A Shadow in Moscow, page 8
“I hoped you might come with me.”
“What?” Ingrid pulled her neck back sharply. “Come with you? To Moscow?”
Leo laughed. “It’s not frightening, and why does it shock you?”
Despite the cool day, Ingrid felt Leo’s hands, wrapped around her own, grow sticky.
“This is not how I wanted t-to ask.” His voice caught on his nerves and broke between them. “I wanted to give you more time . . . I want to care for you, protect you, but I leave next week.”
Heat climbed a red streak from his neck to his cheeks. “I’m trying to ask you to marry me. Not well . . . Poorly in fact, but . . . Will you marry me, Ingrid Bauer?”
Ingrid Bauer.
Ingrid felt the lie open within her. She still carried the false papers, and after so many years, she had made them her own. Her father had been right from the very beginning—Stalin had been more powerful than Hitler. When the war ended, the Soviets (after switching sides and joining the Allies) controlled most of Vienna. So Ingrid, finding herself without work and without a family, had put her true surname, von Alton, away forever and reinvented herself once again.
With her landlady’s help she mastered the Russian language until her fluency matched her German, her English, and her French. Then she marched into the People’s Civil and Administrative Bureau to apply for a job, for no other reason than the familiarity that, as the Third Reich’s Economic and Administrative Office, she had worked within its walls.
She sat poised on the edge of sharing secrets she didn’t dare touch anymore, when a memory carried her to Adam Weber. She felt anew the electric surge she had experienced whenever near him. How differently she reacted to Leo. With Adam, despite the distance he put between them, she couldn’t bear to lose him—so she had sent him away, hiding from him the last time he came to Vienna to search for her. Everyone she loved, she lost. Could she let go of Leo now? Would she—?
“Ingrid?”
Could she have more courage now than she had ten years ago? Could she go with Leo rather than send him away? He was gentle, kind, and caring. He loved her and would surely understand when she told him everything. They could have a good life together. It could be enough.
Perhaps, she thought, letting her mind drift further, that was the difference in finding love at twenty-one versus thirty-one; the difference in loving in the midst of war versus finding it in war’s prolonged aftermath; the difference in a love crashing over you versus one found in mutual pain, loss, and the reality that life was and always would be a struggle.
Yes, it will be enough. “I will,” she said simply.
“You will?” Leo blinked.
“You didn’t expect that?” Ingrid leaned away, but Leo gripped her hand tighter.
“No. Yes. I wanted you to say yes, but I anticipated needing a more convincing argument. I prepared a speech.”
Ingrid laughed. Four years her senior, Leo looked young and eager, almost vulnerable. “You can give it now.”
“No,” he demurred. “It wasn’t eloquent. I’ll stop now since you think this is a good idea.” He bent his head toward her but shifted before contact and dropped a brief kiss high on her cheek rather than her lips.
Ingrid twisted to see behind her again. Two men in full Soviet military uniform had just stepped from the building’s front door and stood at the top of the stone steps. As they surveyed the park, one raised his hand to Leo.
She didn’t recognize them, but by the straightening of Leo’s spine, one hand absently smoothing a wayward clump of hair as the other waved in reply, she knew he did.
“It’s probably okay now that we’re engaged,” Ingrid whispered.
Red once again crawled up his neck. This time it spread all the way to the tips of his ears. Leo shook his head. “But you should definitely call me Leo now.”
With that he shifted to face out into the park once more, and still holding tight to her hand, he closed his eyes and tilted his face to the sun.
* * *
“He has aspirations and this will not sit well.”
Ingrid’s coworker Svetlana’s words returned to her once more. Ingrid had denied her friend at first, laughing off her warning. But now she wondered.
She rounded a pillar and, hidden from view, regarded her fiancé more closely. He stood near the altar of one of the Votivkirche’s gilded and resplendent side chapels and looked the epitome of calm control in his uniform. Then he swiped a hand at his hair, marring its sleek perfection. Moments later he pulled at his collar. Watching the cracks in his armor expand before her eyes, Ingrid regretted her insistence on a church wedding.
Days earlier Leo hadn’t chafed at her request, at least not that Ingrid could tell. He had merely replied, “A church service? Religion is something we’ve moved beyond at home.” He then let her plan what she wanted and said nothing more.
Yet he cut the service to its bare bones.
He also cut the guest list.
While colleagues and friends had been invited to the hastily organized dinner the night before, only the most essential had been told about the morning service. Two friends to serve as witnesses.
It hadn’t bothered Ingrid until now. Watching his discomfiture, she wondered why Leo hadn’t been forthright about his feelings. She lifted a swath of her white dress and wondered the same about herself.
After last night’s boisterous dinner, full of toasts and speeches, she had walked Leo to her childhood home on Grillparzerstrasse. The white stone-and-brick building stood fully restored in Vienna’s American quarter. Window boxes overflowed with fresh blooms and sidewalks were scrubbed and swept clean.
She hadn’t returned to that block in years, and it brought back memories of more desolate days, with empty window boxes, shuttered windows, and suspicious neighbors. Then came images from the last day with a tidal wave of despair that still threatened to pull her under.
Standing across the street, facing the building rather than her fiancé, Ingrid had shared the story of her parents and their lives together, ending with, “That’s when Adam clamped his hand over my mouth and pulled me away.”
“Adam? You have never mentioned him.”
Turning to walk back toward the Soviet district, Ingrid kept her eyes trained on the sidewalk and missed the reactions of the man next to her.
“He was German but grew up mostly in England. He worked as a junior instructor at the University, but really he served in Britain’s Foreign Services. I suppose we’d call him a spy.”
She continued as they crossed the street. “There were two of them. Adam created and ran resistance networks, and Martin, a demolitions expert who ran the wireless, was on loan to Britain from America. He didn’t have a cover, so he had to hide more. It was like he was invisible. A shadow. No one could vanish like Martin. He died in the bombing that hurt my shoulder, and Adam . . . I suppose Adam returned to England after everything ended. I can’t imagine he’d ever go back to Germany.”
“You loved him.” Leo didn’t define “him,” nor did his quietly spoken words lilt in question. They dropped like stones onto the pavement.
“Martin, like a brother. And Adam . . . I was a girl, a foolish girl.” Ingrid had walked on, missing the change in the moment. “It was a long time ago.” She finally noted the chill resting between them. “You can’t be jealous.”
Leo shook his head. “Not jealous . . . How close were you to the British during the war?”
His tone caught her. It wasn’t curious; it was considering.
“They were your Allies, you know?” She smiled. Leo did not. “And my mother was British.” The defensive words spilled out of Ingrid even as a quickening deep inside told her to keep silent. She rushed on, striving to make whatever felt wrong grow warm and right again. “She was on holiday near Vienna after the Great War. She met and married my father here and never returned home.”
“Bauer is a Russian name. I always assumed your mother, like your father, was of Russian heritage.”
Although he hadn’t phrased it as such, Ingrid knew he was asking a question. He wanted further clarity. Clarity that a soft second instinct told her not to provide. She merely shrugged, tucking the next story she had intended to share—that of her false identity card and her true name—safely away.
They walked in silence through the checkpoint and returned to the Soviet quarter. Ingrid glanced back as the barricade dropped between the two quarters. It was goodbye, and she didn’t move, couldn’t move, until Leo put a gentle hand to her back and led her away.
They walked another block before he spoke again. “In your security interviews, did you lie?”
He was referring to her annual NKVD interviews, which had recently been reformatted by the KGB, the newest iteration of the Soviet Union’s Committee of State Security.
“Lie about what?” Ingrid stopped walking.
“In Moscow . . . there are few foreigners.”
“I’m Austrian. People may assume my family migrated from Russia, but I’ve never lied like that, and I never mentioned my mother was British because no one ever asked. What does it matter?” She tugged at his arm. “What are you not saying?”
Leo tilted his head, considering. “I accept my promotion on Monday.”
Ingrid blinked.
His gaze drifted up and over her as if he were making a pact with something unknown and beyond her. His chest rose and fell with several breaths before he spoke again. “You need not share that information now. Or ever. I’m sure no one will ask and your interviews must always remain consistent.”
“Why wouldn’t they? I’ve never lied in them.”
Leo’s mustache tipped up, but his eyes did not crinkle with the expression. “But you’ve never mentioned this before tonight either. German, Austrian . . . we can accept. But tensions are growing with the West. It’s best not to show interest and never any affiliation.” He drew her close and rested his chin atop her head. “You understand, yes?”
His question sounded so innocent, yet his arms, so strong and sure, felt like iron wrapped in velvet. Ingrid left his query unanswered.
Now, peeking from behind the pillar once more, she wondered how to answer. If she should answer. Was she ready to give up her past? It might be one of pain, but it was her past, her story, and it was filled with everyone she’d ever loved. Could she deny them, pretend they didn’t exist? Or had she surrendered the right to hold on to her past long ago when her father forged her papers and she took them?
Leo’s gaze shifted from the depth of the church and collided with her own. His eyes softened as he stared at her with loving steadiness. His calm command soothed her nerves and her misgivings and made her feel as though the night before never happened. Certain she’d imagined the strain between them, she smiled back as the quartet, seated to the right of the chapel’s altar, began the first notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D.
“Stop being oversensitive,” she whispered to herself. It was absurd to expect Leo to be more or less than he was. He was simply Leo—and he’d been gone to Moscow for so long, she’d simply forgotten his quirks. He loathed surprises and never stepped out of line. He found safety in protocol and flourished with clear directives. Total commitment along his chosen path—perfect integration of action, motivation, body, and soul. His discomfiture wasn’t an aberration. It aligned with all she knew and loved about him. He was her safe, calm harbor after a decade of tumult.
Alone, Ingrid took her first steps.
Twenty minutes later, her hand clasped within Leo’s, she took her last—out of the chapel and into a waiting Soviet Volga sedan. It zoomed through light Saturday traffic to the small reception her new husband had planned.
Within moments the car turned onto the Kärntner Ring and pulled to a stop at the Hotel Imperial. Leo beamed with pride as he helped her from the car.
Ingrid faltered once again, caught between the past and the present, but she kept her face still. The Hotel Imperial. Though it was once a place she’d cherished, she hadn’t stepped foot within the building in almost twenty years. During her childhood, her mother had taken her there for tea the first Saturday of every month. Then they’d go shopping. But all that changed on March 14, 1938, the day Hitler rolled into the city, claiming Austria for his own. He had arrived two days after his troops, to assure himself a warm and victorious welcome, but he needn’t have waited, Ingrid’s mother relayed with derision. Vienna had welcomed him with crowds ten deep—that was before they knew the terror he’d rain down upon them. The arrests, the deportations, the restrictive laws, and the killings began only days later.
Swallowing down the memories, Ingrid let Leo lead her across the red-carpeted entrance and through the hotel’s opulent lobby to a small ballroom facing the hotel’s inner courtyard. The walls were covered in gold brocade from ceiling to chair railing. The curtains, royal blue with gold trim, made her feel like she was moving through stars burnishing a midnight sky. Crystal chandeliers completed the fantasy, sending a summer shower of diamond shards of light dancing across the high-polished, deep-toned wood flooring.
A group of their coworkers stood with champagne glasses in hand. Another quartet played music Ingrid didn’t recognize in the ballroom’s far corner.
She found her closest friend, Svetlana, in the gathering. The taller woman raised her glass before enveloping Ingrid in a quick hug. “This is a happy day.”
Ingrid felt tears brimming in her eyes. “It is, but . . .”
Svetlana hugged her again. “It’s goodbye too.”
Ingrid let her friend misunderstand. A waiter with a silver tray full of small glasses pressed near. Ingrid grabbed one and drank deep. She choked as the liquid burned down her throat.
Svetlana laughed. “Careful, little one. That’s not water. Vodka.” With a raised brow Svetlana took a glass for herself and gestured for Ingrid to take another.
Ingrid noted other servers holding high similar trays. Once everyone was served, Leo’s boss, Comrade Lebedev, raised his glass high and bellowed, “Górko!”
“Bitter?” Ingrid hesitated, interpreting the word to a more common Russian synonym.
Leo stepped beside her and slipped an arm around her waist. “It’s a custom. Vodka is bitter. It needs a kiss to sweeten it.” He laid a gentle kiss on her lips.
The room yelled, “Górko!” again and drank.
Three toasts and three kisses later, guests began to make their way to the linen-draped tables laden with food at the far end of the room. Comrade Lebedev drew beside the bride and groom.
“Now to Moscow.” He pounded Leo on the back. “Good luck to you, Comrade.” He turned to Ingrid. “Will you be happy to go home, Inga?”
Ingrid smiled. “I’ll be happy to make it my home, but I have never been to Moscow, Comrade Lebedev.”
“Your accent . . . You are so proficient I often forget you are Austrian.” Comrade Lebedev, absorbing this remembered revelation, nodded to himself and continued his walk toward the food.
Leo stalled and drew Ingrid’s hand to his chest. “Let’s dance.”
Turning back, Lebedev waved them on. “This is your day. Spin about the floor.”
Leo led Ingrid to the center of the room, near the musicians and away from the guests.
She laughed. “In all the time I’ve worked in that office, he has never once gotten my name right.”
Leo drew her close. “Your Austrian heritage will obviously come up in your annual reviews, but it is wise not to share it in the everyday world. Perhaps his nickname for you is best. It’s Russian and only a syllable from your own.”
“‘Inga’? Why would I do that? You said being Austrian wasn’t a problem. ‘We can accept.’ Those were your words last night.”
“I remember what I said.” Leo pulled back. “Comrade General Secretary Khrushchev is implementing important reforms, but there is still prejudice. I tried to say it last night, but . . .” He glanced around. “Outsiders are not well received. One comment. One pointed finger could ruin you, and me. No one can find out. We must give no one a reason to wonder or examine us closely.”
“You always knew I was Austrian.”
“But there’s more to it now, isn’t there?” Leo kissed her forehead. “You’ll find it’s not so hard. No one will ask . . . We are a private people.”
Ingrid followed his steps across the dance floor as she parsed through the layers within his statement. She thought she’d find fear or paranoia in his expression, as his request brimmed with both, but she had not. Ingrid had seen only a firm resolve within her husband’s dark eyes.
She peered across the room to their guests. Everyone was laughing and drinking. Her gaze collided with Svetlana, whose admonition returned, once again, with force and encompassed far more than a church wedding.
“He has aspirations and this will not sit well.”
* * *
“To Moscow. To home.”
Leo’s voice rang with pride as Ingrid surveyed their train compartment. It was wood paneled and, though aged, still held the elegance of the interwar years when people traveled for pleasure and business rather than to move men and munitions. Memories of similar compartments and childhood trips faded away as Leo nuzzled her neck.
The train jerked into motion and Ingrid tried to balance herself by pressing both hands against Leo’s chest but failed as he dipped her low in a kiss. Pulling her upright again, Leo guided her toward their sleeper compartment’s bench and the narrow ladder to its side.
He smiled down at her. “It was a beautiful day, wasn’t it?”
With that, he lifted her into his arms and, after gently peeling back each layer of clothing, guided her up the ladder to their narrow bed, which she found—when tucked close in love—fit two people perfectly.
As the train rolled north into the night, Ingrid, wrapped within Leo’s embrace, drifted in and out of sleep. Questions resurfaced in the form of images within her dreams. A workroom. Cut wood. Winter. A quiet man. A carpenter. Tales told. Voices raised.
