Chapter 6: The Tainted Toast
The rhythmic clack-clack from Frau Hebert’s typewriter next door drilled through the thin wall, a metronome counting down the seconds. Jennie wiped her hands on her apron, the coarse fabric rough against her skin. The stew simmered, a meager scent of turnip and potato rising from the pot. Two chipped plates sat on the small table, two forks, two knives. A stage set for a performance.
The vial in her apron pocket pressed against her hipbone.
A knock, soft and precise. Three taps. Her breath hitched. She smoothed the apron, ran a hand over her hair, and forced her face into a placid, welcoming mask before opening the door.
Leonid filled the frame, his uniform dark against the gloomy hallway light. He was already smiling, that shy, transformative smile that made his eyes liquid and warm. In his hands, he cradled a small, paper-wrapped parcel.
“For you,” he said, his voice low. He stepped inside, the space shrinking around his height and breadth. The door clicked shut. He held out the parcel. “From the kitchen. Butter. Real one.”
He said it like a magician revealing a rabbit. Jennie took it, her fingers brushing his. The butter, a golden luxury, felt obscenely heavy. “Leonid, you shouldn’t. It’s too dangerous.”
“For you, no danger,” he said simply, as if it were a law of physics. He shrugged out of his greatcoat, the wool smelling of cold air and diesel fumes. His gaze swept over her, the apartment, the set table. A faint blush crept up his neck. “You make dinner.”
“I tried.”
“Smells good.” He moved to her, his big hands coming up to cradle her face. He studied her, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “You are tired?”
She leaned into his touch, a traitorous reflex. “Long day at the factory. Another hundred uniforms.” The lie was ash in her mouth.
He kissed her forehead. “I am sorry.” He said it as if he were personally responsible for the war, the factory, her fatigue. He pulled her into a proper hug, his body solid and warm, his heartbeat a steady drum against her ear. She clung to him for a second, breathing him in—soap, leather, him.
Then she pulled back, the performer taking the stage. “Sit. Let me get the food.”
She served the stew, ladling it with careful, measured movements. She fetched the whiskey bottle and two glasses. Her hand hovered over his glass. The vial was a cold, silent scream in her pocket.
“Whiskey?” she asked, her voice miraculously steady.
“Please,” he nodded, watching her pour. She filled his glass halfway. Her own, just a finger. She set the bottle down, her back to him as she fumbled in her apron. The cork came out with a faint pop she was sure he could hear. She poured two capfuls into his whiskey. It vanished, seamless. She recorked the vial, shoved it deep, and turned, carrying the glasses.
She placed his in front of him. “To a quiet evening,” she said, raising hers.
He lifted his, clinking it gently against hers. “To you,” he murmured, and drank.
She watched his throat work as he swallowed. Nothing. No flicker of suspicion. He set the glass down with a soft sigh. “Good.”
They ate. He talked about his day—mindless drills, a rusted truck, the bad coffee in the mess. His grammar stumbled, his words simple and direct. She asked questions, small nudges. She laughed in the right places, her hand reaching across the table to cover his. The veins on his forearm stood out under her touch.
By the time his stew was half-eaten, his whiskey was gone. His eyes had taken on a softer, warmer sheen. The tight line of his shoulders, the permanent readiness, began to dissolve.
“More?” she asked, nodding at his glass.
He blinked slowly. “I feel… light. The whiskey is strong.”
“It’s a cold night,” she said, and poured him another, this time without the additive. She needed him loose, not unconscious.
He drank this one slower, his gaze locked on her. “I write to my mother,” he said, the words coming easier now, fluid. “I tell her about you.”
The potato in Jennie’s mouth turned to paste. She swallowed with effort. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I want to. She asks if I am alone. I tell her no. I tell her I find a light.” He reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers. His were large, callused, trembling slightly. “I tell her you are good. Kind. You make me… not a soldier here.” He tapped his temple. “Just man.”
Jennie’s vision blurred. She looked down at their joined hands. “Leonid…”
“She wants to meet you. After the war.” He said it with absolute, heartbreaking certainty. “We go to my village. It is small. Green. You will like it. We will have garden.”
The clack-clack of the typewriter next door sounded like gunfire. The future he painted was a beautiful, poisoned apple. She squeezed his hand, forcing a smile. “It sounds lovely.”
“It will be.” He took another drink. “The officers, they are nervous. Talking always, talking low.”
Her spy’s mind, a separate engine, flicked on. She kept her voice casual, dreamy. “Nervous? About the winter?”
“About… about the visit.” He leaned closer, the whiskey on his breath warm. “The big visit. East. They worry for… for safety. For trains, for roads. Many plans. Changing.”
Her heart began to hammer, a frantic bird against her ribs. She traced a circle on his knuckle. “A visit? Who is visiting?”
He looked at her, his dark eyes full of trusting haze. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The Führer. Maybe. They say maybe in fourteen days. To see the troops. To make speech. But it is secret. Big secret. Many soldiers will move to make safe.” He nodded, confident in his sharing. “They change the train line three times now. My friend in motor pool, he must drive a car for the route check. He is… angry. Too much work.”
Fourteen days. Train lines changing. Motor pool routes.
The intelligence was crystallizing in her mind, perfect and deadly. She felt a savage, professional thrill, immediately followed by a wave of nauseating shame.
“It must be very important,” she whispered, her throat tight.
“Very,” he agreed. He finished his whiskey. His movements were slower, heavier. He looked utterly relaxed, content. He had given her his secret, a gift. He smiled, a little lopsided. “You are my secret, too.”
He stood, a bit unsteady, and came around the table. He pulled her up from her chair and into his arms, burying his face in her neck. “My Jennie,” he mumbled, the words slurred with alcohol and affection. “My light. When the war is done, I marry you. Yes?”
The word cleaved her in two. She held him, her arms around his broad back, her eyes wide and dry over his shoulder, staring at the cracked plaster wall. She could feel the vial, a cold brand against her hip.
“Yes,” she heard herself say, the sound coming from a great distance.
He held her for a long time. Then his weight shifted, leaning into her more profoundly. His breathing deepened, slowed. The drug and the drink had pulled him under. She guided his swaying form to the narrow bed, easing him down. He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow, one arm thrown out to the side where she usually lay.
She stood there, watching him. In sleep, he looked even younger. Vulnerable. The quiet sorrow she sometimes saw in his eyes was smoothed away.
Her mission was a success. She had the date. The context. It was vital. It would save lives.
She turned, mechanically clearing the table. She washed the glasses. His, with the ghost of her betrayal. Hers, untouched. She took the vial from her apron and stared at it. Empty.
Then she walked to his greatcoat, hung by the door. Her hands, cold and precise, searched the pockets. She found his paybook, a few coins, a folded letter from his mother. Nothing of operational value. She replaced everything exactly.
She returned to the bed and sat on its edge, looking at his peaceful face. She lifted her hand and very gently, brushed the dark curls from his forehead. He didn’t stir.
The typewriter next door had finally stopped. The only sound was his deep, even breath and the frantic, silent scream building inside her own chest. She had everything she needed to send him, and perhaps thousands like him, to their deaths.
And he had dreamed out loud of a garden.