Natalya Page 2

  “I admit, I’m fascinated by their planes and have studied them—learning how they work is so interesting.”

  Freyja chuckled. “And here I thought your only interest was flowers.”

  They continued to watch as another wave of planes came through. Large spotlights highlighted the front planes, darting back and forth as they attempted to draw the gunfire away from the second wave of planes. The German units spread out, not paying attention to anything but the attacking planes. The anti-aircraft fire was deafening in the small area of trees as they shot at the canvas biplanes. The plane closest to the women banked a hard right to avoid gunfire. A spray of bullets cut across the tail, leaving the canvas material shredded and flapping in the wind.

  “Magnificent,” Freyja breathed, her fingers digging into Idunn’s arm as she hung on to her friend for support. Standing on her tiptoes, she tried to follow the plane’s trajectory. The damaged aircraft turned around, heading straight for the Germans. Another plane flew overhead and dropped its two bombs. Both planes banked and headed back in the direction they’d come. Two seconds later, the damaged plane sputtered. Freyja held her breath. The Germans quickly repositioned their anti-aircraft guns and began firing. The damaged U-2 exploded from a direct hit to its already damaged tail as Idunn let out a horrified gasp. The distinct whine pulled at Freyja’s heart as the plane disappeared into the thick forest not too far from where they stood.

  “Where did it go?” Idunn asked.

  Freyja turned and jogged through the trees until she came upon the downed plane. She jerked to a stop, unable to keep the horrified gasp from slipping out. The plane was nothing more than splinters. The only thing left recognizable were the wings, which stuck up into the air like massive tombstones above the wreckage. Smoke billowed from the midsection where she could barely make out the top of the pilot’s brown helmet. One arm was hanging out through the canvas skin of the plane. Red blood ran along the top of her hand and down her finger, only to pool in the snow beneath the tip of her nail.

  She shook her head, sorrow running through her for the loss of such a valiant warrior. Crossing her arms over her slim torso, she wrapped her hands around the sleeves of her jacket with a shiver. “I want others just like this woman.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Freyja spun around. “It is too late for this poor soul, but there are many others out there who deserve to be honored for their bravery. She is my reason for helping. These Night Witches are as valiant a warrior as any Valkyrie…and worthy of life. They can help change the tide of this war and stop Hitler along with his Third Reich. My idea is this…I will create my own race of warriors, like Odin’s Valkyries, to stamp out the heinous crimes this führer and his SS commit.”

  “Freyja, you can’t be serious! These pilots are Russians and know nothing of us. We cannot just pluck them out of their world on a whim. It simply is not done! Besides, Odin would never approve.”

  Freyja smiled. “Odin will not know anything until after my plan is already in motion. As far as the Russians not knowing who we are, they used to know us long ago. Vikings settled the land centered between the three seas: the Baltic, Caspian, and Black Seas, using the waterways for trade. They are the ancestors of the people who live there now. We are in their legends and songs whether they realize it or not.”

  Freyja moved closer to the dead pilot, her gaze never moving from the slowing drips of blood. “It’s sad, really. As gods, we have magic, immortality, and power over others, yet we lack the most important thing of all.”

  Idunn wrapped her arm around Freyja and hugged her friend close. “What do we lack, Freyja?”

  “True love.”

  Idunn stared at the body of the Russian pilot and sighed. “I’m afraid your pilots won’t help us there. We’ve been on this path too long. Maybe Ragnarök would be a good thing. It is, after all, a sort of startup. Perhaps it’s what we need to rediscover basic emotions again. Like Thor and his human?”

  Freyja nodded. “Jane was good for him, wasn’t she? Of course, after the Aether corrupted her…but that will happen in the future, and we need to focus on the now.”

  Idunn grabbed Freyja’s arm. “The Aether is nothing more than a parasite that must be eradicated now or it will turn all matter dark within all realms. If it’s free, we must concentrate on it, not the human’s war.”

  She patted Idunn’s hand, which still gripped her arm. “Odin has our own scientists working on a plan for that very thing. Let’s go home, my friend. We have lots to talk about if we’re going to get this plan in motion before the month’s end. The next battle will be fierce, and the Russians must win. Hitler cannot gain access to Stalingrad. I will need your help if we are going to succeed. In order to pull this off, I will take a few fallen pilots from the field of battle and offer them a second chance at life—and love—if that is their heart’s desire. To do this, your apple of immortality will come in handy.”

  Idunn shook her head. “You’ve been drinking too much of Thor’s mead, that’s what you’ve been doing. You aren’t thinking straight. This plan of yours will never work and will get you into nothing but trouble. Besides, my apple won’t give them immortality. Actually, I’m not sure what it will do to humans.”

  Freyja’s smile widened. “Then you’ll help me?”

  Idunn returned her smile and shrugged. “Of course. That’s what best friends do.”

  1

  Lucerne, Switzerland

  August 1942

  Mikhail Abramovich sipped the last of his chocolate-laced coffee and set the porcelain cup on the scarred wooden table. With a quick glance at his watch, he noticed his old university friend was late. He frowned up at the beautiful alpine skyline above the quaint village structures on this end of the medieval Swiss town.

  Lucerne had always been one of his favorite places to visit growing up. Traveling Europe with his parents had been magical during his youth. Sitting with his mother in their private box at the concert hall and listening to his father play the piano had brought a beauty into his everyday life.

  It had been hard living in Russia while his father traveled Europe as a concert pianist. One day his father returned from one such trip, and Mikhail hadn’t recognized him, so from then on, they traveled as a family. During those years, he had seen so many wonderful things—centuries of art in the French Louvre, the Grand Place in Brussels with its thirteenth-century merchants’ market, and Russia’s own Red Square in Moscow. His favorite places, however, were the natural ones. He felt at home in the wild mountain ranges scattered across Europe.

  He remembered the day his family moved back to Smolensk to live with his grandparents while his father fought in the Great Patriotic War. He’d been unimpressed with the rustic town and had only wanted to return to his previous life in Germany. His father never had a choice either. The German army made that decision for him, so he fought.

  Lamenting his ill fortune and trying to escape his overbearing babushka, Mikhail had hidden himself in the woods close to his grandparents’ house. Instead of finding the tranquility he desired, he’d been accosted by a blonde-haired neighbor who refused to leave him alone. Mikhail smiled at the memory of Natalya’s cute button nose and freckled face peeking at him through the tree branches. He’d never met a girl who could climb trees and had been astounded. He’d also fallen from his perch and landed flat on his back while she laughed at him, her legs dangling from her branch.

  What I wouldn’t give to see her…hold her in my arms right now.

  He glanced at his watch then raised his gaze to the street, wondering what was keeping Rudolf. Being late wasn’t like him, and Mikhail was beginning to worry. He tugged his jacket sleeve over his watch and turned his empty coffee cup in circles.

  Reminiscing about the past wasn’t healthy, and he couldn’t help but wonder how his family was faring in Montreuil-Bellay, the French concentration camp for Romani. His family had been lucky the German officials hadn’t questioned his father’s claim they w
eren’t Jewish. After watching what the Nazis did to Jewish friends and family, his father knew blatantly lying would save his family from torture and death at a worse concentration camp. Proclaiming his wife’s Romani heritage would save the family. So far, it had.

  The fact that his father had been a well-known concert pianist, even playing for Hitler himself, had helped somewhat. He’d been given the task of playing on demand for the camp commandant, his wife, and other officers. His mother’s gift of voice allowed them to live apart from the other prisoners and receive a bit more food. They lived in a small home, basically a shack, but it had a stove that gave them heat in the winter. Summer could be sweltering, but they weren’t too far from the coast and occasionally received a small sea breeze. It was better than nothing, he supposed.

  Mikhail refused to think about the time he’d spent in the camp. From the moment of his escape two years ago, he had focused solely on fighting against the Nazi war machine and finding a way to liberate his family. Even though Russia was so far away from the camp where his family was held, he thought of them and prayed for them daily.

  He relaxed his fierce grip on his cup and pushed it away. Thoughts of Russia filled his mind. The first six years of his life had been spent on his maternal grandparents’ farm, so returning to Smolensk had been the natural choice for him. He shared a special relationship with his grandmother, who had been influential in helping him understand his heritage. Even in his youth, his Romani roots were strong, both nomadic and psychic, and moving around Europe, enjoying his father’s rising popularity as a pianist, had been the perfect cultivation for at least one of those aspects. His grandmother never could get him to accept the psychic ability and he fought against the visions with everything he had.

  Checking his watch again, he worried about his old friend from university. Rudolf Rössler was nothing if not punctual and was one of several people who used their particular talents as resistance fighters.

  “Would you like another cup of coffee, Herr Abramovich?”

  Mikhail glanced up at the older waitress, the ravages of war rationing lining her thin face, glad for the interruption of his maudlin memories.

  He gave her a quick nod. “And if you can spare another tiny piece of chocolate? I have truly missed the decadent flavor of Swiss chocolate.”

  She glanced through the cafe’s window then back to him, and his grin widened. A blush covered her cheeks. “I think I can spare one more piece since you ask so nicely. Nowadays, most visitors just demand.” She turned her scowl to several men sitting a few tables away.

  Mikhail’s gaze narrowed. He’d seen them sit but had been so lost in his own thoughts and almost comfortable sitting in front of the cozy pub, he hadn’t paid them as much attention as he should have. Now, though, he noticed how the three of them kept their heads down and never looked around at the beautiful scenery surrounding the cafe or even talked amongst themselves. It was as if they were just listening….

  His jaw clenched, but before he could figure out what to do, Rudolf walked up to the table with a jaunty grin. Mikhail stood and leaned over, greeting his old friend with a quick kiss on each cheek before once again taking his seat. He hid his concern at Rudolf’s gaunt appearance. His skin carried a sickly pallor, and he seemed to have aged a decade since he’d last seen him. He also sported dark bags underneath his brown eyes.

  The moment they sat, the waitress returned with two coffee cups and a plate of square cakes. Mikhail glanced up with raised brows, and the waitress blushed again.

  “As I said a moment ago, most visitors aren’t nice, and my grandmother always told me good behavior should be rewarded—always. Thankfully, there is no flour or sugar in our honey cakes, so the ingredients aren’t rationed. The owner, however, insists we serve them to paying customers only. I only serve them to nice customers. Guten appetit, die heren.”

  Rudolf smiled at the waitress. “I’m sure we will enjoy them, fräulein. Danke schön.” He raised his cup to his thin lips and, without blowing, sipped the hot liquid. His eyes widened. “Do I detect a hint of chocolate?”

  “You do,” Mikhail said with a chuckle and sipped his own drink before it cooled. Cold coffee wasn’t his favorite.

  “I think you gave our tired waitress one of your dashing smiles, and, as usual, she simply couldn’t resist. If I remember correctly, you had that effect on all the girls while the rest of us would stay in the shadows.”

  Mikhail bit into a honey cake and groaned as he slowly chewed the sweet treat. “Yet, you are the one married to a beautiful woman, my friend, are you not?” He popped another cake into his mouth and picked up a third as he swallowed.

  “Speaking of women, how is your wonderful Natalya?”

  “My Talya is good, as far as I know. She was accepted into the 588th Night Bomber Unit, so she is in her element.” He placed the cake he’d been holding back on the plate. “I just pray she is safe.” A cloud-filled night sky filled his mind as he saw the small plane looking lost and alone as it sailed through the air. A brilliant flash of fiery orange-red exploded nearby, and he saw a spark light on the canvas-covered body. The material smoldered, and a dark stain spread across the plane’s side. He pulled himself from the vision as the plane’s nose dropped toward the ground.

  “You have broken our cardinal rule, my friend. When we are together, we do not speak of the war.” Rudolf took a bite of his cake, chewed, swallowed, and then jabbed his finger at him several times, uncaring that he scattered crumbs over the tabletop with each thrust. “One never knows when their life on earth will end, and in these dire times, well….”

  “You are right,” Mikhail agreed, still unsettled by his vision—if that’s what it was. He hoped it was just worry fueling his imagination and not something worse. “I am sorry. Now tell me, how is Olga?”

  “My wonderful wife is fine, although I fear one day she may put a private investigator on me to find out if I am truly meeting you. She is, after all, a jealous woman, you know.”

  Mikhail laughed. “You are delusional, my friend. Olga doesn’t have a jealous bone in her entire body, and she adores you. You are probably spending all your spare time at the library, not eating or sleeping, and she is simply worried about her husband. How is your book coming along?”

  Rudolf shook his head and frowned, setting his empty cup on the table. “Not as well as I’d hoped. Living in this picturesque town provides such a backdrop for my muse, and I have nothing but trouble. I sit for hours, staring at a blank page. My typewriter, silent.”

  “You are too hard on yourself. Always have been. Maybe if you had an unbiased set of eyes to read over what you have so far? I’m no editor, but creative writing was one of my better subjects.”

  “You are nothing but creative, Mikhail. You have more talent in your little finger than I do in my entire body. That being said, I get more enjoyment from my research than anything else. I could read for hours on a favorite subject without realizing the passage of time, but trying to type a simple sentence in this book and I watch the seconds tick by at a snail’s pace. Maybe slower.”

  “You are trying too hard.”

  “Maybe. However, I did come across something during my research I’m quite certain your dear father would have enjoyed. A piece of sheet music by a relatively unknown composer, yet the music is insightful and unusual. A real treasure, if you ask me. But who am I to say when it comes to music? That is your domain. Would you like for me to send it to you?”

  Mikhail smiled. “I would, thank you.”

  “Do you still play?”

  “I try to play as often as I can, when I’m around a piano, but I have nowhere near the talent my father had. As you know, when we left France, we had to leave my father’s treasured piano behind. It all but killed me. I can’t imagine what it did to him. It was as if we left behind the last bit of him we had.”

  “But he is not dead. The piano is but an object, easily replaced. Besides, you give yourself too little credit. You are every bit as
talented as your father, if not a more. You give music a life he could not,” Rudolf said. “As soon as I return home, I will make a copy and send the music to you. Make sure you find a piano and enjoy the piece, for it is truly magnificent.” He patted his jacket pocket a couple of times then dug into the one over his right breast and pulled out something small and handed it to Mikhail.

  “I found this handsome geode in a quaint little store and thought of you. When the light strikes it just so,” he said, holding it in front of his face at a slant. “the resulting prism is striking, isn’t it?” With a pointed stare, Rudolf dropped his gaze to the tabletop.

  Mikhail bit back his surprise when he saw tiny rectangles projected from inside the crystal onto the stained wood. He cleared his throat and reached for the crystal, quickly tucking it into his shirt pocket. “Very thoughtful of you to remember my rock collection. It’s been years since you’ve seen it—it’s grown quite large since university.”

  “Think of it as an early birthday present, my friend. With the war, you never know if the post is getting things through to other countries, and I didn’t want to take the chance of it getting lost. It’s such a pretty little specimen. I also found a nice blue rock I knew our friend, Allan, would appreciate. If all goes well, it should arrive at his home sometime in the next few weeks.”

  Mikhail mentally deciphered his friend’s message. He knew the intel Rudolf mentioned would not reach England in time for Churchill or the American Allies to help much in the upcoming attack on Russia. Yet, maybe they would be able to send supplies and reinforcements—if they honored the signed accord between their countries. As it was, it would be up to him and the Resistance to make sure whatever was hidden inside the crystal made it to the Russian military.

  Operation Barbarossa had been devastating to the Russian people living along the lands bordering Poland. When the Nazi army invaded, they had killed indiscriminately, but the Russian people fought back. As the German Wehrmacht advanced farther into Mother Russia, the people packed up their belongings and set fire to their homes and fields, leaving nothing but ashes for the German soldiers to find.