Ulfkland Ⅰ Briansk

　　Ulfkland, March 7, 1960.

　　The first light of dawn had yet to pierce the horizon. The air hung cold and crisp, the wind rustling through the grass like a whispered secret. Above, a scattering of stars adorned the sky, and the morning star glimmered with quiet resolve. Ahead lay a vast expanse of dark forest, its contours gradually emerging from the dissipating night.

　　Within the confines of a modest hotel room, a soldier stirred. He rose from the bed, the coarse fabric of his uniform clinging to his skin. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray, its thin tendrils of smoke curling upward. Beside it, an East Slavic woman sat, her eyes tracing the soldier's movements.

　　"Thank you for last night," she murmured, her accent lending a certain exotic allure. "I'll be here next month."

　　The German soldier nodded, his gaze falling to the bedside table. He placed a Deutsche mark there-a token of their transaction. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you," he replied, his voice gruff yet polite. "Same place, same time."

　　The woman's smile held a hint of mystery as she took another drag from her cigarette. "Indeed," she agreed. "Until then."

　　As the soldier buckled his gun belt and slung his backpack over one shoulder, he cast a final glance at the woman. "Take care," he said, his eyes lingering on her face. "Don't forget me."

　　Her laughter was soft, tinged with something bittersweet. "No worries," she assured him. "I won't."

　　And so, he stepped out into the predawn darkness, the hotel door closing behind him. The East Slavic woman picked up the Deutsche Mark, studying the serial number as if it held some hidden meaning. The soldier's footsteps faded into silence, swallowed by the shadows.

　　She rose from her chair, the scent of cheap cigarettes clinging to her skin. Her legs were slender, her belly softly rounded-a testament to the life she led. Outside, the sun began its ascent, casting a warm glow upon her face as she drew back the curtain.

　　"Again and again, the same place, the same time," she whispered, her breath mingling with the smoke from her cigarette. Her eyes scanned the horizon, searching for something-perhaps hope, perhaps a glimpse of salvation. The world had shifted, but the war endured, its relentless narrative weaving through their lives.

　　The German radio crackled to life, its stern male voice echoing through the streets. "Listen to the Reich. The Führer is with you. Everywhere." The words carried weight, a reminder of the power that held them all in its grip.

　　Then came the doorbell-a jarring interruption. Boots shuffled outside, knocking against the worn wood. The door swung open, revealing a young SS-Totenkopf lieutenant flanked by men from the Einsatzgruppen.

　　"Ludmila Vasilievna," he declared, his voice unyielding. "Born on July 15, 1936. You're under arrest for collaboration with the enemy. Come with us."

　　Ludmila rose, her movements deliberate. "Sir," she said, her eyes locking onto his. "Are you here for the Wehrmachtsbordell services?"

　　His laughter surprised her-a moment of humanity in this grim tableau. "You're a beautiful woman," he admitted, eyes the color of the sea. "But I have a girlfriend."

　　She met his gaze, unflinching. "I have a boyfriend," she replied.

　　His smile widened. "Then I won't worry about my wife's jealousy."

　　Ludmila's loyalty was unwavering. "Indeed," she said, exhaling smoke. "And as for changing my clothes, I'll need five minutes."

　　He gestured toward the bedroom. "We'll be waiting outside."

　　As the door closed behind her, Ludmila wondered how many more times she'd face this same choice-loyalty, survival, and the ever-present specter of danger. The war had etched its story into her skin, and she would play her part, again and again. But perhaps, just perhaps, she could alter the script, even if only by a few lines.

　　Ludmila Vasilievna's heart raced as she closed the door behind her. The room felt smaller now, suffocating. She hurried to the window, pulling aside the heavy curtains. The street below was a tableau of tension-the lieutenant and his men waiting, guns poised, eyes scanning for any sign of movement.

　　No German soldier in sight. Perhaps she had a chance.

　　Her trembling hand reached for the cigarette pack on the windowsill. The flame flickered to life, casting shadows on the peeling wallpaper. She inhaled deeply, the smoke curling around her like a protective veil. Time was slipping away, and she needed to act.

　　Glancing at her watch, Ludmila began to dress. The uniform hung on the back of the chair-a symbol of duty, of survival. Each button, each fold, carried weight. She smoothed her hair, combing out the knots with practiced fingers. The mirror reflected a face that had seen too much-lines etched by fear, eyes that held secrets.

　　Five minutes. Five minutes to change the course of her fate.

　　As she stepped out of the bedroom, Ludmila's gaze met the lieutenant's. His eyes were the color of stormy seas, a mix of curiosity and suspicion. She brushed past him, her body grazing his arm. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice a fragile thread. "You're a good man."

　　His smile was fleeting, a crack in the facade. "We all make choices," he replied, watching her closely. "Remember that."

　　Outside, the soldiers shifted, boots scuffing against the worn floor. Ludmila took a deep breath, her loyalty unwavering. The war had twisted their lives into knots, but perhaps-just perhaps-she could untangle a few threads. Survival, defiance, and the ever-present specter of danger-it all hung in the balance.

　　the landscape bears the scars of war-the once-vibrant fields now trampled by boots, the air thick with tension.

　　Ludmila Vasilievna, her loyalty a tightly coiled spring, navigates this treacherous terrain. Her past is a mosaic of choices-some made out of necessity, others fueled by defiance. She has danced on the precipice of survival, her steps echoing through the corridors of history.

　　The SS-Totenkopf lieutenant, with eyes like storm-tossed waves, is both adversary and mirror. His laughter-an unexpected note in this symphony of danger-reveals cracks in the rigid facade. He, too, bears the weight of decisions, each one etching lines on his soul.

　　Their fates intertwine, the strands of destiny woven through moments of uncertainty. The path ahead teems with danger, the specter of war casting a long shadow. Ludmila and the lieutenant find themselves at a crossroads, their choices shaping their very essence.

　　Ludmila joined the lieutenant on the three-wheeled motorcycle, her arm encircling his right hand. "I have faithfully served any German soldier."

　　The lieutenant ignited the engine, and the motorcycle surged forward. He stole a backward glance at Ludmila. "Your loyalty is duly noted."

　　Ludmila clung to the lieutenant's waist, her gaze sweeping the horizon. "Why am I being apprehended? Did someone denounce me? Perhaps those envious women?"

　　"We bear the responsibility of safeguarding the Greater German Reich."

　　As the motorcycle accelerated, Ludmila's heart raced. "Please spare me the labor camp. I have served you well. You understand."

　　The lieutenant's laughter reverberated in the stillness. "Fear not. The concentration camp is not your destination."

　　Ludmila exhaled, relief flooding her. She tightened her hold on the lieutenant's waist, resting her head against his shoulder. "Thank you. I am at your disposal."

　　"Continue as you have," the lieutenant instructed. "You are a valuable asset to the Reich."

　　The sun ascended, painting the sky with its initial rays. Ludmila scanned the horizon, seeking a glimmer of hope. Alas, none emerged-only a desolate landscape marred by war's scars.

　　As the lieutenant steered around a corner, the motorcycle thundered down an empty street. Ludmila clung on, her fingers gripping the coarse fabric of his uniform. She shut her eyes, inhaling the familiar scent-a blend of sweat, tobacco, and gunmetal. It spoke of survival, defiance, peril.

　　Ludmila opened her eyes. "Where are we headed?"

　　"To the SS-Totenkopf headquarters," he replied.

　　And so, their journey continued, fate's threads pulling them deeper into the abyss.

　　"Why?" Ludmila inquired, her voice a mere whisper.

　　"You're to be interrogated," the lieutenant replied matter-of-factly.

　　"What for?" Her mind raced, grappling with the sudden turn of events. She had been an unwavering servant of the Reich, meticulously following orders, leaving no trace of disobedience. Had someone betrayed her? Were jealous eyes upon her?

　　"I have done nothing wrong," she asserted, her loyalty etched in her every word.

　　The lieutenant remained silent as they continued their journey, the motorcycle's engine roaring through the stillness. The headquarters of the 3rd Waffen-SS Division lay in Bryansk, its Germanized name echoing-Bjelorussia.

　　Ludmila's stomach churned. This was not the fate she had anticipated. Labor camps, perhaps, but not interrogation. She had believed she would survive.

　　As the motorcycle decelerated, her heartbeat surged. Towering buildings loomed ahead, casting elongated shadows upon the street. Here, in the heart of the Third Reich, the very air seemed charged with authority.

　　They halted before a formidable edifice. The lieutenant assisted Ludmila off the motorcycle, his grip firm yet not unkind. "Come with me," he instructed. "My name is Klaus."

　　"Klaus," she repeated, savoring the syllables.

　　His eyes crinkled in amusement. "Indeed."

　　They traversed a lengthy corridor, anticipation prickling Ludmila's skin. Closed and bolted doors lined their path, distant voices and footsteps reverberating against the lofty ceilings.

　　At the corridor's terminus, Klaus halted before a wooden door. Extracting a key, he unlocked it, revealing a modest room. A desk and two chairs occupied the space. Klaus gestured for Ludmila to sit. "I'll return shortly," he promised, then closed the door behind him.

　　Ludmila settled into the chair, her muscles taut. Her gaze swept the room, absorbing each nuance. The walls stood unadorned, except for a resounding clock that punctuated the stillness. The desk lay barren, its sole occupants a pen and a pristine sheet of paper. Ludmila pondered her fate-whether escape from this chamber was conceivable, whether sunlight would grace her eyes once more.

　　The door swung open, and Klaus re-entered the room. He was accompanied by an older gentleman, whose features were chiseled, and whose uniform was impeccably tailored. Klaus stepped aside, allowing the man to approach. "Good day, Miss," the man greeted, his voice resonant. "I am Dr. Kruger, the division chief."

　　"Delighted to make your acquaintance, sir," Ludmila replied.

　　"Your case has piqued my interest," Dr. Kruger declared, settling into the adjacent chair. "Pray, why do you collaborate with the Wehrmachtsbordell service?"

　　Ludmila's cheeks flushed, yet she maintained her composure. "Sir, I am unwaveringly loyal to the Reich," she asserted. "I provide an essential service."

　　"Ah, indeed," Dr. Kruger concurred. "You serve as an outlet for the soldiers' pent-up frustrations."

　　"Yes, sir," Ludmila affirmed.

　　"However, you have also furnished intelligence regarding the local resistance," Dr. Kruger observed. "It is fortuitous that during the time when this place was known as Bryansk, not Briansk, there were 60,000 guerrillas in active operation."

　　"True," Ludmila conceded. "But I am a patriot, sir. My loyalty remains unassailable."

　　"Patriotism, a noble sentiment," Dr. Kruger murmured, his eyes assessing. "I find myself perplexed, though-you are unmistakably an East Slav. How did you come to work for the Reich?"

　　"I am a devoted citizen of Greater Germany," Ludmila countered, her gaze unwavering. "I serve the Reich as my conscience dictates."

　　"Interesting," Dr. Kruger mused, steepling his fingers. "Now, tell me, what information have you shared with the Wehrmacht soldiers?"

　　"I have shared only my physical presence with them, sir," Ludmila clarified. "Nothing more."

　　"Very well," Dr. Kruger accepted, his gaze sharp. "Before the abolition of Nacht und Nebel in 1953, mere suspicion would have led to your execution."

　　"I remain steadfastly loyal," Ludmila reiterated, her eyes resolute.

　　"I shall weigh your loyalty, and the interrogation shall continue. If I find your answers satisfactory, you shall be released." Dr. Kruger turned to Klaus. "Prepare yourself."

　　Ludmila's gaze followed Klaus, who had already begun to exit the room. She couldn't help but be struck by the gentleness of his countenance. His eyes held a softness that belied his role as an interrogator-a guardian of the state.

　　Dr. Kruger leaned back in his leather chair, the dim light casting elongated shadows across the room. His gaze bore into Ludmila, who sat rigidly on the other side of the desk. The room smelled of coffee and vodka, a peculiar blend that seemed to mirror the tension in the air.

　　"Now," Dr. Kruger's voice was low, almost conspiratorial. "Let us delve into the matter at hand. Do you comprehend?"

　　Ludmila nodded, her throat dry. She had been summoned to this clandestine meeting, her loyalty questioned. The Wehrmachtsbordell service—the very name sent shivers down her spine—had eyes everywhere. And now they were fixed on her.

　　Klaus, the burly officer who had escorted her, reentered the room. He placed a tray on the desk, the porcelain cup of coffee steaming, the vodka crystal-clear. Ludmila's eyes flickered toward the tray, but she dared not reach for either. The liquid courage they offered was a double-edged sword.

　　Dr. Kruger's gaze remained unyielding. "Do you understand why you find yourself here?"

　　"Yes, sir," Ludmila replied, her voice steady. She had been a translator, a cog in the machine, feeding information to the occupiers. But now, the questions were more pointed, the stakes higher.

　　"Are you a Communist?" Dr. Kruger's voice cut through the room.

　　"No, sir," Ludmila asserted. She had seen the labor camps, the faces etched with suffering. Communism was a specter that haunted her dreams.

　　"Why, then, do you collaborate with the Wehrmachtsbordell service?" Dr. Kruger leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Providing intelligence on the local resistance?"

　　Ludmila hesitated. "Because it is the most effective means to safeguard the Reich," she said, her words rehearsed. "And because I am not a Communist."

　　Dr. Kruger's nod was almost imperceptible. "Communist sympathizers among your acquaintances?"

　　"No, sir," Ludmila replied. She had severed ties, burned bridges. Survival demanded it.

　　"We maintain a truce with the Soviet Union," Dr. Kruger said, his voice softer now. "You need not conceal it."

　　"I speak the truth," Ludmila insisted. But the truth was slippery, like smoke through her fingers.

　　"And how do you regard the Soviet Union?" Dr. Kruger leaned closer, his breath warm on her skin.

　　"I hold no opinion, sir," Ludmila lied. The Soviet Union was a beast with many faces—a savior or a monster, depending on who you asked.

　　"If the Soviet army returns," Dr. Kruger's eyes bore into hers, "we face deportation. But what of you? What judgment awaits you in their eyes?"

　　Ludmila's heart raced. She had danced on the edge of betrayal, her secrets buried deep. "I cannot say," she whispered. "Yet my loyalty to the Reich remains steadfast."

　　Dr. Kruger leaned back, a knowing smile curving his lips. "Does it indeed?" he mused. "We shall ascertain soon enough. Should you pass this test, Kyiv awaits you."

　　Ludmila's pulse thundered. The weight of her predicament settled upon her—a tightrope between survival and damnation, with Kyiv's distant lights flickering like stars in the night. "Sir, I have diligently served the Reich," she confessed.

　　Dr. Kruger's response was measured, his tone withholding judgment. The door swung open, and Klaus entered, signaling the arrival of the test.

　　Ludmila turned to face the Wehrmacht soldier Klaus had escorted. "Hail victory!" the soldier rasped, his voice a low murmur.

　　"Hail victory!" Dr. Kruger echoed, irony tainting his words.

　　Klaus introduced her. "This is Ludmila Vasilievna, our new executioner, replacing Antonina."

　　Ludmila's strained voice replied, "The pleasure is mine."

　　Dr. Kruger gestured toward the soldier. A group of ragged, hooded men shuffled out of the camp, their stench preceding them. Forced to kneel, they trembled in fear.

　　Dr. Kruger circled the captives, scrutinizing their faces. The prisoners squirmed, their futile struggles against their captors evident.

　　"Ludmila Vasilievna," the doctor addressed her once more, his voice unwavering. "Your true loyalty matters little—whether to us or the Jewish Bolsheviks—because you have no choice. Observe the camera in Klaus' hand."

　　"Yes, sir," Ludmila whispered.

　　"You are a devoted and unwavering citizen of the Third Reich," Dr. Kruger continued, his tone dripping with disdain. "Photographs of the execution of Soviet spies will grace the pages of Polnischen, Ulfkland, Moskau. All shall witness your loyalty to the Third Reich. Remember this, Ludmila Vasilievna: escape is not an option. You are ensnared."

　　Ludmila acknowledged the doctor's words, her unwavering gaze fixed upon him. The gravity of her situation pressed upon her—the narrow path she tread, the scant choices at her disposal. The realization sent a shiver down her spine, yet she stood resolute.

　　The prisoners writhed and struggled, ensnared by their captors. Klaus, a man of steely resolve, handed her a Ruger, while he himself wielded the camera. The shutter's click reverberated through the dimly lit chamber—a stark reminder of their dominion, their authority.

　　Klaus guided her trembling hand against the prisoner's sweat-soaked temple. "Fear not," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "They remain oblivious to our presence."

　　Ludmila, now Valentina Schmid, tightened her grip on the pistol. Her unwavering gaze fixed upon the camera's lens, capturing the desperation etched in the prisoners' eyes. "Hail victory!" she proclaimed, her voice resounding, a defiant echo in the oppressive silence.

　　"Hail victory!" echoed the soldiers, their voices harmonized, a chorus of duty-bound zealots.

　　Valentina, once an ally to Soviet partisans, now bore a new identity—a mask to conceal her past. Kyiv, a distant memory, faded like smoke on the horizon. Instead, she found herself confined to the unforgiving walls of the concentration camp, where shadows clung to every corner.

　　Dr. Kruger, the architect of their clandestine operation, broke the silence. "The mission was a success. Congratulations, and hail victory."

　　Valentina crouched, overcome by nausea. Klaus entered, concern etching his features. "What ails you?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.

　　Valentina's reply barely reached audible levels. "I have taken lives."

　　Klaus rested a weathered hand on her shoulder. "We've all spilled blood," he said, his eyes reflecting the weight of their shared burden. "You are already a true German, and the Soviets will not release you."

　　Valentina nodded, tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks. The weight of her actions pressed upon her—a ledger of lives, each entry etched in crimson.

　　"Be at ease," Klaus soothed. "You shall endure. Hand me the gun."

　　Valentina surrendered the weapon, its cold metal slipping from her grasp. "I have always known you to be a man of honor, Klaus."

　　Klaus's melancholic smile lingered, a fleeting acknowledgment. "Merely a soldier," he murmured. Retrieving his firearm, he approached the lifeless forms of the prisoners, methodically placing a bullet in each forehead. Valentina quivered, her body a vessel for turmoil. Dr. Kruger's gaze bore into her—a silent judgment that cut deeper than any blade.

　　"Klaus," Dr. Kruger's voice was matter-of-fact, "was once a pacifist, a coward, and a sociopath." His eyes bore into Valentina Schmid, who stood before him, her voice fragile as she replied, "Valentina Schmid." The name hung in the air, a bridge between past and present. "Welcome to the realm of adulthood," Dr. Kruger affirmed, "where war, concentration camps, and harrowing massacres await." The weight of history settled on Valentina's shoulders, and she wondered if adaptation would be enough to survive this new reality.