The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII

by Marion Kummerow

  Trying to control her trembling fingers, she pulled up her skirt and freed herself from the woolen underpants and the stockings. It took her a bit of time to encourage him with soft strokes before she could mount him, conscious of where his warm flesh touched hers. He gasped and, with his eyes still shut, let her bring him to the moment when his body squirmed beneath her.

  She dropped her chin on his chest and had no desire to back out. His touch on the top of her head was oddly soft.

  It was not how she imagined this in her heated musings about him. It was so different from all her experience, but she melted in him. For the first time in her life, she felt trust for a man. As though he could save her from the cruel world behind the walls of her defenseless hut.

  She slept so deeply only the alarm clock woke her at half past six and she stretched, enjoying a warm glow that flooded her inside till the reality struck: she had an assignment to carry out. “Serezha?” Silence was the answer. Only from the street, the noise of trucks and motorcycles driving by was audible. She jumped from the bed.

  At six fifty, Natasha left the house. She needed about three minutes to reach Liberty Square. From afar, she noticed the shoe polisher stand was empty but did not put another thought to it and hurried to the newspaper stand. “Give me New Way,” she said.

  “That’s truly a new way,” the seller, an ageing man of about fifty, mumbled, jerking his head to the right. In the distant corner of the square, several people gathered at the gallows. “Just a boy. Fourteen. Polished their boots. What kind of partisan could he be?”

  Shocked, she turned away so as not to see a single puny figure swinging slightly by the gusts of wind. Gripping the pages to steady her hands and feigning interest in the front-page article, she let her eyes trace the lines of print. Punitive measures for the heinous attack by the bandits on the village . . . It’s an undisputable obligation of the population of the freed provinces to report to the German authority all the actions of the bandits who call themselves partisans, about all their hangouts, and their possible accomplices. Despite that, several villagers . . . on the contrary, they provided active assistance to the bandits . . . To punish . . . the German Command ordered 100 people to be shot, including their family members . . . Natasha took her eyes off the article when she felt somebody’s presence behind her back. She pivoted and, after a glance at the Wehrmacht-clad figure with a riding crop in his left hand beating against the seam of his freshly pressed breeches, let the newspaper drop from her hands.

  The officer bent to pick it up from the ground. “Sorry I startled you.”

  “Entschuldigen Sie, Herr Offizier. Ich war im Lesen vertieft.—Sorry, Herr Officer. I was immersed in the reading,” she uttered in her broken German, willing her pulse to slow.

  He didn’t show any reaction at her smile—or maybe it was a grimace—and only said, “Ah, Russische Intellektuelle—Ah, Russian intellectuals,” and turned around to stroll away.

  At work, time dragged, burdened with the ceaselessly circling questions in her head: Had she done all right? And what next? But most of all, when would she see Serezha again?

  And how much she rejoiced when two days later, he appeared on her doorstep. “I saw your aunt go.”

  “What did you say?” She was about to throw herself onto his chest but his unemotional demeanor stopped her.

  “Your aunt.”

  “Don’t worry, she’s on her way to the hospital.”

  “I know.” A little smile appeared on his face. “You’ve done everything right with that German officer. I have a new assignment for you.”

  She sensed a twitch of disappointment and dropped her lashes quickly to hide the hurt. “I’ll do what you want. What’s necessary,” she corrected herself.

  “Good. I knew I was right about you.” He took her hands in his.

  At last! Natasha buried her face in his padded, campfire smelling jacket.

  He wrapped his arms around her midriff and whispered into her ear, “Natasha, you must get involved with that officer you met. His name is Friedrich Hahn.”

  She recoiled and shook her head slowly, fighting back tears. He did not have feelings for her. He just wanted to use her to achieve his goals. “What do you mean? How involved?” She felt resentment and bitterness flood her.

  “Natasha, Natasha.” He grabbed her hands again. “No way would I ask you to—We need you both pretending. It’s for others to think you have a relationship. Hahn is our access to important information. He will pass it to us. Through you. We’ll assign a liaison who’ll come to pick up the intelligence.”

  “Not you?”

  “Not always.”

  At the uneasiness in his voice, her breath caught in her throat.

  “But we’ll see each other again, Natasha.”

  With her heart returning to its usual rate, she braved to ask, “Why would the Nazi help you?”

  “He has no choice. Otherwise his pranks, which are considered a crime in the Third Reich, are punishable by concentration camp. Or death.”

  “And what is this crime? And how did you learn of it?” She should know before she agreed to step in this murky water, she thought. To blot her reputation? Just the thought of being seen with a fascist nauseated her.

  “He . . .” Serezha looked aside. “He has relationships with men. We learned of it when Deniska, our liaison, reported his solicitation.”

  “Pfui, how disgusting!”

  “It took us some time to get proof of his . . . peculiarity. Presenting certain pictures to him was intimidating enough for him to accept our offer of cooperation.”

  “How do I approach him?”

  “Do you know Nadezhda Konstantinovna Petrovskaya?”

  “Petrovskaya? From the theater?”

  “Yes. She is your gate to get to our Nazi. From time to time, she hosts parties for the Commandantur officers, and you are invited too, on Saturday. Hahn will be there. At some point, he’ll say to you, ‘You are a beautiful girl. How is it possible no other officer swiped you away?’ This is proof for you he is ready for contact. Your answer is, ‘I don’t like gatherings.’”

  She inclined her head in compliance and, on instinct, looked at her hands, which bore traces of lubricating oil and the dirt lined under her nails. Her cheeks burning, she attempted to conceal them in the pockets of her cardigan and winced in surprise when Serezha reached out and caught one of her hands in his. “It’s nothing, nothing. You still have three days to . . . prepare yourself for the mission. Be at Petrovskaya at eight in the evening.”

  When, in the morning, he left, she felt the immense longing to touch his face, to gaze into his eyes, to hear his voice. Again. And again. And again.

  37

  Ulya

  February 1942

  Ulya’s cigarette dispatches disappeared from the toilet room with remarkable regularity, undeniable evidence that Nathan had his people in the Council. It gave her a feeling of “I’m not alone among these wolves.” But who was that man? Or was it the cleaning woman, the middle-aged, grave-faced female who, never looking up at Ulya, brushed past with her bucket and mop?

  By now, Ulya had learnt to pretend to smoke and hated it, but it helped with her eavesdropping. What else would give her a credible reason to open her window time and again when behind it some days was up to minus thirty? To her relief, the “window-radio” worked in any weather without disruption.

  Today, she recognized Kanankov speaking. “What reason was there for killing the old men?”

  “Not of our concern to see a reason,” Zhdanok retorted.

  Kanankov cleared his voice. “Our own people hate us more than Germans.”

  “What of it? We serve the new masters well, and they reward us well.”

  “Yes, because we carry out their orders, even if those orders are—” Kanankov’s voice was now laced with contempt.

  “Tripe! Stop whining. Just carry out the superiors’ instructions without questioning the reason.”

  The acrid sm
oke from their cigarettes flew into the room through the split open window. Ulya lit up one of her own and drew on it without inhaling, recalling a queasy feeling as she’d tried the first time.

  “But burning people in their houses? Our people!” Kanankov wouldn’t let up, his voice tainted with anger.

  “Our people are now the Germans.”

  Can one be blamed for the natural instinct to survive at any cost, even at the cost of others? The questionable idea ran through Ulya’s mind, interrupted by Zhdanok’s voice outside the window. “Besides, such actions scare the rest. Let them think twice before helping partisans.”

  “How would you feel if those were your family burned alive?”

  “My family has nothing to do with the forest bandits. By the way, do you know what the Germans pay the best for?” After a long silence, he continued, “For infiltrating partisan units. There is a special school where the volunteers are trained. Smirnyuk told me, his brother got a big plot of land attached to his house after he returned from the partisans. Whatever was left of them after the Germans sent their Jaegers—huntsmen. The other one who carried the assignment with him got . . .” Their voices grew fainter but were soon audible again.

  “I’m aware of it.” Kanankov’s voice again. “That’s not their only trick. After training, they send a group into a village disguised as partisans and after eating and drinking with the inhabitants, pointed out the ones who gave them a warm welcome.”

  “What idiots these country bumpkins are!” Zhdanok guffawed. “Ingenious. I admire Germans.”

  The sound of someone walking along the corridor made Ulya freeze. The steps seemed to stop at her door. Trying not to make a noise, she closed the window, and in two strides was at the shelf and placed her hand on the stack of empty files. The steps resumed and soon the clattering of hobnail boots died in the distance.

  Returning her mind to the conversation she’d just heard, she noted to herself that the name Smirnyuk was not in her memory. So, he was not from the Polizei ranks, most likely recruited by SD. She had to find out who he was and about his brother.

  Ulya moved her eyes to the Hitler portrait. Lately, she caught herself staring at him every time she would get news about the situation on the Eastern front. The last dispatch brought especially encouraging information: Soviet troops had driven the enemy back to 80-250 km from Moscow. So, you won’t goosestep over Red Square. You won’t break Leningrad. And though you now attack in the south, the result will be the same.

  38

  Natasha

  February 22, 1942

  An elegantly dressed dark-haired woman in her late forties held open the entrance door for her. “Natasha?” She flashed a delighted smile and gestured her to follow down the hall into a high-ceilinged, dark green-carpeted room with bookcases, velvet-covered armchairs and two sofas, and a pair of heavy velvet curtains drawn across the windows. A grand piano occupied one of the corners of this enormous room. Paintings of Russian landscapes adorned the walls, creating a warm and welcoming ambience. Natasha had never been in such a charming room before. Snacks crammed the round table in the middle. She would love it here if not for several German officers sprawled on the chairs with girls on their laps. A brief sideways glance at Natasha, a muttered “welcome,” and they went on with their cozy fondling.

  What abominable company. She seethed with anger and shame.

  “Won’t you please sit down?” The hostess motioned her to a sofa at the window.

  The officer who occupied its corner, with the already familiar riding crop on his lap, she recognized as the subject of her assignment, and felt as though the floor shifted under her feet.

  “Herr Hahn. This is Natasha. Please don’t let her feel bored.”

  He launched himself off the sofa. “I can promise it to you, Nadezhda Konstantinovna, and to Natasha.” A faint smile crossed his features. He took Natasha’s hand and brought it to his lips without kissing it. “You are a beautiful girl. How is it possible no other officer swiped you away?”

  Resentful of the situation, Natasha willed herself to send him her flirtatious smile. “I don’t like gatherings.”

  The door opened and a plump middle-aged German entered, his little eyes under the dead-head peaked cap searching around the room.

  “Herr Alsher!” The hostess quickened her steps to meet him and looped her arm through his, turning him toward a girl of about sixteen who stood by a vacant chair. Finding herself the center of attention, she dropped her gaze down. “As it was your wish, please greet Arina.” Hardly had Nadezhda Konstantinovna finished introducing the girl than Alsher walked to Arina and embraced her thin middle. “This is my girl. Come, baby, to your papa.” He flopped down on the nearest sofa and pulled the girl onto his lap.

  “Herr Major, you are as quick with the beautiful girls as you are with hanging partisans,” an officer said, provoking a head nodding and satisfied laughter.

  “Ah, partisans. When will you rid this place of them?” Hahn interjected.

  “Only after I’m done with my girlfriend.” Alsher roared.

  A bashful smile appeared on Arina’s face as though guessing they were making fun of her.

  “Since we solved this goddamn Jewish problem,” the youngest of the officers started, letting the hand of his girl fall on her own lap, “it’s time to get rid of the forest bandits too.”

  “The threat of the noose is quite persuasive.”

  “Absurd. The only method to pacify them for good is the same we implemented on Jews.”

  Natasha wouldn’t claim she understood their debate but from the snippets like “Untermenschen” . . . “send to camps” . . . “eliminate whole villages” . . . “smoke them out of woods” she built a pretty unambiguous picture of how they wanted to solve the partisan problem.

  Even Alsher, distracted by the heated discussion, pushed Arina from his lap and jerked to his feet. “We’ll wipe them all completely from this earth. All the Slavs! We’ll let only young and beautiful women live.” After his emotional tirade, he sank on the sofa and grabbed Arina’s knee. Hunched, as though scared to death, she batted her eyes at her cavalier, apparently with no grasp of what was going on.

  Unlike other guests, Hahn sat quiet, keeping out of the conversation. Something prompted him to get up and go to the grand piano. For a minute or two, he played some melancholy pieces then jerked to his feet and returned to the sofa, followed by scattered applause.

  “Herren! Attention!” Nadezhda Konstantinovna threw her arms up. “We have to celebrate a wonderful Sunday. Please, have your coffee and schnapps and let us dance.” But nobody moved to get up.

  “Hahn, come here, let’s drink for the victory of our unbeatable army and for the Fuehrer.” An officer raised his hand with a schnapps bottle. “You’ll have the whole night to entertain your lady. I’m sure she has nothing against a good drink too.”

  “Let us alone.” Hahn brushed him off and put his hand on Natasha’s shoulder. “I have something better on my mind.” Again, a shadow of irritation crossed his face. He motioned her to follow him to the foyer, saluting Heil Hitler on the move. He helped Natasha into her battered black coat with the rabbit collar and took her hand in his. As soon as the door closed after them, he jerked it away.

  On the way to his place, he didn’t utter a word.

  He lodged in a simple hut on Nekrasov Street. The moment they entered the anteroom, the inner door flung open, and a middle-aged woman with a lines-mapped face and her hair in an austere bun, threw herself to them. “Herr Hahn, do you need anything?” she muttered in broken German while looking into his eyes with a submissive devotion.

  “Coffee for me and my lady friend, please. And close the shutters.”

  “Already doing, already doing, my dear Herr.” She bowed her head, at the same time shooting sideways glances at Natasha, her eyes narrowed in disapproval.

  Hahn pulled a key from the pocket of his britches and opened one of the two inner doors. No different from what Natasha wo
uld call a standard room—furnished with a bed and a sofa, a table with a chair and a massive wardrobe with a tarnished mirror—it astounded her with its perfect order and cleanness. Was it the landlady who deserved the credit or was it Herr Hahn who demanded impeccable neatness?

  In no time, the hostess’s silhouette appeared behind the window. Taking her by surprise, Hahn pulled Natasha to him yet instantly broke away as soon as the hostess banged the shutter closed. He stepped to a small table with a brown leather box on it, which appeared to be a gramophone, then turned his head to her. “Do you like music?” he asked in Russian with some ridiculous accent, surprising her greatly.

  “Music? What music? But of course, I like it.”

  “I can offer you Strauss if you like waltzes. Or Tchaikovsky if you prefer your Russian composers. Or Hitler’s favorite, Richard Wagner.”

  Natasha shrugged. “Tchaikovsky maybe?”

  “Wrong, my dear lady, we’ll listen to Wagner.” Leaning to her ear, he whispered, “The hostess is a nosy old woman and in this case what we need is The Valkyrie.”

  Heavy, raucous, disturbing sounds more like sharp scratching with a spoon on an aluminum pot assaulted Natasha’s ear. Again, he took her by surprise when he grabbed her shoulders. What is he about to do? For an instant, she suspected he would kiss her, and the thought made her shrink. Her heart pumping loudly, she could no longer hear so much of the music, only felt a dry nervousness in her mouth.

  He shifted his face closer to hers. “Let’s start our first performance for the nosy-thing.”

  She bit her lower lip, uncertain what to do next. The moment the dragging steps behind the door suggested the woman approaching, he flung her on his lap.

  The hostess pushed her way in without a knock, balancing a tray with steaming coffee cups in her hands.

  “Frau Dobrova, didn’t I ask you to knock before entering?” The threat of warning in his voice was not hard to miss.