Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [123]
And, as though Lotte had been awaiting him, she awakened from her sleep and saw him. They looked at each other for a long time without movement or speech. She did not blink and barely breathed as she drew him toward the bed, slowly. He sat down on the edge.
Her little hand reached out, took his powerful hand, and led it beneath the comforter and placed it on her throbbing breast, and then she drew the covers aside for him.
Her body was deliciously young and firm and warm.
Softly, he kept repeating to himself, softly. Be very gentle with her. Handle her with delicacy and make up to her for all of those miserable brutes. Be tender and make her want me as Natasha wanted me.
He worked her up slowly until the nerve ends leaped from her skin. They taunted and teased each other, but the girl was being driven mad. She groaned with the joy and tried to draw him in and devour him. And then came a time when control and judgment fled and they burst into convulsions ... and now, at last, Lotte slept a deep, quiet, peaceful sleep.
Igor Karlovy remained awake. He lay on his back, the girl’s body curled up against him. His eyes were wide open.
... Now I am no better than the rest of them ... but then, have I ever been? Have I ever really been?
Chapter Seven
THE VILLAGE OF GLINKA on the Kuban River in southern Russia in the year 1921:
Igor finished his chores in the barn. He crossed through the chicken yard to the pump, took off his square, beaded cap and embroidered peasant’s shirt, drew a pail of water, and splashed it over his face and the back of his neck and hands.
He glanced pensively toward the cottage. Muffled, angry voices filtered out of it into the evening air. His father and his brother, Alexander, would be at it again. It was like this every night now, one heated argument after another. Last week his father had struck Alexander in a rage.
It was the same all over the village. Everyone walked about with long faces, curses on their lips, and suspicion in their eyes. Many of the younger villagers like Alexander had joined the Reds and fought with them. But there were others, mostly from the elders, who had been with the Whites.
Igor felt the presence of someone and turned to see Natasha inching toward him shyly. She smiled with obvious adoration of first love, for she was ten and he was twelve. She reached down and handed him his shirt.
Igor tolerated her as one tolerates a small sister. He had known Natasha from earliest memory. She lived three cottages down the road. Well, perhaps it was more than a toleration; she was a faithful friend. They even shared a secret hiding place near a bend in the river. Oftentimes they would meet there and discuss their most intimate thoughts.
“Please don’t be so sad, Igor,” she said.
“I don’t like to go into the house any more.”
“It is no better in my house.”
“Yes, I know. Alexander says the fighting is over. We all have to accept the new order. Only Poppa ...”
“Igor, come down to the river tomorrow and meet me?”
“I don’t know. We will be sacking grain most of the day. Besides, I have to study. You know how Alexander insists I learn how to read and write.”
“Please.”
“Very well. But only for a few minutes when the others are taking their midday rest.”
She ran off, climbed the rail fence, then ran down the road toward her cottage after a last look and a wave.
“Igor! Come in!” Momma’s voice called.
The crude room was held by an awesome silence. Igor’s father, Gregory Karlovy, a leathery, bearded giant sat at the rough-hewn table with his great hands folded, glowering at the floor. Opposite him, twenty-year-old Alexander sat with his face muscles twitching with tension. Igor slipped alongside his father as quietly as he could.
A great pot of chicken broth and dumplings was put on the center of the table. As Alexander reached for a chunk of bread