“I have organized this without his knowledge. As far as he is concerned, they will be dead in two days’ time.”
“He won’t insist on carrying out the executions himself?”
“As you pointed out, he takes orders from me.” Jüttner was silent for a moment before clearing his throat. “I hope you realize I am making an attempt to give you what you want.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I know you are.”
“I realize you think I’m cruel. But I hope that once you get to know me again, you will realize that I am only doing what I need to.”
To Yona’s surprise, the words brought some comfort, for she, too, had things she needed to do, things that would hurt him. “I know you believe that.”
Later, over a dinner of hearty veal-head soup, prepared by Jüttner’s silent Belorussian housekeeper, Yona blurted out the question that had been gnawing at her for days. “How do you live with it all?”
Jüttner paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. His hand shook as he lowered it back down to the bowl. He took his time wiping his mouth on his cloth napkin before asking, “Live with what?”
“The things you’ve done. The deaths you’ve been responsible for?”
His eyes narrowed, and color rose in his cheeks. For a moment, she feared that she’d gone too far. But his shoulders slumped, and he shook his head. “Frankly, I have not yet figured out how to do that, Inge.”
“So why do you continue?” she pressed after a few seconds. The clock in the foyer ticked loudly in the silence, reminding her that time was running out: for her, for the groups in the forest, for the nuns. She would have to leave as soon as the sisters were safe. “Why don’t you abandon your post and try to redeem yourself?”
His laugh was sad and empty. “It isn’t that simple. Don’t you see? If I abandon my post, as you suggest, I’ll be arrested and executed as a traitor. Is that what you want for me?”
“Of course not.” She stared at him, surprised by how emphatic her answer felt. He might have been a terrible man, but she didn’t want to see him dead.
“Then you see that I have no choice.”
They ate in silence, Yona taking only small tastes of the soup to be polite, for once again, she’d lost her appetite. “Is it my fault that this is who you’ve become? Did the theft of your child, and the death of your wife, turn you into this?”
He blinked at her a few times. “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
But Yona could see in his eyes that he did. Might he have turned the other way, to goodness, if he’d known the unconditional love of a child? If he and his wife had grown old together? Had Jerusza herself shaped his fate, and that of everyone who died at his hand, with her decision to steal Yona long ago? Or if Jüttner had become someone different, would it merely have been another man in his jackboots doling out death? The answers were terrible and unknowable. “I’m very sorry,” she said softly.
He cleared his throat. “You have nothing to apologize for. You were a victim, as was I.” He paused to take another bite, and for a moment, though the space between them was filled with sadness and regret, there was a sliver of understanding there, too, a bridge connecting them at long last.
* * *
That night, Yona dreamed of the forest, but instead of clear, burbling water, the familiar streams ran red with blood. In the middle of the night, she awoke in a sweat, certain she’d heard gunshots, a sharp series of crack-cracks in the distance, but when she sat up in bed, she realized it had been merely a dream. She went to the window and opened it to let the cool night air in, peering out at the alley below. Overhead, the sky was dusted with stars, and a full moon bathed the rooftops. She listened, the silence convincing her once and for all that the sounds hadn’t been real. Still, when she lay back down again, sleep eluded her for hours.
She awoke late, still groggy from her restless night, and when she descended to the kitchen, she found Jüttner already gone, the maid, Marya, scrubbing the dishes.
“Good morning.” Yona greeted the maid in Belorussian. She guessed it was the language the woman spoke, though she’d never heard her say a word. “Is Jüttner here?”
Marya turned, her eyebrows raised. “Your father?” she asked in Belorussian, her voice dripping with barely concealed hatred. “Yes, he’s gone. You had a leisurely sleep, I see. How nice for you.”
Yona wanted to protest that Jüttner wasn’t her father, not really. That she wasn’t accountable for his sins. But she was sleeping under the roof of a Nazi commander and eating the food his position provided. “I’m not him,” she murmured.