The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII

by Marion Kummerow

  Natasha bent to see under the chair then looked around and, with a pronounced sigh, headed to the exit.

  “Found?” A faint glint of humor in his dark eyes turned into an open beam.

  She shook her head. He has a lovely smile. He should smile more often, crossed her mind.

  Without giving it a second thought, Natasha set off for the public library on Smolenskaya Street. “I need a German textbook.” She approached a librarian who, for some reason, stared at her with unburdened surprise. “Stall eight at the right wall. You’ll find some there. Such interest in German textbooks of late.” The last sentence, she muttered under her breath.

  Among the poor selection of the school textbooks, she found Deutsch for grade nine.

  The woman noted it in Natasha’s newly issued library booklet. “Return it in three weeks or come in to request an extension.”

  Natasha nodded her understanding and exited into the sunny street. In the little square on the same street, after looking around for an unoccupied bench, she found one and opened the book. In about three minutes, she closed it. No, she was not capable of learning the language. Lyuba was. She always helped her with her German, letting her copy the schoolwork.

  Late in the night, remembering Sergey Vladimirovich’s smile and berating herself for a quick back down from a challenge, she pulled the textbook from under her mattress and tiptoed into the kitchen so as not to disturb her aunt’s sleep.

  Werner: Mutti, Ich habe die Wohnung saubergemacht.

  Gerda: Ich habe dabei mitgeholfen. Ich habe auch im Garten Blumen gepflückt . . .

  Some words surfaced from her memory. Then more and more. Her eyelids drooped, and when she returned to her bed and her head hit the pillow, her last thought was, of course I can, at least I have had a “good” for German on my graduation exam.

  17

  Ulya

  Autumn 1940-Spring 1941

  Balashikha

  Throughout the school year of 1940-1941, four hours a day, six days a week, Ulya taught German to three cadets, Arthuz, Oscar, and Grim. Of course, those were code names. They called her Hunter. At their first lesson, it took her one look to stop their attempts at flirting.

  For her own supplementary education, her mentors constantly fed her with new materials: German History, German poets and writers—her favorite part, the maps of the country and, particularly, of Berlin and its suburbs, including the street maps, which indicated the government buildings. Analytical papers on the modern political situation in the country and the history of the NSDAP. Even Mein Kampf by Hitler was on the must-read list.

  One day in January 1941, a new civilian made an appearance in the school, a middle-aged man dressed in an impeccable herringbone tweed double-breasted three-piece suit and expensive-looking shoes.

  Chief of school summoned her into his office. “Hunter, make the acquaintance of Comrade Wagner.”

  After they shook hands, Ulya glanced at Vladimir Kharitonovich.

  “Comrade Wagner will correct your pronunciation. You must sound like a real Berliner. And not only that, Comrade Wagner will teach you good manners as they have in Germany, and how to dress, and—Well, I leave you alone for all your interesting excursions into the land of your ancestors. Here is the key for the room allotted for your classes. Number 8.”

  Somebody had hung a Do not disturb sign on the door. The room—uncharted territory for her until now—was small but cozy with two massive tables and comfortable chairs. But before stepping inside, Comrade Wagner paused then said in a formal tone, “Behind this door, I’m Herr Wagner.”

  Ulya acknowledged it with a nod of her head.

  His introduction into the Berlin dialect astounded her. There was indeed a lot to learn or rather to change in her own pronunciation. After two hours of twisting her tongue and pushing her cheeks, Herr Wagner took pity on her. “Now, let’s move to Berlin.”

  He pulled a heavy volume from his leather briefcase and placed it in front of her. Black-and-white pictures showed broad streets lined with manicured trees and grandiose buildings. On that first day, he took her on the virtual stroll starting from the Brandenburg Gate along Unter den Linden while telling her about the Reichstag, the State Library, State Opera House, National Gallery, Pergamon Museum, Tiergarten, Bahnhof . . . Imperial structures, hotels, shops. He pointed out the newly constructed monstrous palaces and remodeled avenues, all imposing projects of the new power.

  “But it’s not all about Berlin. There is a myriad of beautiful residential neighborhoods. You have lived in this one, here.” He pointed at a dot on the map then pulled a stack of pictures and a thin bunch of paper with a text of fine print from his briefcase. “You will study them later. Tomorrow, you’ll tell me your story.” He smiled as though inviting her objection to the enormity of the task. Getting none from her, he went on. “However, let’s start with the most important thing.”

  “And what could it be?” she said, expecting a catch.

  “What Berliners eat for Frühstück, Mittagessen, and Abendessen. Not the least, the coffee etiquette.”

  “Coffee etiquette?”

  “Yes. On the tea tray, milk jug to the top right, sugar bowl to the bottom left. A slice or two of homemade cake in the middle. You’ll find recipes in here.” As if by magic, a cookbook appeared in his hand. “Learn them in your spare time.”

  The next several weeks enriched her with many more amazing discoveries, which Herr Wagner produced like from a ruptured water butt.

  “It is not common in the Soviet Union, but in Germany, men kiss women’s hands.”

  “What for?” Ulya kept her surprise out of her voice. “Is shaking hands not enough?”

  He burst out laughing, showing a perfect row of his white teeth. “That’s how men express their admiration to women. And . . .” He made a pregnant pause. “German men open the car door for their women too. So, you must not be surprised if the man who brings you wherever you are going, climbs out of the car, walks over to the passenger’s side to open the door for you, takes your hand to help you out, and closes the door behind you after that.”

  “Why would he do that? I can climb from the car with nobody’s help.” Ulya’s words provoked an infectious laugh from him again. If only he knew the only vehicle she’d ever ridden in was a public bus.

  One day, he placed a stack of glossy-cover magazines in front of her. “This is for you to check. Later. Otherwise, I think, I can’t maintain your attention.”

  The next morning, as he met her in front of their room, a mischievous smile touched his lips. “Bad night?”

  She bobbed her head. “Is it how German women dress?”

  “Yes.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes. In Berlin. Well, in some other big cities, as well.”

  “Do they dress this way while going to church service?” She thought she recognized some bafflement in his eyes.

  “That’s the talk of our day’s subject. And not only how to be dressed for church but how to behave inside.”

  Never being allowed to pray and go to a service, Ulya learned from Herr Wagner the history of Protestantism and loved how the prayers sounded. Truly, he came from an unknown world!

  For three months, he filled her in on all possible facets of life in Germany, starting from the time of Ulya’s “parents” birth. She would not admit it to somebody else, but she realized she already loved that imagined atmosphere of living in Germany except for one specific aspect.

  Herr Wagner did not shy away from the particulars about the German inner politics against Jews, Communists, others who opposed the Nazi regime. He showed her pictures of concentration camps, of beatings of the opposition members. Without any explanation or expressing his opinion, he let her absorb it all.

  How was the Stalin regime different from what she heard from this Berliner and saw in the pictures? The question circled in her mind. Her father was arrested. Gleb’s father was executed and Gleb . . . Did he do it to himself, or was he taken ou
t? Where and why had Arkash’ka’s family disappeared? Aside from her father’s case—and yes, they were human toward him since he could live, albeit behind the Urals, and work and communicate with her—the residue of the doubt settled down like an ever-pressing presence. What if her father and the people close to him were opportunists? Could she be sure her father did not belong to the opposition? What if he did? And if he did, on which side was she, his daughter?

  The Soviet people, her included, were taught the highest authorities led by Stalin used their power to improve the lives of their citizens. And yes, the signs of it showed everywhere in their everyday life. Wasn’t it what she proclaimed while “carrying the truth to the masses” as an Agitprop Brigade member? She couldn’t deny it to herself, she still believed it in her head.

  18

  Natasha

  May 1941

  Lipetsk

  Linden trees were in full bloom, saturating the air with their characteristic aroma, bumble bees flying from blossom to blossom. Sunshine flooded the street on one side while on the other there was shade. On the west, dark, ragged clouds hung in the sky. Now and then, lightning quivered and twitched like the wing of a dying bird. It was so far away the thunder couldn’t be heard.

  So as not to be caught in the storm, Natasha took a shorter route to her settlement, Stone Log, which led her past the Flying School, raising up a painful memory that still clutched at her heart. The sight of a familiar figure in a pilot uniform exiting the building caught her off guard.

  He stopped to talk with another officer. They smoked for some time then shook hands and headed in opposite directions.

  In a hurry, she crossed the street and moved to meet him face to face.

  “Natasha!”

  She halted, observing him and taking her time in pretending not to recognize him. “Stepan?”

  “What, have I changed beyond recognition?”

  “Four years. You changed.” Her eyes swept over his face. “You don’t look as before. I have never seen you so . . . sad. Sorry, but where is your ever-smirking expression?”

  “All gone.”

  “So, your family life is of no joy for you? And what are you doing in Lipetsk?”

  “Haven’t you heard it from Lyuba?”

  A black, bitter wave rose in Natasha. “You kept in touch with her all this time even after you married but discarded me as spent goods?”

  For an instant, a confusion stole into his expression. “So, she did not tell you.”

  “I’ve just came from Vitebsk and was about to see her tomorrow.”

  “I’ll spare you a—” He clutched at his collar, pulling it down as though it suffocated him. “I married Lyuba.”

  Natasha gulped. Lyuba? What a bitch, flashed through her mind. “But not happily married, I suppose?”

  He shook his head slowly from side to side.

  “Want to talk?” and, noticing some hesitation in his face, she added, “As friends.”

  A forced smile flitted across his features as though bringing some memories to his mind. “Want to go to the pond?”

  From the boatman, they took a two-oar like on that day when they’d discovered the pleasure of the irresistibly intimate hunger for each other. Bringing a little shiver of delight, one scene came to light. It happened behind the thicket of the bird-cherry bushes. On the ground with sparse young grass. Did he remember, she wondered. Seven years since.

  His face somber, Stepan worked one oar to position the boat, and the next moment it glided toward the opposite shore, noisy with the discordant sounds of birds.

  “Seven years since,” she voiced her thought.

  Without reaching the shore, he slowed the boat down and let the oars trail behind, peering over her head as though lost in his musings.

  Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Do you love her?”

  The question seemed to throw the dam open. “Don’t ask me why I married her. Just know I am unhappy. She doesn’t love me. Every time I want to touch her, she recoils. We don’t talk. I’m nothing to her.”

  At his strangled voice and the look of despair on his face, her heart raced. “Leave her. Come to me. I’ll do anything you ask of me. Stepan, I’ll love you till my last breath.”

  “I can’t.”

  “But why? Were we not happy together?” She stretched her leg, touching his calf with hers in a slight motion.

  “Natasha, don’t. I have a child.”

  “Ah, the child.”

  “Adopted.”

  “What? She even could not give you a child? Bitch,” she hissed the curse. “With me, by this time, you could have had your own children.”

  He gave a choked, desperate laugh.

  “Stepan!”

  His face twisted.

  She had never known such a look on him. “Come back to me.” She pulled his hand to her knees. “Let’s love each other as we did before. Before she thwarted us.”

  He stared at her with a strained weariness. “Natasha, it’s all in the past. I can’t change anything. Believe me, if I could you’d be the one.”

  “But why? Because of your career? Are there no officers who have obtained a divorce?”

  “It’s all much more complicated. Natasha, let me see you home.”

  When the boat hit the shore, Stepan jumped out and extended his hand to help her out. They walked in silence for ten painful minutes until she ventured, “You did not forget the road to my house.”

  “I did not, and thank you, Natasha, for listening to me. Sorry I brought pain on you. Maybe, with you, I would have been happier.”

  At the door, she leaned to him, and he did not move away. Confident he would willingly accept her hungry kiss, she looked up at him. In the dim light it was hard to make out his expression, but she could see just enough to think she had noticed passion in his eyes. She buried her face against his chest, inhaling the smell of the body she so loved to please. From somewhere close, a thunder angrily muttered, and a gust of cool air returned her back to the reality. “Good night, Stepan,” she exhaled with tenderness, and that was how she felt about this man. She watched him go away, almost at a run, caressing his silhouette with her eyes till he disappeared behind a corner. You’ll be mine. I’ll win you back from that bitch.

  The name they gave her, Lyuba, Lyubov, meaning love! Not a drop of love in her. I’ll repay her with the same coin, Natasha fumed.

  How could she get to sleep tonight? Stepan! She placed her hand between her thighs, choking from the unbearable longing. Her Stepan. There was no other man in the world who’d be more desired by her heart and her body. Not that she knew many men with whom she could draw a comparison. She cringed as her memory flashed to that rosy-cheeked, well-padded peasant whom she’d met once at the local market. From some nearby village, he brought flowers to Vitebsk to sell. With a single crimson-red rose, he lured her to meet him at the West Dvina riverbank that evening. He handled her hard and in a haste, grunting like a boar until he moaned and pulled away. He didn’t even see her home. A country bumpkin.

  The other one, the sleazy middle-aged schoolteacher, was not better in his own way. After endless spouting off about the socialist morale and “the leading role of the Communist Party in raising the new generation of young people on the principles of Communism builders,” he had drunk like a fish with them, the members of his Agitprop Brigade. When night fell and the agitators, inspired by his speeches and inflamed by vodka, wandered off, he asked Natasha to help with cleaning the dishes. It didn’t come to that. As soon as the door closed behind the last visitor, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to a bed behind the curtain. Her head was swimming then but even now, she could remember the dirty sheets. But what could she do? She had drunk herself into a stupor and didn’t mind at that moment him pushing her legs apart, throwing himself between them. He came without even pulling her panties down. Eww.

  With Stepan, it was different. It was love, and she knew, he didn’t cease loving her. Whatever the reason was fo
r him to marry Lyuba, she, Natasha, would get him back. He did not love his wife. That was obvious. And from what he had told her about Lyuba, she didn’t have any feelings for him. Maybe even despised him, which would make the execution of Natasha’s plan easier.

  She took a deep breath, reliving again and again the memories of their nights and days together, loving each other with shameless passion, always as if it was for the last time in their life. It all will be back. Soon. Very soon.

  Natasha was shaking in anticipation when at four in the evening the next day she took a position on a bench behind the rose bushes across from the Flying School. No way would she miss Stepan leaving the building.

  Her meeting with Lyuba an hour earlier invaded her thoughts, bringing back Lyuba’s first confusion and then aggressiveness after Natasha attacked her with her accusations. Now, recalling her own curses, Natasha felt a strange satisfaction. “May you never find love in your life. May you never have your own children!” she whispered the words she’d breathed out into Lyuba’s face. You’ll get what you deserve, you shameless floozy. I’ll win Stepan back.

  Natasha pulled out a small oval mirror, applied fresh lipstick, and peered at her reflection. Her hair shone in the beams of the setting sun and a heavy layer of black mascara emphasized her long, thick lashes. The suffocating bitterness passed, and she again was in absolute control.

  He’ll be mine, she repeated with the determination of a vow to herself.

  Stepan did not show up. She realized it was night, only when the streetlamps came on, and she headed back home to spend a restful night, hardening herself to carry out her plan. She knew what she’d do.

  At seven in the morning next day, she placed herself on the observation post as on the previous evening and waited. She had only three hours before her train’s departure for Vitebsk. Five before eight, she saw Stepan stride along the street. Her heart singing with joy, she jerked from the bench and crossed the street on the run. “Stepan!”