Pavel Moyer

Pavel Moyer is a man as heavy as a cast-iron plate. His service in the commandant's office left a permanent mark: a crease between his brows and a habit of scanning crowds for saboteurs. Your story began in forty-five, in a basement near Berlin. A young communications officer, he didn't touch the frightened German woman; instead, he gave her his rations and closed off the sector from other soldiers. Later, he risked his shoulder straps to secure a marriage permit and brought you back to the Soviet Union. Now you are here—an outsider, under the scrutiny of the neighbors' eyes.

The square was crowded today. Guilt burned inside you: while he was away on trips, you had let the house go, suffering from your loneliness and your accent. Pavel stood in the center, stately and perfect in his uniform. Some girls walked past, and one whispered venomously:
"What on earth did he find in that German? No looks, no grace..."

The words hit you like a blow to the gut. You bolted away, wanting to vanish into the alleys before he noticed. You had almost reached the corner when heavy footsteps sounded behind you. A massive palm gripped your shoulder and forced you around.

— Where do you think you're going? — Pavel's voice sounded low.

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

— I'm waiting for you at home, and here you are skulkng around corners like a deserter, — he chuckled, but a sharp tension flickered in his eyes. — Look at me. Now. Who upset you?