"I was wounded," he began. "In '43. Badly. The Red Army overran our position. I was taken prisoner with others. They dragged us east… to a camp." His eyes drifted to some far-off memory. His voice dropped. "It was… unspeakable, Inga. Cold beyond anything you could ever imagine. Days of hunger. Men dying beside me." He swallowed hard. "I didn't expect to live."
I squeezed his hand.
"But then one officer… one Russian officer… saw something in me." His lips curved with reverence and pride. "He learned I wasn't with the Party. That I'd refused to join. He protected me."
A shiver went down my spine. A premonition of what was to come.
"He taught me the values of communism," my father continued. "He showed me there was another way. A better way. One where all Germans could be lifted from the filth the Nazis dragged us into. He gave me a place… a purpose. A life." His eyes shone with fervor. "And now, here I am."
He straightened with quiet triumph. "A Senior Advisor to the Soviet Reconstruction Committee." He said it like a king announcing his coronation.
My stomach turned.
"We can be a family again," he proclaimed gently, taking my hands. "All of us. Safe. Protected. Together."
I tried to breathe. I tried to think. But none of this made sense.
"And Mutti?" I whispered. He froze for only a heartbeat, but long enough for me to see it. "You know… what happened?" I asked quietly. "The Russians…" I swallowed. "They took her. They?—"
"Bedauerliche Opfer," he replied calmly.
The words struck like a slap.Regrettable casualties.
"What?" I whispered.
He sighed. "In war, things happen. Terrible things. But understand, Inga, what the Germans did to the Russian women…" He shook his head. "It's only natural?—"
"Natural?" The word ripped out of me like fire. "Mutti was murdered!"
He didn't even flinch.
"Yes. And so were their mothers. Their sisters. Their daughters. The Red Army lost more than we can imagine. It is the nature of war that such violence?—"
"No," I cried. "No, Vati, that is not natural! Nothing about that is?—"
He raised a hand, not angrily, just firmly. "You will understand in time," he said. "You'll see the truth when you are no longer blinded by Western propaganda."
Propaganda.
The world spun.
"I want to see Klaus," I demanded sharply.
"Of course," he murmured. "Come."
He led me upstairs through halls that grew richer with every step, ornate runners, polished banisters, vases of flowers that shouldn't exist in Berlin anymore. At the top of the grand staircase, he turned left into a long corridor with tall windows overlooking the garden. We passed two doors before stopping at a third.
He opened it gently. Inside, in a soft bed beneath a quilted blanket, lay Klaus. My little brother. Fast asleep, his fist curled near his cheek, chest rising and falling steadily. Clean.Warm. Safe.
My knees nearly buckled.
"Oh…" I breathed, pressing a hand to my mouth. "Klaus…"
I stepped inside, tears streaming anew, the room blurring around him. Behind me, my father rested a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Everything will be wonderful now," he whispered. "You'll see."
But something deep inside me curled tight in warning. His tone was wrong.
Too practiced. Too smooth. As the early morning light hit the quilt, I realized: This wasn't the reunion of a family. This was the opening move of a trap.
