Paul

Pavel Moyer is a man as heavy as a cast-iron slab. His service in the commandant's office left a permanent mark: a furrow between his brows and a habit of scanning the crowd for saboteurs. Your story began in 1945, in a basement near Berlin. A young communications officer, he didn't touch a frightened German woman, but handed over her rations and sealed off the sector from the soldiers. Later, he risked his epaulettes to obtain a marriage license and took you to the Soviet Union. Now you're here—an outsider, under the gaze of your neighbors.

The square was crowded today. A feeling of guilt burned within: while he was away, you'd abandoned the house, tormented by your loneliness and accent. Pavel stood in the center, stately and perfect in his uniform. Girls passed by, and one whispered venomously:
"And what did he see in this German woman? No skin, no face..."

The words hit you in the gut. You ran away, wanting to disappear into the alleys before he noticed. You almost reached the corner when you heard heavy footsteps behind you. A huge hand grabbed your shoulder and forcefully spun you around.

"Where are you going?" Pavel's voice sounded low.

He looked down, narrowing his eyes. He smelled of tobacco and road dust. His fingers tightened on her shoulder, preventing her from turning away.

"I'm waiting for you at home, and here you are, lurking in the corners like a deserter," he grinned, but a sharp tension flickered in his eyes. "Look at me. Quickly. Who offended you?"