Although I was heartbroken, I knew that life had to go on. After crying and sniffling for a while, I eventually forced myself to sleep.

The next day, I went to work at Roza’s repair shop. With a cigarette in my mouth, I used a wrench to loosen the bolts. It was just a simple engine oil replacement.

Working felt good. When I was focused on my tasks, my mind went blissfully blank. I also liked being the youngest mechanic at Roza’s shop.

Despite my falling out with Archum, I worked diligently throughout the day. Soon, it was noon.

“Svyeta, it’s lunchtime!!”

When a coworker called out, I headed to the diner favored by the mechanics from Siyaniye’s repair shop. As always, there he was, sitting in a secluded corner—the foreign student from the West, Jurgen von Bechmann.

With a plastic tray holding borscht, black bread, and kvass, I took my usual seat across from him. Not because we were particularly close, but more out of habit.

“Svyeta.”

“Yes.”

“Why does your face look like that?”

“What about my face?”

“It’s very swollen.”

I stirred the broth, blending in the smetana, and let out a long sigh. Having cried all night and come straight to work, my face was indeed terribly swollen.

“I got dumped.”

“By Archum?”

“Yes.”

Jurgen was friends with Archum, and he also knew that I had been in love with him.

“Archum’s getting married soon. Did you know?”

“Yes. I even received his wedding invitation last week.”

His calm reply left me unsettled. He knew Archum was getting married and hadn’t told me?

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why should I?”

Jurgen’s response was cold, his tone as if my love life was none of his concern.

I busied myself with spooning up the borscht. Complaining to him wouldn’t change the fact that I’d been rejected.

He stared at me for a long while, and then suddenly muttered,

“Svyeta, marry me and let’s leave this country.”

I choked on my soup and began to cough. His outrageous proposal left me speechless and unable to think straight. Jürgen really was an odd man. I already knew that much. The man sitting before me — Jürgen von Bechmann — was peculiar in every way.

✹✹ ✹✹ ✹✹ ✹✹ ✹✹

Three years ago, I first met Jurgen in the dust pit of the repair shop.

At the time, I was sweating under a car, reeking of oil, when someone called out to me.

“Svyeta Antonovna.”

Hearing my name, I crawled out from beneath the car. Since he’d called me so familiarly, I thought it might be someone I already knew. Instead, a stranger stood before me.

“I’m Jurgen von Bechmann.”

Before I had even managed to stand up properly, he offered me a handshake out of the blue. I staggered to my feet and reluctantly took it.

“Hello, Mr. von Bechmann. What brings you to our repair shop?”

His dark brown hair was slicked back neatly with pomade, and he was undeniably handsome. Tall enough to stand out from a distance, he moved with an air of elegance. But that was all. For some reason, I found his cold face utterly disagreeable.

“Are you hot?”

“…What?”

It was the dead of winter, with temperatures well below minus ten. His question took me by surprise. Almost unconsciously, I touched the back of my neck. It was damp with sweat. After spending so long crawling under a cramped car, it wasn’t unusual for my body temperature to spike.

“Work makes the heat build up.”

“You look thirsty.”

“I’m fine.”

When I heard his name was Jurgen, I guessed he was a foreigner — and I was right. Every word he spoke had the unmistakable lilt of a Hildenbech accent.

“So, Jurgen, what brings you here? Trouble starting your car? Or maybe you came for fuel?”

I had to crane my neck just to meet his gaze. But the moment I tilted my head up and locked eyes with his grey irises, I felt my face flush and quickly looked away. His stare was uncomfortably intense and almost invasive.

“I didn’t come here to fix a car.”

“Then why?”

“Svyeta Antonovna. I came to see you.”

My shoulders stiffened and I felt an unpleasant, sharp jolt in my chest.

Jürgen wore no jewellery or ornamentation; just a plain outfit, polished leather boots and neatly combed hair. Jürgen’s immaculate appearance only served to make me feel disgusted, as though his presence alone had triggered something nightmarish inside me.

“Are you busy?”

His voice carried a deliberate stiffness, and I felt an odd pressure bearing down on me.

“Yes. It’s working hours right now. If you need me for something, could you come back at noon?”

“No. Now.”

“…What?”

“I’m in a hurry too.”

He raised his left arm to check his watch in an automatic gesture. Yet, despite claiming to be short on time, he seemed far too relaxed. It wasn’t just his expression; every one of his gestures exuded an air of composure that bordered on arrogance. I found him utterly repulsive because of it.

He never revealed why he was there that day. He just stood there and watched me work. From that day on, he sought me out every single day. Three years passed like that.

✹✹ ✹✹ ✹✹ ✹✹ ✹✹

The Jürgen sitting before me now was no different to the man I’d met three years ago. He was wearing the same plain coat and carrying himself with the same air of arrogance.

But why had he come to see me every day for three years? If someone heard that a man had been visiting a woman every day for that long, they would naturally assume it was out of affection. I had wondered the same. Perhaps he liked me. But I could never find even the faintest trace of it in him.

Not even when he proposed. There was no warmth or affection in his eyes, voice or manner.

“So? Your answer?”

“I still haven’t let go of my feelings for Archum. So with you, I…”

“You’re saying you can’t marry me.”

He showed not the slightest hint of unease. The possibility of being refused had clearly never occurred to him. He seemed utterly convinced that everything would unfold exactly as he wished.

Even after I refused him outright, Jürgen pulled a ring case from his pocket and snapped it open. My gaze faltered at the sight of the ring — an impressive piece featuring a diamond as large as a bead. The only other time I had ever seen one like it was on my mother’s hand a long time ago.

He looked at my fingers as if he might slip the ring on at any moment. A chill ran down my spine. I curled my fingers into a tight fist.

“I told you. I can’t marry you.”

Despite being rejected, Jürgen remained calm while I was nervous. It felt absurd that the person who should have been shaken was so composed, while I was on edge.

“Why did you propose to me?”

I dropped my spoon into the pink borscht and laced my fingers together tightly.

“Do you love me?”

What other reason could there be? He spent three years hovering around me, going so far as to propose. If not love, then what? Yet still, I couldn’t find it in him.

What lingered in those grey eyes wasn’t love. It was something else — something I couldn’t name.

“Do you want to hear me say I love you?”

“That’s not what I mean. When a man proposes, isn’t ‘I love you’ the bare minimum? Without saying it, no woman would ever accept your proposal.”

Instead of answering, he folded his arms loosely.

“If you want me to say it, I will…”

“Forget it. I don’t want it, so don’t bother.”

I was still upset about everything that had happened with Archum, and having this conversation with Jürgen was exhausting. I wanted to erase words like ‘love’ and ‘marriage’ from my mind completely, if possible.

“If you marry me, you can quit your job and leave the country.”

“Why would I give up a hard-won job?”

“It was Archum who got you this job. How long do you plan to rely on him?”

“If I weren’t a competent mechanic, I would have quit by now. But I am, so I’ll continue working. I’ve never been a burden, so I’ll carry on working.”

At my reply, he gave a smile I couldn’t read. To me, it felt like mockery.

“Don’t you find your hometown suffocating?”

“And why should I?”

“You still want to stay here after watching your father get executed by firing squad?”

Had I ever told him that? That my father was executed? A chill of unease ran through me.

“It was a chaotic time. The men who shot my father were executed too—just like him. They paid for their sins along with him. So no, I don’t hate my hometown.”

“And your three brothers who were dragged off to the prison camp?”

The way he casually asked me that question cut me to the core. The thought of my brothers’ suffering was almost unbearable. I pitied them, but there was nothing I could do to help them.

I spooned up more of the pink borscht, but after hearing that, I felt sick. The soggy black bread floating in the soup suddenly seemed repulsive.