The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII

by Marion Kummerow

  She stopped in front of a simple door with 21 in white paint and knocked.

  “Comrade Kriegshammer.” Major Godyastchev got up and motioned her to take a chair in front of his table. “Glad to see you again.”

  I’m not. She stared into his eyes.

  “Glad you didn’t forget our conversation on May third in 1938.”

  “I did not. Why is my father arrested?”

  “Your father, Franz Fridrikhovich Kriegshammer was arrested for treason. He was in contact with a Gestapo agent who in 1938 brought a letter, or should I say, instructions to the local counter-revolutionary organization. Besides, on the directive from the German government, he spread anti-Soviet propaganda in his newspaper and among his friends and colleagues.”

  “A blatant lie.”

  “Three people confessed to it.”

  “Who?”

  “You are in no position to ask me questions.” His face neutral, he flipped through a folder on his desk.

  The silence was oppressing.

  “What will happen to my father?”

  “If the court finds the accusations confirmed, he, most likely, will be executed.”

  She gasped. Executed. The thought tore at her insides. Still, she tried to keep her shattered control.

  “You can, though, ease his sufferings.”

  She would give anything, even her life, to spare his. “How?”

  “I like your attitude. If you work for us, I can promise you that your father, even if convicted, will reside in a settlement somewhere in Siberia and though without the right of movement, the living conditions in such colonies are much better than . . .” He stopped for a long moment as though trying to find an appropriate analogy and, not finding it, went on, “Besides, I could arrange the mail communication rights for you.”

  The decision came in a flash. “I am ready to serve my socialist country, the Soviet government, and Comrade Stalin.”

  She fancied she detected an ironic look in his eyes. Still, he pulled a one-page document from a folder. “I’m required to get your consent to complete confidentiality before proceeding. The subject is sensitive and a matter of national security. You are obliged never to reveal any information about what you’ll learn here.”

  She stretched her hand to the document, as he pushed it to her over the table, and picked up the pen.

  “You can read it first.”

  Whatever it was, she was adamant about saving her father. She was not naïve. Not anymore, at least. The Soviet power was quick on violence against its own citizens. This thought alone prompted her to comply. She examined the paper and signed. “Now what?”

  “You read this. It requires your immediate decision.” He placed another document in front of her.

  She scanned it. A special school. Training for one year. Away from home. Any contact with family and friends forbidden. She added her signature. “When?”

  “May I ask you to step out for a minute? I’ll call for you.” His hand was already on the receiver.

  She exited into the corridor, deserted as before, only the click-clack of typewriters and muffled voices heard from behind the closed doors.

  In those minutes she was left to her own devices, she contemplated her action. Was it the only option? Was her acceptance prompted by her mind or her heart? She wouldn’t know. And it didn’t matter anymore. The most important thing was that her father’s life be spared, and she’d have mail communication with him. She praised herself on her quick decision: it made no sense to play with the regime.

  A short while later, Godyastchev pushed the door open for her. “Please.” He returned to his desk and waited till she took a seat. “Your course starts soon, really soon.” A tactful smile appeared on his face, which never betrayed his emotions. As if he had any. “You have two days to gather your belongings. On October third, you must be at the Saratov Railway Station. Get your ticket at the cash office for military personnel. The train departs to Moscow at six-thirty in the evening. In the capital, our man will meet you.” He stretched his hand for a handshake. “Comrade Kriegshammer, congratulations.”

  She nodded and left the room, aware she had just crossed her personal Rubicon.

  On October 4, a soldier, silent and collected, met her at the Paveletsky Railway Station in Moscow and drove his Emka-car, smelling of tobacco, for about an hour till they reached a wooded suburb. The road sign they had driven by ten minutes earlier read Balashikha. After crossing the guarded gates, he stopped the car at a nice, two-story building. He waited for her to pick up her satchel and led her inside.

  She followed him past several closed doors and an open, airy hall set up with several rows of chairs, then up the stairs. The first door to the left was unlatched, and he motioned her to enter. She took the space in. Two roomy beds each covered with a thick blanket, two middle-sized office tables and two wardrobes. A small framed picture of Felix Dzerzhinsky and a bigger one of Stalin were suspended on opposite walls.

  With his hand, her escort gestured for her to choose. It was remarkable how, without uttering a single word, he could communicate his messages. Ulya chose the bed closest to the window.

  Again, with only a small movement of his head, the soldier commanded her to follow him out and to the staircase then down to the first floor where they passed a canteen hall and several classrooms judging by the rows of tables. At that, he left her alone.

  Back to her new habitat, which she found austere, neat and tidy, and acceptable, she took her shoes off, lowered herself onto the bed, and dozed off, only a breath away from falling asleep.

  In a minute’s time, something made her open her eyes. A young woman stood in the doorway, staring at her. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I am Svetlana.” She picked up her suitcase and stepped to the vacant bed. “I suppose it’s mine?”

  Ulya made a welcoming gesture. “I’m Ulya.”

  “Ulyana then?”

  “Ulya.”

  “Good. You can call me Sveta if you wish.” There was an obvious sharpness to her voice.

  A knock made them turn their heads to the door that opened before they could voice their acquiescence. A young man popped his head around the door. “To the Chief of school. First floor.”

  “All right,” Sveta answered for both of them, and a minute later, they found themselves the only girls in the group of young men who stood on alert along the wall. The door opened, and a young fellow stepped out. One after the other—it lasted scarcely five minutes for each of them—the cadets entered and left the room. Ulya was the last to find out what was to happen behind that door.

  The Chief of school, a dark-haired and dark-eyed man in his forties, with a brush of mustache and a pleasant, far from commanding voice, introduced himself. “Vladimir Kharitonovich.” He directed Ulya to the backless chair in front of his table.

  “Welcome to the school, Comrade Kriegshammer.” After asking her about her trip and if she liked the accommodations, all in perfect German, he continued, “You know it already, but I have to repeat it once again. No acquaintances, friends, not even the members of your family must know where you study and what work you’ll do in the future.”

  That’s easy. You took my father from me, my only family, she thought bitterly with a feeling of fleeting rejection for this man, for what prompted her to find herself here, for all she had to do in the walls of this otherwise nice building.

  “Your biography is very impressive, cadet, and since German is native to you, you can spend more time on other school subjects. Tomorrow, our lecturers will fill the cadets in on the disciplines. Furthermore, revealing your family name not only to your fellow students but to the instructors and service personnel as well constitutes a violation of the Charter. I’m the only one who knows your real name, Ursula Franzevna Kriegshammer. For all the other people, you are Hunter.”

  Not even a Huntress? She smirked to herself. I’ll be up to the code name.

  “You are here for a special mission and our task as
your mentors is to nurture in you a patriot dedicated to our socialist motherland and the Lenin-Stalin party, and who in difficult combat or clandestine situations carries out her objectives with self-sacrifice.”

  He handed her an identity card, a small double-sided cardboard document: on the left inner side was her picture with a big round stamp over it, on the other side, a red star and a number. No surname.

  The teaching proved to be very serious. Taking any notes was prohibited. The cadets were to keep everything in their heads, which her photographic memory helped with a lot.

  General education disciplines included the Russian language, literature, geography, social studies, VKPB history, foreign languages, special intelligence-gathering subjects—radio, cryptography, the acquisition and communication with intelligence. Combat weapon handling.

  They had lectures on international affairs, economic geography of capitalist countries, basics of intelligence skills. Most were easy for her. Learning Morse code and how to forge documents required a bit more strain. However, she approached the disciplines as a hunter—identify a target, gather the information, decide ways and means, and take action.

  The days were filled with physical training, class and field disciplines, theory and practice.

  They learned how to handle rifles, pistols, revolvers, submachine guns, semiautomatic and anti-tank rifles . . . of Russian, German, English, Czech production . . . hand grenades based on their weight, blast effect radius, effective fragmentation radius, distance . . .

  Even her phenomenal memory was failing after eight hours of everyday training. What was it about the blast effect of the M-24 hand grenade? she guessed as she collapsed on the bed during the evening recess. The moment she thought she figured out what the blast effect was Sveta’s, that is cadet Halcyon’s, voice sidetracked her attention from the grenade. “Hunter, to the Chief of school.”

  Ulya got up, smoothed her uniform, and headed to the first floor.

  “Step in,” came at her knock.

  “Allow me to report—”

  “All right, all right, Cadet Hunter. I have something for you.” Vladimir Kharitonovich showed her a course paper envelope with her name in her father’s handwriting. Hiding the inner tremor, she took the letter from his hand. It was not sealed. They read it.

  “Of course, it was opened and read,” he confirmed, as if reading her thoughts. “I leave you to it for ten minutes.” He pushed across the table a small piece of paper and a pen, then took a pack of Belomorcanal cigarettes from his table and stepped outside.

  My dear daughter, I’m safe and sound. Work keeps me occupied. The only problem is that the temperature is below (there was a black smear over the number). It hurts my knee, which I (another smear), but I don’t give up. Thank you for your letter. I’m glad your work at the canteen is not a burden to you. Thinking of you helps me to (black smear). Your loving father.

  The writing lacked her father’s precision of the characters and straightness of the lines. But over there, behind the Ural Mountains, they must have had cold temperatures by that time, she reasoned with herself. Or, he was just exhausted. What kind of work does he do? She had no doubt that even if she asked him this question, the merciless hand of a vigilant sensor would smear it.

  She brought the letter to her face. It smelled of something she could not identify. Pressing it to her chest with her left hand, she started writing.

  My dearest Vati, what a joy it is to learn you are well. My thoughts are all the time with you, especially when I wash utensils. I have your scarf with me, that one that is wool plaid and when my longing for you becomes unbearable, I put it around my neck and imagine you are close to me.

  Without a knock, the Chief of the school opened the door. “Are you done?”

  She nodded and added in a hurried script,

  I love you as I love no one in this world. Please live for me.

  Your Ursula

  She raised her eyes to find Vladimir Kharitonovich watching her. “May I keep his letter? There is nothing . . .”

  After a long while, he said in staid calmness, “You know my answer, Cadet Hunter.”

  She put the letter on the table and left the room.

  15

  Ulya

  June 1940

  Balashikha

  Aside from the indoor lectures and seminars, every day except Sundays, for hours, the cadets practiced crawling on their stomachs under barbed wire and through sand pits—in winter it could be the knee-deep snow—from which they had to shoot at moving targets. They crossed the local Pekhorka river by swimming and rafting; scouted through the local woods, pored over maps, memorizing the streets-and-squares names, the roads in all directions from the Balashikha settlement.

  After ten months of training, the time for examinations came, which she passed with quiet confidence.

  FROM THE INTERNAL DOSSIER

  Cadet Hunter

  Smart. Talented. Photographic memory. Fast learner.

  Calm. Serious. Punctual. Well-disciplined. Exemplary self-control. Decisive and determined. Bold in her assessments and judgment. Displays tenacity, physical and mental stamina. Secretive. Reserved.

  Physical training: very good.

  Fieldcraft: very good.

  Close combat: very good.

  Explosives: very good.

  Communication: very good, 12 words/min in Morse code.

  Reports: very good.

  In handwriting: Her hand won’t waver to kill.

  On June 16, Chief of school summoned Ulya into his office.

  “Congratulations on your successful completion of the course, Cadet Hunter. You are given the rank of second lieutenant.” Vladimir Kharitonovich stretched his hand for a shake.

  What now? she thought, looking into his face.

  “The Command made a decision to leave you in the school for continuing training and part-time teaching of the German language. The order takes effect immediately. You are granted a one-week vacation. Without leaving the school.”

  One week! Unexpected luck.

  By that time, Sveta had moved out, leaving no warm feelings toward her in Ulya’s heart. Sharing the same accommodation for almost a year, Ulya knew nothing about her roommate. Only that she studied the Czech language and, based on some words and a hardly distinguishable accent, was of Ukrainian descent.

  Her mood suddenly buoyant, Ulya headed to the library and borrowed War and Peace.

  While she held the heavy volume in her hands, her memory urged up a fragment of the past. At the solemn event when she was handed a red and gold badge with Lenin’s profile and her Komsomol membership card, one of the functionaries had asked about her favorite book. After she answered, “War and Peace,” everybody present first froze then exploded in outrage. The right answer must have been “works of Lenin and Stalin.” Or at the very least, Maxim Gorky’s. A little slip like this had almost cost her membership in the All-Union Young Communist League.

  Enjoying the situation when nobody would disturb her, she snatched the pillow from the other bed and got settled in hers with the resolve of not checking the time. She always loved books, the smell of them, the feel of the pages on the tips of her fingers and the marvelous way she could travel to distant places with strange characters, the pleasure she was now deprived of due to her busy schedule.

  After ten hours of uninterrupted reading, she was on page five hundred sixteen of one thousand three hundred, absorbing every single word, captivated by Tolstoy’s sophistication of word building and strength of thought. Her eyes stung with weariness, and she promised herself to go to sleep after one more page.

  “They are burning for the combat,” declared this representative of the Russian nation, “and to prove to Your Majesty by the sacrifice of their lives how devoted they are . . .” She caught herself mentally replacing “Your Majesty” with “Comrade Stalin” and that was the last she could concentrate on before she sank into blackness.

  Two days later, she reached THE END and relu
ctantly closed the book.

  Her body craved movement and exercise. She returned War and Peace to the library then headed to the stadium where the newly arrived cadets showed off their abilities to each other. They stopped and gawked at Ulya.

  “See, we have a girl among us,” one said more with excitement than surprise. “So, one year in the woods won’t be lost on us,” the other said. “On one of us,” the third added with a smirk.

  Ignoring them, Ulya approached a cross bar and started lifting herself. After she had completed ten chin-ups they began counting in chorus, “Eleven, twelve, thirteen . . . twenty.” “U-h,” one exhaled loudly as though it was him working out.

  “Who’s next?” Ulya shifted her eyes from one to the other.

  The older of them, Ulya would think him between twenty-five and thirty, spat on his palms and, with springy ease, jumped up to grab the bar. She turned her back to the men, which produced a sound of disappointment from some throats, and headed to the running track.

  Her spectators were called into the building long before she finished her seven kilometers.

  16

  Natasha

  June 1940

  Vitebsk

  Through the split open door, Natasha watched Sergey Vladimirovich. Immersed in reading a book, eventually he noticed her standing in the doorway. In haste, he closed the book, its cover reading German Language, and slid it into the drawer of his desk.

  “Comrade Ivanova, do you have a question?” A blush ran over his cheeks.

  To ease his embarrassment and hers while she couldn’t explain why her feet had brought her here, she muttered, “I think I lost my keys here yesterday.”

  “Come in, see if they are still there. You sat in the second row.” He motioned at the chair she’d occupied a day before.