Mornings in Lustdorf always began with the sea wind. Thin, warm, and damp, it carried the scent of salt, wet soil, and the faint smoke of fishermen’s fires along the coast. The air here was different from Odessa — clearer, like young wine, with a light bitterness and a soft golden warmth. Over the green vineyards, a light steam rose from the warming earth, carrying with it the scent of straw, damp wood, and sun-drenched soil.
Fritz Steinmeier stood on the terrace of his house, one hand resting on the carved railing. He watched as two workers hitched a horse to the cart below. Crates of wine stood ready. Milk churns clinked as they were loaded. The morning unfolded with quiet order, just like hundreds before it.
He held a cup of strong, dark coffee. He wore short German-style trousers with suspenders, a crisp white shirt, and on his head — a straw hat with a dark ribbon. From a distance, he looked like a prosperous settler, the kind who inspected vineyards in the morning and hosted long dinners in the evening. His face was kind — almost pastoral — with soft creases around his eyes and a subtle, settled smile.
And that’s how everyone in Lustdorf saw him: a gentle German, a Lutheran winemaker, a man with stories and good taste. No one knew that “Fritz Steinmeier” was not a name, but a part played.
His real name was Major Dmytro Balaban. And that name was known only in one place — within the Security Service of the Hetmanate, or simply: S.B.H.
He took a sip of coffee, placed the cup gently on the windowsill, and closed his eyes for a moment. It was a good role. Quiet. Long-lasting. Firmly embedded in the minds of those around him. It had settled into his skin like memory.
When the boy appeared in the garden with a telegram, Balaban didn’t flinch. He simply took the paper, unfolded it neatly, and read:
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
ODESSA. CONTACT CONFIRMED. SUBJECT “PILOT” HAS ESTABLISHED CONNECTION. ASSUMING CONTROL.
He read it three times. Then folded the message like a military dispatch and slid it into his pocket. His fingers trembled just slightly as he took the key to the wine cellar — not from fear, but from focus.
It was time to put on a different mask.
The cellar was cool. It smelled of yeast, old oak, and stone. The walls were rough-cut rock, and the floor laid with bricks — bricks that had soaked up the southern air for decades: wine, smoke, even the scent of fish.
Balaban passed rows of barrels, ran his hand across one of the old casks — a gesture done without thinking. Then he slid open a narrow door hidden between shelves and stepped into a small, dimly lit room that only he and the radio knew existed.
A kerosene lamp flickered overhead. Its glow was faint, but steady. A large map of the coastline hung on the wall — the Odessa shore, hand-marked with pencil. Beside it: the emblem of the Hetmanate — a stylized trident in a bronze shield, ringed with wheat and laurel.
The table held a telegraph key, wire spools, worn notebooks, a cipher book.
Everything was in place. Everything worked.
He sat down, put on his glasses, and began tapping out the message like a pianist rehearsing an old étude. His hands moved fast. Precise. No hesitation.
…Kyiv, base “Chorna Loza”, receiving… receiving… subject “Pilot” confirmed in Odessa. Channel activated. Contact made via “Rabbi Zusya”. Awaiting instructions…
He set the headphones aside, wiped his brow with a folded handkerchief, removed his glasses. Everything was going to plan. If Chelagho had really returned — then he had remembered something. Or would soon. The only thing that mattered now was not being late.
Balaban turned off the lamp, left the radio room, and returned to the wine cellar. Before climbing the stairs, he stopped by the oldest barrel — the one tucked in the corner near the wall. He pulled the stopper, filled a small glass with young wine, sniffed, took a sip.
He winced. “Too early,” he muttered to himself. He set the glass down. “But by autumn… it’ll be what it needs to be.”
