The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII

by Marion Kummerow

  With time, the woman became plumper, a belt around her waist defining its fullness. This detail particularly stuck in Ulya’s mind. Even if she was an Underground worker, now pregnant, she’d do whatever it would take to spare her future child in case of an arrest. Wouldn’t Ulya herself? Or maybe, she was already turned by SD?

  Rumors of blown up German trains and rail tracks, killed troops and Polizei, circulated in the city. The partisan leaflets The Soviet Union lives and fights! Death to the fascists! Long live the Red Army! added richly to that. The Germans built more gallows and the autumn was abundant with the new ones. Nathan. Just thinking of him in that connection brought a sensation of her hair lifting on the nape of her neck.

  It looked like hanging people was not enough for the occupiers. They forced the civil population to attend at all public executions. Hundreds of placards inundated the city, all concluding with, “Failure to attend will be subject to extreme punishment.”

  44

  Ulya

  January 1943

  When one day Hammerer mentioned that the night before five people from the Underground were arrested, Ulya decided it was time to act.

  The temperature dropped that night.

  Ulya looked up at the dark sky and hoped the falling snow would fall fast enough to fill the tracks she’d make.

  From the street corner, a small woman appeared. Even her winter coat couldn’t conceal her petite, reed-like figure, her hips swiveling with every scurrying step, her heeled shoes cutting prints in the virgin snow. In a short brown coat, the dark shawl wrapping her head, she disturbingly reminded Ulya of that sparrow from her childhood. An easy prey.

  Although in this part of town Germans didn’t show up often, still, she should exercise extreme caution. After a brief glance around, she picked up the Walther with a silencer from her pocket and looked down at it. A quiet thought came, demanding an answer. Why did she want to kill her? From hate? From duty? What if Rita’s death resulted from her actions? Ulya could not save the ones executed, but she still could save others. Feeling suddenly sick, she startled at the shock of discovery. Nathan. She hadn’t even noticed when he became so important to her.

  Ulya lifted the revolver. Her thumb found the hammer, her finger threading through the trigger guard. She pointed the barrel at the narrow back some fifty paces away from her and, without giving herself time to hesitate, pulled the trigger.

  The woman threw up her arms and turned halfway as though curious about who it could be. Her legs doubled and her body fell to the right, twitching twice then softening, her head slumping sideways on the snow.

  Ulya sneezed at the reek of cordite in the air and froze, straining to listen to the deadly silence. Suddenly, a movement caught her eye, a subtle shift in the rubble’s shadow. She felt rather than saw it at the edge of her vision. Swinging round, she stepped back, tight to the wall. If there was someone, he’d seen her, and maybe could describe her. She crept to the corner and peered round it.

  A man in a black Polizei greatcoat rushed to the woman crumpled on the ground. Looked around. Squatted. Pushed his hand under her rabbit fur collar.

  From behind her hide, Ulya closed the gap between them in two seconds and watched his eyes widen. “You?” His expression was tantamount to terror as if he’d just encountered a ghost. She, too, was surprised at the recognition. Kanankov. He flinched, looking up. His bottom lip trembled. She breathed in, steadied her heart rate, and trained the gun muzzle on him, taking care not to touch his skin. An easy kill. With a bullet between his eyes—a star-shaped hole and a shocked stupor on his face, his body slumped sideways, covering the little sparrow like a crow with its folded-up wings.

  Two enemies less. Ulya slipped the revolver into her pocket, looked around, then allowed herself one last glance at the two lifeless bodies . . . Big downy snowflakes descended slowly onto Kanankov’s black Polizei greatcoat and his exposed cheek. For a moment, she felt dizzy and nauseous. She turned around and hastened through a gateway that led to another street, keeping to the side where the snow was thinnest, the wind having driven most of it to the wall as though to cover her tracks.

  Home, already in bed, in reviewing the event, she asked herself if she felt mercy and answered her own question without a breath of hesitation. She was trained not to feel it and, entering into a state of relaxed concentration, ordered herself, No flashbacks. But the dream that had not tortured her since she was a little girl returned. Memory took her back to that little sparrow that hopped from twig to twig, chirping carelessly as though thrilled by the first warm spring day.

  “Ulya, now, finish it.” She couldn’t recollect which of the boys pushed the slingshot into her hand and who gave her the stone. “Come on now, shoot.” Her friends’ eyes watched her in anticipation. “She is a weakling.” Arkashka’s voice. “We won’t let her play with us anymore,” Wolfy added. “See, she is scared.” That was Gleb.

  “I am not scared!” With trembling fingers, she put the little stone into the hollow of the rubber band, pulled on it and, spellbound, watched the little bird thrown into the air, just a bit, then falling down, its descent slowed by the twigs. The next moment, it was on the ground, twitched two times, and then died.

  That was the moment she’d decided to become the strongest, the smartest, the most uncompromising, though then she perhaps did not know those words.

  Her childhood friends’ mocking giggles still sounded in her ears as if they were in the same room, and she shook her head to get rid of the troubling illusion. Yet another feeling surfaced. She caught herself relishing the idea that she could decide who was to live and who was to die. Was she becoming ruthless? Or was she already?

  His face gray with exhaustion, the dark circles under Nathan’s eyes made him look like he had aged ten years.

  “What’s wrong?”

  His breathing irregular and heavy, he leant against the wall.

  “What’s happened?” Ulya repeated.

  With shaking hands, he took a cigarette she offered him. Before talking, he swallowed hard several times. “Two more of our messengers were killed last night.” His voice broke and out of support, she reached for his hand. He gripped it. “We have a traitor among us. Help me unmask him and kill him. You must have access to Hammerer’s files, you—”

  “I have no access to his files,” she interrupted him, not immediately struck by the realization the people he talked about could be those two whose blood was on her hands. Just as quickly as it occurred to her, giving way to the rush of guilt, her mind offered a doubt. Maybe he meant other people? Dozens were killed on Vitebsk streets every day. And if not, could Nathan be wrong in trusting them? The Polizei and the woman. Both close to Germans to cause damage to the Underground.

  “Nathan, these two of your people. How sure were you about them?”

  “I would trust them with my life. Kanankov was the one who delivered your messages to me. He was with us from the very first day of the war. Even more: we trained him for a special mission before the war started.” There was something uncertain in his stare. “Ah, Kanankov.”

  “And the other man?” She caught herself on base deceit.

  Again, that half-look into the distance as if sifting memories, his face haunted, his eyes filled with unshed tears.

  “The other . . . was a young woman. Ah, Kanankov, Kanankov.” He shook his head and swallowed hard. “I asked him to protect her and he promised. He was in love with her. He was not aware—” Nathan stammered, “that I knew about it.” A mournful smile flashed on his face as a fleeting cloud. “Natasha was an irreplaceable liaison between a German officer who secured invaluable information from the operative command that we sent directly to the Central Partisan Headquarters in Moscow. To get to him again, we must find somebody else.” He took a breath slowly and exhaled. “Natasha was—” A look of utter desolation in his eyes focused on some faraway point she could not see.

  Ulya felt herself go still. Her death shook him hard. Poor Nathan. Was he
in love with her? Was it more than Underground work that bonded them together? The thought brought a bile of jealousy to her throat. Then another sensation, akin to a conviction she was certain would haunt her. Her pulse raced as she thought about it and pieced together the clues she should have identified. How could she so horribly miscalculate on Kanankov’s part? She’d listed his name numerous times and again and again, he’d escaped partisans’ revenge. This fact alone should have sparked a doubt. She should have sensed something was wrong, she thought with nervous tension in her stomach. But now, what was the point of dwelling on it? She’d committed murder and there was nothing she could do to undo it. And still . . . The mind offered her the crutch of another doubt. What if Nathan was wrong about this Natasha and it was a right thing to do to execute her?

  For a long time, they sat in silence. She watched him stare past her, into nothingness, numb and catatonic. Suddenly, he let out a hard sigh and closed his eyes. The next moment, his elbows gave way and his head slumped on the table.

  “Nathan?” Not getting any reaction from him, she helped him to the bed, almost dragging his slackened body. She lowered herself at his side and dabbed the sweat from his forehead with a corner of the sheet. When she reached for him to stroke his tangled hair, he opened his eyes and gazed at her, intense and unmoving. Then he rolled away and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face. “I should go.” The hardness in his voice was new to her.

  “You must stay, Nathan. It’s after cur—” The look on his face stopped her. She watched him leap from the bed, grab his rabbit-fur cap from the chair, and walk out of the door.

  He left her with an unfamiliar combination of anger, pity, and perhaps a secret longing to be loved by somebody as that woman she had killed had been loved by Nathan.

  III

  Something Else in Store

  Ulya

  Vitebsk

  45

  February 1943

  It was now more than a year and a half since the German troops had occupied Vitebsk. The population had decreased significantly—that was what the Civil Administration reported to the German Commandantur. The city full of stray dogs and cats before the war, was now devoid of them, all consumed by starving people or wolves who were occasionally sighted among the rubble, driven to the city by the barbarically cold winter.

  In the course of the last five months, flyers reading Stalingrad remains and will remain Soviet plastered on top of the orders and regulations of the occupying power caused a lot of trouble to the civil and military authority.

  Today, on her way to work, Ulya heard a rifle crack and as she turned the corner, she watched a Polizei dispel a small group of onlookers who were examining something pinned to the bulletin board. “Move!” “I’ll shoot!” “Disperse!” The Polizei brandished his rifle, shoving the people away.

  What a commotion? Ulya came closer to see a high-quality, two-color map of the Stalingrad war theatre titled “THE CRUSHING DEFEAT UPON THE WEHRMACHT.” How short and how significant. A moment of perplexity gave way to admiration. The tide of the war had turned against the Germans. Under the eyes of the Polizei and the bystanders, she ripped the map off, tore it in two then let it fall on the ground. Readable if somebody picked it up. From the corner of her eye, she saw a teenager throw himself at the map and stuff it in the bosom of his coat. This small action resistance brought her gloating satisfaction.

  “You are one minute late.” His voice toneless, Hammerer’s eyes darted to his watch then with a slow movement of his head to Ulya.

  “My fault, Herr Hauptsturmführer. It won’t happen again.”

  “I must be sure of it. Show me your wrists.”

  She exposed her hands, red and chapped from cold.

  “You deserve to be punished, Fräulein Kriegshammer.” A long, crushing silence followed. “Instead, I’ll reward you with—” From the drawer of his table, he took something and clutched it in his fist. “Step here. Closer. Closer.” He opened his hand. “Take it.”

  She did not move. “I appreciate your kindness, Herr Hammerer, but I don’t think I can accept such an expensive present.” Not from your bloody hands, she thought but kept her face emotionless. You and your kind don’t purchase things; you take them from your victims.

  Not a single muscle moved on his face. “Your hand, please.” He reached for her and pulled her slightly to him. The cold metal of a small gold ladies’ watch embraced her left wrist. “And with that, I have a suggestion for you.”

  “An order you mean?”

  He laughed, throwing his head back. “But of course, it’s an order.”

  “I’m all ears, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”

  He produced his silver cigarette case, cracked it open. “Want one?”

  She shook her head, no.

  He took one for himself, lighted it. “Aren’t you afraid of living alone in the house on the edge of the wood?”

  “Merely a grove, Herr Hammerer.”

  “Still. Since wolves slip to the city, they can visit you on the outskirts.” He exhaled smoke at the ceiling and watching it, added, “Wolves.” As he returned his gaze to her, she forgot to breathe for quite a few heartbeats. “Large groups of them in the area. We have reported cases of attacks on individuals. Didn’t you know about it?”

  “Not about attacks. I hear them though, howling now and then.”

  “Ah-ha, you do hear them!” Hammerer became animated. “That’s my point. It’s only a matter of time . . .” A master of suspense, he continued only after he stabbed the butt in the ashtray. “We have a vacant flat in one of the houses on Zamkovaya Street. It’s a bit damaged, but the spared part can accommodate you.”

  Losing the perfect position of her house, and especially with regard to Nathan’s visits, her mission would be much more complicated. “Jawohl, Herr Hammerer. When do you want me—”

  He didn’t let her finish. “Am I right in assuming you don’t have furniture, an Old Father’s Clock, and crystal candelabras to pack?”

  It wasn’t new for her that he enjoyed playing a sympathetic person, and she decided to play along with him. “Only a stack of Rembrandt pictures. I think I need a small truck to move them.”

  Again—he rarely even smiled—he burst out laughing. “I’ll send you a couple of soldiers to help, and a lot of packing paper. Tomorrow then. But now we have a less enjoyable—or maybe it’ll be indeed pleasant work for you.” He motioned her to step out with him and locked both doors with his keys.

  They headed through the corridor and down the staircase, to a part of the building she had never been to. He opened the metal door, and with emphasized courtesy let her step in first. Just like Herr Wagner, aka Schmiedecker, briefed her back at SHON. What did they do to him? For the hundredth time, the question cut through her thoughts. By now, she was sure she could guess.

  A rather big, windowless room met them with a dank chill. A low, semicircular arched ceiling of whitewashed brick loomed overhead. Where the stone floor was uneven, water under their feet made little sloshing noises.

  In the diffused illumination of a bulb naked in its socket, she saw two men standing at attention. The sound of the enthusiastic Heil Hitler! and their heels as they snapped them together was like a door slamming shut.

  She moved her eyes to a man whose tunic was blotched with brown stains, his hands bound behind his back, his ankles strapped to the chair standing in the middle of the room. On the concrete floor around him, blood already had started to congeal. There was something familiar about his crumpled frame, yet it took her a few seconds to place him. And at that, she could feel her blood draining away.

  “Did he say anything?” Hammerer looked at the two men, and at their “No” he shook his head.

  The detainee’s face was pulped, frail groans emanated from his puffed and bloodied lips.

  A hot anger rose inside her, but she bit her feelings down as Hammerer’s gaze bored into her with a critical squint. When their eyes met, he smiled with scrutiny. She couldn’t s
ay what he had read on her face in response and dropped the eye contact.

  Hammerer took a step to Nathan. “I’ve brought with me somebody who can help you remember.”

  So, he knows we are acquainted. And for a tantalizing second, she imagined herself on this chair with Hammerer looming over her.

  Nathan slurred the words that hit her hard yet gave her a chance for salvation.

  “What did he say?”

  “He called me a German hussy.”

  “You must apologize to the real German lady, dirty Communist,” one of the interrogators ground out between his teeth.

  Nathan remained silent.

  Hammerer made an explicit gesture to the men. Blows rained upon Nathan, assuaging their anger for failing to break him. Blood coursed down from his nose over his chin and his neck into the collar of his tattered jacket.

  It seemed Hammerer enjoyed the physical torment they inflicted. Then, as if tired of watching this futile beating, he waved them to stop.

  “Fräulein Kriegshammer, please, translate to him. ‘You will give me the names of your contacts. The co-conspirators. You can do this the easy way or the hard way; it is up to you.’”

  “You damned.” The lack of teeth made Nathan’s words slur.

  “What did he say?” Hammerer turned to Ulya.

  “He cursed you, Herr Hauptsturmführer. I’m sorry.”

  Nathan’s remark earned him another punch in the ribs. And another one. Ulya looked away, closing down her emotions as they beat him to a pulp in front of her, extracting horrible animal grunts from him as the blows fell. She prayed he would black out soon.

  “Hiding places! Code names!” One of the men spat into his face.

  Nathan didn’t flinch. His silence earned him another prolonged beating, but he still refused to speak.