Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

Somehow the conversation turned to World War II. Kiril knew that several thousand Russian prisoners of war, as well as men and women from German-occupied countries, had been turned into forced laborers in a local armaments factory. He knew also that in October of 1945, the local Soviet military commander had become the town’s mayor… and that their NKVD headquarters was known as the House of Horrors because of its well-deserved reputation for harsh interrogation and fiendish torture.

He could not resist bringing these facts into the conversation—in rhetorical fashion, of course—which, by now, was second-nature to him.

Is it not true, Herr Gelb, that…

“Surely, doctor,” Gelb said at one point, making an obvious effort to control the tone and volume of his voice, “you must know that the treatment of our German POWs by the U.S.S.R. was unconscionable, and yes, barbaric. You must know also that the NKVD was criticized for being overzealous as we worked to keep your Motherland free of capitalist and fascistic elements.”

Adrienne, who had been taking copious notes, felt a rush of fear—and not for herself; for Dr. Andreyev.

“This is supposed to be a holiday sightseeing trip, gentlemen,” she chided. “Herr Gelb, your knowledge of history and culture in this part of the world is what we Americans would call a real treat! Thank you so much for sharing your expertise with us.”

Gelb smiled and clicked his heels.

For a moment, Kiril thought he was going to kiss her hand.

Herr Gelb drove them to the beach, organized changing rooms, and settled his charges with beach chairs and umbrellas. “I’ll have you back in plenty of time to get you to your dinner appointment with Chancellor Malik,” he assured them.

The blazing sun was low in a blue cloudless sky, the small beach filled with bathers. Lake Muritz was surprisingly blue, much like a bay adjacent to the sea, the water barely beginning to turn seasonally chilly. Children romped, parents chased after them. Men and women swam, some venturing beyond the buoys and white rope that demarked the allowable swimming area.

Adrienne walked toward the water and sank ankle-deep in warm white sand. Arching her back, she stretched luxuriously, looked around at her fellow sunbathers, and for the first time lost the tension that had ridden with her like an uninvited guest through the streets of East Berlin. Glancing at the placid blue lake, she was reminded of travel brochure clichés: picnic baskets, castles in the sand, carefree chatter—

Except that the chatter was practically non-existent, she realized. How could people compete with the blare emanating from loudspeakers that perched on long poles buried in the sand? She heard the strident notes of a military march as it oom-pahed its way into a clash of cymbals, followed by the razored cadence of carefully enunciated German.

“What are they saying?” she asked Galya, who happened to be nearby.

“I understand few words only. For me, the foreign language is hard.”

Adrienne smiled. “Your English is a lot better than my German.”

“How kind to give me compliment on my not very good English,” Galya sniffed.

Adrienne restrained a sigh. For the umpteenth time, she wished she could retract her tactless offer about the gown. But if last night’s apology hadn’t cleared the air by now, nothing would.

As the two women moved away from the shoreline, their silence assaulted by the relentless staccato of the loudspeaker-voice, a strong breeze caught fringes of the beach umbrellas they passed, snapping them with the same staccato beat.

Adrienne almost laughed when she spotted the ever-vigilant Luka Rogov. He had plopped down under an umbrella adjacent to an empty chair, even though Dr. Andreyev was sitting right next to him.

Comrade Ahab in a perspiration-stained Russian uniform, keeping a watchful eye on his Moby-Dick.

Andreyev wore the inevitable sunglasses. Interesting how they’d given him an air of mystery—but how commonplace they seemed on a beach. No, it wasn’t the glasses that were off-putting, she decided. It was his yachting cap. He wore it tipped jauntily to one side. It struck her as… unseemly and out of place on a man who had gone out of his way to pointedly show her the underbelly of the Deutsche Demokratische Republik.

The sudden blast of another marching song ended her reverie just as he half-turned in her direction. “Dr. Andreyev,” she called out, “would you mind translating—”

“Dr. Andreyev is chest deep in Lake Muritzsee,” Kurt told her, wearing a Cheshire-cat grin. “Will Dr. Brenner do?”

“I… it was the dark glasses.”

“Darling! I didn’t think you knew how to blush.”

“I’m glad you’re amused,” she said tartly. “Since your German is impeccable, mind telling me what’s coming out of those loudspeakers?”

“Lectures, announcements. That sort of thing.”

“They’re broadcasting lectures to people on a beach?”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” he said. “They’re also checking identity cards. See that uniformed guard over there?” He started to put his dark glasses back on. “Is it okay?” he teased. “Or are you apt to confuse me with our mysterious guide?”

“There is no mystery in dark glasses,” Galya remarked with a faint smile. “Dr. Andreyev must keep away light from eye infection. But is big mystery why your wife is mistaking him for her husband. I tell difference if my husband,” she purred, reaching up to adjust Brenner’s yachting cap at a more rakish angle. Looking him over with a mock-frown, she said, “Maybe Mrs. Brenner not notice this .” She touched a mole on Brenner’s shoulder. “Or this .” Her finger traced a thin line down his chest, white against deep tan. Dropping her hand, she laughed like a defiant child, then turned to face Adrienne Brenner’s anger.

Damn you!

Adrienne almost said it aloud—to Kurt, not the Barkova woman. To his arched eyebrow—a not-so-subtle sign that he was flattered. To the same half-smile that he flashed at operating-room nurses and cocktail-party hostesses.

“Having fun?” she said acidly. Turning her back on them both, she laid out a colorful beach towel, sank into it, and closed her eyes.

The sun was a lightweight blanket on her body. Surrendering to its warmth, she shut out the world—tried to anyway. Her article was practically writing itself. Entire paragraphs darted in and out of her head. The only thing she’d dared reduce to writing were some memory-jogging words that would be meaningless to anyone else. Photographs were more accurate than memory—and much more incriminating, she consoled herself. If only she could manage to take the ones she really wanted. Lugging a conspicuously large camera around for the few photos she was allowed to take was a nuisance. On the other hand, she had to admit it was a terrific distraction on the rare occasion when she could whip the tiny Minox out of her shoulder bag and snap away.

She let it all go finally and surrendered to the delicious warmth of her sun-blanket.

Until she felt the blanket slip away, as if some presumptuous cloud had crossed the almost cloudless sky. Turning lazily on her side, she reached with half-closed eyes for the terrycloth robe she’d dropped next to her towel.

Her arm stalled in mid-air as if someone had grabbed it.

Kiril Andreyev stood looking down at her. His shadow across her body had blotted out the sun.

She felt the weight of his glance. Her own tight breathing. The shock of seeing his body outside the prison of an ill-fitting suit.

Even her eyes betrayed her. She couldn’t take them off his hands as they reached for a towel. The insolent line of his legs, braced against the hard-driving wind. She was aware of the curve of her hip. Of a bathing suit that rose obediently to her neck but left her shoulders and back exposed—