Aleksandra Read online

  "I'm not sure this is any better than walking," he muttered.

  Aleksandra's laughter surprised him, but he basked in the light, airy sound. In those few moments, the heaviness plaguing him since he'd left home lightened, and he caught a glimpse of the man he used to be before the war.

  "I am," she said. "My feet hurt. However, if we ride too long, I think my rear-end will hurt just as much. At least it will get my mind off the aches everywhere else." He didn't think she looked too unhappy about it, though. In fact, he would swear she was quite content riding in the back of this truck.

  "You're not going to answer my question about your family, are you? If it's bad, talking about it can sometimes help."

  The last glimpse he had of his mother and father as the Nazis dragged them away popped into his mind. He fought the raging anger as it coursed through every cell in his body. "If I wanted to talk about it, I would." He felt her body stiffen, the hurt his words caused beating at him. Stiff-armed, he leaned his weight on his hands, which clutched the edge of the pickup bed for whatever support he could get. Breathing out some of the pent-up rage, he forced his body to relax, something he wasn't used to.

  "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that." He vaguely watched the beautiful countryside pass, the heavily treed sections blending into the golden waves of wheat and barley fields, most of which would be harvested for the German army and not the Belarusian people. Several miles passed before his simmering anger became manageable, and he could breathe easier.

  "I'm sorry if I overstepped."

  He forced his grip to loosen on the boards underneath him and blew out a low breath as the pickup drove through Minsk. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I don't even know where to begin. We were happy in Berlin. Our home was modest, but it was ours. My mother always had something baking because my father had a sweet tooth. She made the best sweet breads. Their best friends, Harold and Amalia Meyer, lived next door and had since before I was born. I was five when their twin girls were born." As if sensing the pain welling in his heart, Aleksandra's small hand covered his, which had returned to gripping the edge of the pickup bed. He stared at it a moment before finding the strength to continue the story.

  "One day the Germans came and arrested the Meyers and accused my parents of helping them."

  "Why would they arrest the Meyers?"

  "Because Harold's great-great grandfather was Jewish—and Russian. Harold never knew. I came home in time to see them corral my parents and neighbors into the street at gunpoint and march them away. That was the last time I saw them. I learned they'd been taken to Sachsenhausen—a prisoner camp. I swore that day I would find a way to get them out."

  She squeezed his hand then pulled it away as the truck edged to the side of the road. He jumped down and held out his hand, which Aleksandra took without hesitation. Reluctantly, he let her hand slip from his, and she dusted off her pants. Backing away from the vehicle, she took his bag. Slinging his rifle over one shoulder, Jakob walked through the tall grass lining the edge of the ditch and crossed his arms, leaning them on top of the open passenger door window.

  "Thank you," he said in Russian. Reaching out, he took the farmer's hand, giving it a single brisk shake and held out the money he'd promised in his other.

  "No, no money is necessary. My family and I have everything we need on our farm. Be careful, you and your woman," the farmer said, brushing his hand down his mustache and beard. “Germans are everywhere, especially in Minsk. About a mile down the road, there is a roadblock where they're checking papers. I'm sorry, but I cannot risk taking you through. I have a wife who's expecting and a two-year-old boy to take care of."

  "No worries, sir. We appreciate your kindness. Not too much of that anymore."

  The farmer nodded and pointed to something behind Jakob. "If you go through the fields for a couple of miles, it will get you through the checkpoint. If you're going to Vilna, though, you're in for a rough time. As I said, Nazis are everywhere." The man shuddered, his coat visibly trembling. "I thank the good Lord every day that no one in my wife's nor my family are Jewish or Romani. The things I've seen..." With jerky movements, the farmer put the pickup into gear, and Jakob stepped away. "Watch out for your woman. She'll catch the Nazis’ eyes, which is never a good thing, if you know what I mean.” He gave Jakob a silent wave and drove away.

  Jakob watched him go, pocketing the money in his pants pocket. He turned and walked back to where Aleksandra stood, holding his satchel. "He warned me about a Nazi checkpoint about a mile down the road. He suggested we travel through the fields until we're past it."

  "Must we?" With a reluctant expression, Aleksandra stared at the field of golden wheat.

  "I have my German ID card, but I doubt the soldiers at the checkpoint will accept your Russian ID. Unless you have a German one?"

  "No—" She patted her jacket and dropped her head. Reaching into the inside pocket, she pulled out an ID card. "This wasn't there a moment ago." With a frown, she turned it over and opened it, her eyes widening as she held it up for him to see. "It's a German card."

  "I don't understand—how?" He took the ID and glanced at her picture inside. A funny sensation settled in his chest when he read her name. Aleksandra Matthau.

  She took the card, sliding it back into her pocket as she walked by him, and patted his shoulder. "I assume it's a gift from Freyja, but from your doubtful expression, I don't think you're ready to believe what we told you yesterday, are you? There really are other forces at work here."

  In a couple of long strides, he caught up to her and pulled his bag from her shoulder, slinging it over his. "Mikhail said almost the same thing a while back. I'll admit, my curiosity is piqued."

  "I wish I could explain more, but as I told you, I'm still new to all of this." Aleksandra smiled. "I'm not without my own talents, though, so you can wipe that worried expression off your face. We'll be just fine."

  They walked as casually as possible, the checkpoint coming into view. "Did you notice the name on your ID?"

  "I did. I hope you don't mind. It must have been important for me to have your name." She rested her hand on his arm then threaded her fingers through his. "Jakob, don't mention me. Don't even look at me—pretend I'm not here."

  With a steady gaze, he studied the four guards standing in the middle of the road, rifles in hands, as they watched them draw closer. A droplet of water hit his nose, followed by several more, and he glanced up. For the first time, he noticed the brilliant sunlight had disappeared behind dark thunderclouds. In the distance, a flash of lightning danced through the sky, and the heavy smell of rain filled his nostrils.

  "Wish we had an umbrella. We're about to get drenched," he muttered.

  "No worries."

  "Halt!" One of the soldiers hollered, the only blond-haired man in the group. So much for the ideal Aryan.

  There is no such thing, she whispered in his mind.

  He gave her a sideways glanced and almost stopped, the only thing pulling him forward was her momentum. His eyes widened, and he forced his gaze to the two soldiers a few feet in front of them. How? Her beautiful black hair was now red and curly, piled high on her head. Her skin tone was no longer pale, and she sported freckles across her nose. The quick glimpse he'd gotten showed her brown eyes had turned blue, and she seemed a bit shorter and plumper. I don't understand any of this...

  "Ihre Papiere!" The blond soldier demanded their identification. Jakob held out his ID and patiently waited while the German read through it, seemingly studying each word as the rain began to fall in earnest. The soldier handed him back his card. "Where are you going?" he cut off the end of each word like a knife.

  Tell him you're visiting your wife's parents. They are elderly and need looking after due to a recent illness.

  He wasn't used to talking to people telepathically, but already, he craved the sensation of Aleksandra's voice, each word sensually sliding through his mind and quieting his usual chaotic thoughts.

  "My wife'
s parents have been ill, so I'm going to their farm several miles north of here to help them out for a few days."

  The guard jerked his head, and the two other guards standing behind him pulled away the makeshift gate they'd placed in the road. "The führer would be pleased to see a good German taking care of his family." The blond man stepped back, out of their way, and waved them through.

  Jakob felt Aleksandra's slender body hugging his, synchronizing their steps as they left the roadblock behind. When the road turned slightly and they were no longer in the soldiers' view, he stopped and faced her. His gaze traveled from the top of her curly red hair to her clunky black shoes.

  He waved his hand in front of her. "How is this possible? What is this—magic?" he asked, unable to keep the incredulity from his tone.

  She smiled. As he waited for his answer, he noticed subtle changes as her hair straightened and lost the red tint, turning back to its inky hue. Her blue eyes darkened; and, in a blink, he stared into their brown depths. Her freckles disappeared, her skin turning pale once again. She pushed back her shoulders and stood tall, her slender form now her own.

  "Holy hell," he muttered. "What are you?"

  Her smile widened. "I am exactly who I am supposed to be."

  11

  Aleksandra watched the play of emotions on Jakob's face. Her smile widened, and she sent heartfelt thanks to Freyja for allowing her one talent, her ability to fade into the background, to remain intact—if not a bit enhanced. She had used it, perfecting it, so she could learn so much more about people and her surroundings without actually participating. That being said, not taking part in things was probably not a good thing, but it suited her just fine.

  She tugged on his arm and pulled him down the road. The last thing they needed was for the German soldiers to find them standing in the middle of the lane and become suspicious. "We can talk on the way to Vilna, and you can ask as many questions as you want."

  "We're going to need to find another vehicle. Driving, it's a little more than a two and a half-hour trip. Walking would take us about thirty-eight hours."

  She rolled her eyes at Jakob's grumpy tone but had to agree. She wasn't about to walk that long. Glancing around, she studied the surrounding fields. Some had been harvested but most hadn't, their crops moving in the steady breeze. Sniffing, she smelled something burning. Her eyes moved along the horizon. In the distance, maybe three or four miles in the direction they traveled, a narrow stream of smoke rose into the sky. "What do you make of that?" She pointed to the darkening gray plume.

  "I saw that. Hoping it's just a farmer burning off trash, but we won't know until we get closer. Resistance intel reports a sharp increase in German takeovers in this area."

  "Meaning scorched earth policy?"

  He stared at the distant fire. "Possibly, but I hope not. The Wehrmacht has pushed out the Russians, so there's no reason for it—yet."

  "The Belarusians won't take kindly to Nazis here. These people are known as White Russians and, much like the Germans, place an inviolable belief in their 'pure blood'. They fought for the tsar in the 1917 Revolution—the Bolsheviks against Stalin. Needless to say, it didn't end well."

  "There's a strong partisan force throughout Belarus, so the coming days will prove interesting." He tilted his head toward the rising smoke. "Let's make our way toward the burn and see what's going on. We may get lucky and catch a ride with someone."

  "So, how long have you been able to talk telepathically?"

  "Always. My grandmother was the only one in my life who could converse with me, though. Now that she's gone...I was surprised. You are the only other person I can talk to like that."

  "Can you do anything else? Like I can disguise my appearance?"

  He shook his head. "Not that I know. I always thought magic wasn't real—just someone's imagination. Grandmama and I had a special bond, and we always seemed to understand each other without words. It's sort of disconcerting to discover I may be able to do something more." He edged closer to the turn in the road, crowding her until she followed his lead, as they walked toward the smoke or fire, whatever it was.

  Another mile passed when they discovered a small farm nestled among quite a few old trees, their trunks at least four feet thick. In a partially cut field nearby sat an older model tractor. Picking their way over deep ruts from a recent rain, the road dipped and the farm disappeared from view. Several voices shouted, and she made out a few of the Hungarian words. Jakob grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop in the middle of the roadway. On either side of them, the ground sloped up, the house hidden by the thick rye framing the area like walls.

  "Step into the field, so we can see but not be seen," Jakob said as he pushed her deeper into the rye, crouching down beside her. Together, they crept close to the outer row and peered through the brown stalks. Several soldiers holding rifles walked around the yard, but no one else was in sight. Suddenly, one of the men veered off and went inside. A second later, they heard a guttural cry through one of the open windows, but whether it came from upstairs or downstairs, she couldn't tell. The cry was soon followed by a higher-pitched wail as a child screamed for its mother, but that, too, abruptly stopped.

  "Oh gods," Aleksandra breathed, her hand clutching her abdomen as she tried not to throw up. She had heard and even seen what the German soldiers were capable of, particularly to Russians. And for Nazis, these simple people would be considered lower than they were—not useful or pure enough to live. She started to rise, not really thinking but knowing she had to reach that child. Jakob grabbed her arm and held her down.

  "Stop. They will kill you before you leave the cover of the rye.” Sliding his bag to the ground, he unslung his rifle. He lifted his face. As a sniper, she knew he judged the speed and force of the slight wind as it moved across his skin. He aimed at the nearest soldier. She wondered if all snipers used the same techniques. Did he count in his head to settle any nerves before firing like she did? More than anything, she wished Freyja had remembered to send her weapon with her, but Aleksandra had left it propped against the wall in the sitting room.

  She closed her eyes, waiting for the first shot, but snapped them open again when her fingers wrapped around the barrel and stock of her own rifle, which now lay across her thighs. With a quick smile, she breathed deep and raised the site. Her sharp gaze focused through the scope, the end of the barrel following the footsteps of the second soldier.

  Thank you, she whispered to the goddess, so very grateful she was looking out for them. Jakob fired, and her own shot answered a mere second after his. Before the Germans' bodies dropped to the ground, they were sprinting toward the house. She prayed again, the yard never seeming to end as they ran. They finally reached the low porch and slid to a stop. There was, at least, one soldier inside, and they couldn't afford to go racing into the unknown interior without care. Getting themselves killed wouldn't help anyone and, right now, they were all this Belarusian family had.

  Jakob's gaze dropped to the rifle gripped in her hands. His eyes widened, their hazel color darkening as unspoken questions filled their depths. He motioned for her to stay silent then pointed to his chest and held up one finger, signaling he would go in first. She listened, straining her ears until she picked up on a low voice, talking in fervent whispers. Boots clomped across the wooden floorboards overhead, sounding louder than normal. She heard a grunt then a thud, as something heavy fell above them.

  Jakob silently opened the screen door and slipped inside. She followed, easing the door closed. Finding themselves in a living room, the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the drawn curtains, illuminating the dim room enough for them to make their way soundlessly around the furniture and up the staircase. They heard a muffled snuffling, sounding suspiciously like someone crying, as they continued to creep along the central hall toward what she hoped was the bedrooms.

  Jakob held up one hand and eased his head around the door frame. Straightening and with a shake of his head, he stepped away fr
om the door and leaned his back against the wall. With a slight frown, she watched his eyes close. His chest rose in deep breaths as he stood, unmoving.

  Dread filled her, knowing what she was about to see inside the room. They hadn't made it in time and the Germans had killed the family. Swallowing, she peeked into the room. Her eyes widened at the sight. The body of a female lay half off the bed with a German soldier lying face down on top of her. Thankfully, the woman's head was facing the other direction, so Aleksandra couldn't see the fear on her face or in her eyes as she died. Another man's body lay face down just inside the room, his arm outstretched. Blood pooled around his head.

  A soft scuff and a muffled sob drew her attention to the corner of the room. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. A young German soldier sat cradling a young boy in his lap. His obviously trembling hand rested on the boy's dark curls, keeping him from turning his head and seeing his parents. Tears streamed down the soldier's ravaged face as he stared at the back of the soldier lying on top of the woman.

  He turned his head and meet Aleksandra's gaze and shook his head, giving her a glimpse of cropped black hair behind one ear. "Es tut mir leid, so leid. Ich verstehe nichts davon..." he whispered. The sorrow emanating from him told her his apology and confusion about what had just happened were heartfelt.

  Making a quick decision as well as risking everything, she propped her rifle against the bedroom wall and crept to where the two sat, crying, in the corner. She crouched beside the man and laid a hand on his arm, feeling the hard trembling under her palm.

  His stricken gaze met hers. "Why? Why hurt them? The farmer willingly offered food and shelter..." His brown gaze turned back to the soldier on the bed. "I've never seen my brother like that before. It was as if he was possessed. I couldn't get him to stop...all I wanted was for him to stop..."

  She glanced at the weapon lying on the floor next to his thigh, but he never glanced at it, much less made an effort to reach for it. She squeezed his arm and turned her head, glancing at the man's body on the bed. There was a hole in the back of his dark green jacket. Blood covered the material.