shoot me.”
“Why?”
“Is Stalin’s world, Stalin’s rule. Who needs a why?”
“I do.”
“Not your business.”
“Yes, it is.” He linked his hands behind his head, not backing down from their stare. “You’re my wife. I gave you my name, you got your citizenship through me. You and your past and anything else I helped you bring to my country are very much my business.”
Her lips remained sealed.
“Did my brother know?” Ian asked, changing tack. “When he promised he’d get you safe to England if you both lived, did he know you were a Soviet?”
“Yes.” No hesitation there.
“Why would he make such a promise? Was it an affair? Love in a time of war?” Ian held his breath, waiting. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard of desperate women escaping war zones by finding a dead soldier’s belongings and making up a tragic wartime romance when his grieving family came around. Only Ian knew that for his little brother, that was unlikely. He waited for Nina to step into the lie … hoping, he realized, that she wouldn’t. So far she’d only misdirected him. Now, he realized just how badly he wanted his wife not to be a liar.
“Lovers, Seb and me?” Nina laughed outright, shaking her head. “No. He liked the boys.”
Ian let out his breath. “Yes, he did.” Seb had told him that the night their father died, so drunk he could hardly stand. It hadn’t shocked Ian particularly. You didn’t spend years in an English public school without knowing exactly what two males could do together if they had the inclination. You don’t look surprised, Seb had slurred, not only drunk but in tears by then.
I’m not, Ian had answered. Chagrined, maybe—he knew full well how this would complicate and endanger his little brother’s life—but not surprised. I’ve never seen you even look at a girl, Seb.
I don’t know anything about girls. A hazy wave indicating the all-male household where they’d grown up, the all-boys’ schools. Maybe I’ll grow out of it?
Maybe you will. If you don’t, well, you’ll have to keep your head down and be careful, but it’s more common than you