The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII

by Marion Kummerow

  He spun and his face contorted as if from a toothache. “You.”

  Irked by his cool voice, she shriveled.

  “You—” His right hand jerked to his temple, responding to a saluting officer who walked by, “must not come to my house.” Another jerk of his hand to another salute. “You—” His voice gave out, and he cleared his throat to start again. “You stay away from my family.” The words were like stones thrown in hate.

  “Otherwise what?” she gave a choked, despondent laugh.

  “You better not—” He left her on the street, in front of the heavy door behind which he disappeared. Bypassing her, the other officers eyed her with undisguised interest.

  She gulped hard, fighting against the urge to scream out her pain.

  Two hours later, a train was taking her to Vitebsk, away from the city that brought her so much pain.

  19

  Ulya

  June 1941

  Balashikha, Engels, Vitebsk

  A new letter from her father arrived with the same phrases of “all is well” “feeling good” “looking forward to seeing you soon.” Again, the unsteadiness of his handwriting alarmed her. Was he ill? Or, perhaps, he didn’t want to make her sad or the editor to waste his black ink on his behalf?

  A man of exemplary patience, Vladimir Kharitonovich waited, smoking, till she read the letter and wrote her answer. As it was on previous occasions, both disappeared in one of his drawers.

  “Cadet Hunter, I’d like to deliver more great news to you. You are entitled to a two weeks’ leave. From Monday next week. Where would you like to go?”

  “Home. To Engels.”

  As though he knew her answer in advance, he tilted his head in a nod. “But before going home, you’ll visit your place of work.” He plucked an envelope from a drawer and slid it to her across the table. “Money. The address of the Down syndrome children orphanage. As a dishwasher working there, you must know how it all looks and what your responsibilities include. You’ll pay attention to the details at the place. I need not remind you that you are not relieved from your responsibility of secrecy and that you are still in the line of duty.”

  “You need not.”

  The next day, after reading her detailed cover story, he sanctioned it. “Report your arrival to this phone.” He wrote a number on a slip of paper then took it back after her, “Remembered.”

  “May I go?”

  “Not yet. Read this.” The director took a paper from a file.

  MEMORANDUM

  Agent Hunter displaces high intelligence and extreme self-restraint in terms of her emotions.

  Her reactions seem to be disconnected from any feelings.

  She must learn how to express cordiality even if fake. Vital for women-agents. Expressionless face is not always an answer to a particular situation, on the contrary, it can compromise her in case convincing an opponent of her innocence is important.

  Her handshake is too firm for an ordinary woman. That says a lot about her character.

  It was not signed.

  “Comrade Wagner?”

  Vladimir Kharitonovich did not say yes or no. “You are my best student, but you must learn to pretend and deceive by smiles, ohs and ahs, eyes rolling, hands clasping, and other women’s stuff. That’s all for today.” He got up from his table to see her to the door.

  Ulya grabbed the doorknob then pivoted and threw her arms around his neck. “My darling.” His lips were hard and dry. When she let go of his stiffened body, she beamed, looking in his perplexed face. “Good enough for expressing women’s stuff?” She pushed the door open and heard him say to her back, “You are great, Hunter.”

  On her way to Engels, she took a bus to Berezovo where she stopped at the orphanage, discovering and memorizing the surroundings, structures, the location of the storage room and the washroom. For two days, she cleaned dishes, met with a few workers who most likely were there for a similar purpose, and the children. The joy they expressed in her company caught her off guard.

  And yet, she was glad to be back home. She wandered around the apartment, running her fingers along the furniture pieces, the spines of the books of which only the works of Lenin and Stalin were left, opening and closing the doors of the wardrobe and of the fine glass-fronted cabinet in the kitchen. It didn’t surprise her that their china and silverware had disappeared. As she continued exploring the rooms, she didn’t find the family photo albums and noted to herself first with disbelief and then with comprehension that most of her personal things were missing too. The clock was also gone.

  In her father’s study, she lingered longer, staring at the desk by the window overlooking the courtyard from where her father could oversee the escapades of their four boys-one girl gang as the neighbors called them—some lovingly, others with incomprehensible resentment. With her palm, she brushed the dust that had accumulated on the black leather sofa now cracked more than how she remembered it. She let her mind slip to the time when her Vati sat on it and thought of how different his and her life was now from how it was two years ago. But still the question she tried to banish lingered: was his indictment justified?

  In the wooden cupboard in the bathroom, she found her hand mirror and peered at her reflection—pale face, dark circles under her eyes. Sad eyes or perhaps hardened.

  Five days passed in blessed relaxation, saddened only by the fact her father was not with her.

  “Anybody home?” A female voice came from the street.

  Ulya hung over the windowsill. “I’m home.” She looked down at Maria Adolfovna, their mail woman. The witness to her father’s arrest.

  “How are you, girl? I haven’t seen you for eternity.”

  “All is well, Maria Adolfovna. Working.”

  “I have a telegram for you.”

  “I’m coming down.” Who would send her a telegram? Not her superiors, that was for sure. They had other means of communication. Vati! Maybe they had acquitted him and let him go home? With a sensation of weightlessness, she rushed to the door.

  Maria Adolfovna met her on the staircase landing, her eyes down. “Are you holding any hard feelings?” Her chin dropped to her chest, her voice falling almost to a whisper.

  “No. You performed your responsibilities. I would do the same in case . . . you know.”

  “I’ve heard—” Maria Adolfovna opened her mouth to say something else but did not. “What am I chatting here with you about! I have to deliver mail to three more streets.” She extended her hand with the telegram and rushed off.

  Ulya held her breath before taking the wobbly typed lettering on the slanted strips in. Her joy passed at the first word of the telegram: “Wedding June 21 You maid of honor Vitebsk Nikolskaya Street 1 Come Rita”

  At first, she opposed the idea of going. Little by little, the disappointment changed to acceptance. She’d see Rita. For a moment, she forgot her life was not hers anymore. Without special permission, she couldn’t move a finger. At the thought, she clenched her hand, and a moment later, willed herself to relax. Her father’s life depended on her.

  Surprisingly, the home phone worked. She called the number she had received from Vladimir Kharitonovich, and after a short account, got permission to visit her friend. “As you arrive, report to Comrade Kovalyonok at 2-78-13. All your actions are subject to his approval. Clear?”

  “Yes.”

  20

  Ulya

  June 18-21, 1941

  Vitebsk

  The train moved with a soothing motion. Alone in the compartment, settled with comfort on the cushioned seat, Ulya followed the terrain with her eyes. How many meters till that old, big tree? She could hit its trunk without difficulty. And that pole, much thinner. Even with a shotgun, she would not miss it. The only standing hut on the slope. She could not destroy it with a RGD-33 hand grenade. To get to it, she must be at least another hundred meters closer. Such was her thinking when the train slowed down up the slope. Ulya watched a man who dragged along a country road, walk
ing his shaggy horse. An easy target. She caught herself reaching with her right hand to her hip where her holster used to be during shooting exercises. Her hand stopped midway. Crazy! She still could not distance herself from who she’d become in the last two years.

  Stations came and went. A few people got off. Others got on.

  In Smolensk, three newly made pilot lieutenants barged into her compartment, threw their backpacks onto the top shelf and, after a brief greeting, hit the sack in total disrespect of their immaculate uniforms. They rubbed the sleep out of their eyes only when the train, its brakes screaming, slowed down then stopped in Vitebsk. “We go farther,” one of them said and helped Ulya get her satchel down from the overhead rack.

  Impressive in its redbrick and pre-revolution architecture, the railway station building reminded her of the one in Saratov. At the entrance, Ulya noticed a man in the militia uniform and, threading her way to him through the throng of people, took inventory of the languages spoken around her: Russian, Yiddish, Byelorussian, Polish.

  “How do I get to Nikolskaya Street?”

  “Your documents!”

  Ulya showed her passport to his tense face.

  “Kriegshammer,” he muttered, examining it, then returned it to her. “Take that exit to the station square. Ask for the five-line bus. Yours is the last stop.” He saluted and rushed to catch up with a young man who fought his way against the stream of people pushing toward the train platform.

  A whistle trill pierced the air. The young man made a sharp turn and ran toward the exit right into Ulya’s arms. He shoved her out of his way, but she caught him and pinned him to the wall.

  “Bitch,” the young man hissed. “I’ll slit your throat.”

  The crowd parted, giving way to the guard. Out of breath, he exhaled, “Citizen Stashock, you are arrested. Arms behind your back and march. You know the way.”

  “Why?” The insolent eyes stared into the militia man’s face.

  “Drop the act.” They went ahead. The people parted to let them pass. Some nodded in agreement. Some muttered, “It serves him right, the thief.” “Put him behind bars.”

  Inside the air-stagnated station building, Ulya found a public phone and, after waiting for some time to be sure nobody was close enough to overhear her, dialed. A voice from the other end said, “NKVD.”

  “Comrade Kovalyonok, please.”

  “Listening.”

  “Hunter reporting. Arrived. Heading to Nikolskaya Street 1.”

  There was a slight pause, a sound of papers being leafed through. “Act according to your cover story. We’ll contact you. The password is, ‘Too many wolves in the local woods.’ Your response is, ‘We can get them all quickly eliminated.’ Understood?”

  “Understood.” Though she did not. What cover story? Perhaps he meant her work at the orphanage, she concluded.

  “End of conversation.”

  She exited into the square full of commotion and soon boarded a small bus that smelled of diesel mixed with the stench of stale alcohol hanging around her like a miasma. The remains of sunflower seeds cracked under the passengers’ feet. Belching exhaust gas, the bus took her along the city center, bursting with life, where a tram, screeching at every turn, blocked the way to the cyclists, pedestrians, horse-drawn carts. In about twenty minutes, Ulya climbed down at the last stop. “Back to the station in one hour,” the driver muttered, leaning to the window and pulling his worn-out cap on his face as though shutting himself from the world.

  A narrow street stretched to a forested area. The wooden houses, not as imposing as the red stone and stone-and-timber buildings with beautiful lattices and tile roofs in the center of the city, seemed still durable and neat and the small gardens attached to them well cared for. It had the delicate quiet of a suburban street.

  “How do I get to Nikolskaya 1?” Ulya asked a girl of about seventeen who scurried past, lashing a young goat in front of her with a long, thin twig.

  “Are you looking for Slobodyaniks?”

  “Slobodyaniks?”

  “Came for the wedding?” She stopped, clamping the goat between her knees. “Oksana is my name.”

  “I’m Ulya.”

  “Are you from the bride’s side?”

  Ulya nodded.

  “I’m the groom’s niece.” Flashing her white-toothed smile, she added, “See that tallest conifer tree? See the red roof to the left?” She motioned at a wooden izba, not in any case different from the other houses on the street, only it stood at a hillock bordering the wood, about five hundred meters away. The sequestered position and the garden screening it from the street side offers privacy from praying eyes, Ulya noticed. “Thank you, Oksana. I think I’ll see you again?”

  “Yes, sure.” The girl exhaled and ran after the goat, that had managed to escape.

  Ulya had not yet set foot on the graveled path leading to the house when Rita flung the door wide open.

  “Oh, how great you managed to come.” Hands stretched wide, she embraced Ulya. “Oh, how great,” she repeated.

  “So, you are a bride-to-be? And where is the fiancé?”

  “Bagdan is in the fields. He is an agriculturist in the local Kolkhoz. You’ll meet him in the evening.” She put her arm around Ulya’s waist. “You are getting thinner and thinner. Now look at me.” She stretched her floral cotton dress over her stomach. “What will happen to me when I expect a child?”

  “Do you?”

  “Oh, no, no. I must keep up appearances. So, not before I’m married.” Rita burst out laughing. “But maybe in two days.” She tried to wrestle the satchel from Ulya’s hand and after a short and unsuccessful struggle, let it go. “Well, as always, you win, my implacable friend.” She eased into an open smile. “Welcome to the house.” She opened the door into an airy room, which seemed to serve as a kitchen and, at the same time, a good-sized, nicely furnished dining room. A whitewashed stove with a sleeping shelf separated one part from the other, screening what looked like a bedroom behind a heavy curtain. As though reading Ulya’s unspoken question, Rita said, “This house belonged to a Kulak. He was dispossessed of his property and Bagdan got the house when he came back after his studies in Moscow and received the senior agriculturist position.”

  “I see. Where did you find your Bagdan?”

  “Ah, it was so romantic.” Rita’s blue eyes shone like cobalt. “Imagine. I boarded a train to go to Smolensk, according to my work assignment. I found my compartment and a young man already inside.” She sighed, half-closing her eyes. “We sat in silence till the train stopped at a transit station. He jumped out and ran to the field. I saw him gathering flowers and wondered who the lucky girl might be. Without any warning horn, the train started moving when he was still ten paces away in the field. I saw him run until he was out of sight. A minute later, he appeared in front of me and dropped the wildflowers bouquet on my lap.”

  “What a wonder! Men go insane for you, beautiful you are.” Not like me—nothing special. A current of irritation swept through her and disappeared in an instant.

  “Wouldn’t you fall in love?” Rita’s laugh sounded like a little bell.

  “And?”

  “What ‘and’? We wrote letters to each other. Two times he came to visit me in Smolensk. And . . . here I am.”

  “So, it was love at first sight?” Her question put a smile on Rita’s face again.

  “You’ll see him, you’ll understand.” She hooked her arm through Ulya’s. “How long can you stay?”

  “I make my return home in five days.”

  “I see. Was it difficult to be excused from work?”

  “By some stroke of luck, I’m on my annual vacation. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to come.” After a brief silence, she repeated, “Yes, by some stroke of luck.”

  “I so much appreciate you are with me for this occasion. I still haven’t made any friends here.” Rita took Ulya’s hand again, her grip surprisingly strong. “You know, until Bagdan is back, let me show you
the surroundings. It’s so beautiful here in the woods. I know you like wild strawberries. What a pity, you missed the season. Soon, there will be blueberries, wild raspberries, honey agarics, or porcini mushrooms. Ah, fried potatoes with mushrooms,” she closed her eyes and licked her lips, “will make your mouth water. But that’s later into summer.”

  She was chatty, just like the Rita she knew, and overwhelmed with happiness at that.

  “Ulya, I like it here so much. See how lush the vegetation is, not like our Volga steppes. Even the air smells different. Tomorrow, we won’t have time, so let me show you around if you are not too tired.”

  “Not at all,” Ulya said, intrigued by her friend’s anxiety.

  “This way.” Rita motioned, and Ulya followed her around the house to the back where the laundry hung from a length of twine strung between two apple trees and along the vegetable beds covered with some sprouts. From there, hardly discernable footpaths ran in different directions. “Toward that conifer tree.” Rita showed the tree Ulya had already spotted from afar on her way from the bus stop. “A giant, isn’t it? If you go to the west, you’ll get to Vitba river.” Rita halted and placed both her hands on Ulya’s shoulders. “After graduation, you never showed up. But I understand. You didn’t want to endanger me. I’ve heard about your father. Was he—”

  “Yes, he was arrested, but obviously, his fault was not so big since they granted him the right to correspondence. He was sent somewhere behind the Urals, and he works there. Not jailed as you may think. He is . . . not complaining about his life.” Ulya caught herself on the strange words she used, “not complaining.”

  “But why was he—?”

  Ulya didn’t let her finish. “Are you interrogating me?”

  They both burst out laughing and walked on. The broad soft shade of the wood wrapped round them on all sides. Last-year’s dead leaves, not yet concealed by a new grass, rustled under their feet.