The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII

by Marion Kummerow

  “Good evening.”

  “Did you like my apple strudel?”

  “That was from you? Oh, no, I didn’t try it. I feared somebody decided to poison me.”

  He stared at her as if in disbelief. “Who could it be?”

  “Partisans, for instance.”

  Again, he made big eyes. “Do they have access to our quarters? You make me fear for my life.”

  Now it was her turn to smile. “A joke. I wanted to taste it at home.” In truth, she’d decided to spare it for Nathan’s daughter.

  A soldier approached in a running step. “Herr Major. You are ordered to Oberst Sauer.”

  Herr Demel—she hadn’t forgotten his name—apologized and followed the messenger, casting glances at her over his shoulder as he went.

  In the first week of November, the Red Army launched offensive after offensive and it looked like despite the varying degrees of success, her people were not about to give up on re-taking Vitebsk. Panic-stricken rumors circulated through the city: using the labor of prisoners of war and the civilian population, the Germans unearthed the mass graves and, after the work was done, eliminated the very people who dug the grave sites.

  Despite Hammerer’s secrecy, Ulya managed to gather some information about the military divisions of the Armee Gruppe Center, which covered Vitebsk and the region.

  It was disheartening to possess information and not be able to pass it to her people, especially this one: all signs pointed at some high-ranking person about to visit Vitebsk. She had no doubt the Soviet Intelligence must have been informed, but she also knew that any intelligence had to be proved by additional sources. The lack of contact with the Underground disabled her mission.

  On November 6, Hitler came to Vitebsk. The purpose of his visit was cloaked in secrecy but on the outside, festivities accompanied his visit. Special packages and awards were distributed. To spoil his visit, the next day, the Red Army started an offensive but could take only the first line of the German defense, the heavily fortified trenches. Most likely, the German agents in the Soviet Operation Command alerted their Intelligence about the Red Army’s plans.

  The Soviet troops continued their attempts. The front was not far away.

  50

  End of November 1943

  At a gentle tapping, Wulff jerked to his feet to open the door. A young girl in a dazzling white apron, her two braids under a white waitress headband, stepped in, a tray with a steaming coffee cup and a milk jug in her hands. “For Hauptsturmführer,” she said in a low voice, almost choking on “Hauptsturmführer.” The same moment, Hammerer stepped out and, while locking his door, threw to the girl over his shoulder, “Leave the tray with Fräulein Kriegshammer.” He motioned his adjutant to follow him.

  “You can put it here.” Ulya pushed a file from her end table, recognizing shyness in the girl. “What is your name?”

  “Agnesya.” Her whole face flushed, the girl lowered the tray with much care where Ulya motioned her and slipped out of the room.

  At his return, Hammerer picked up the cup from the tray and sipped. His mouth took on an unpleasant twist. “I like coffee hot.” He returned the cup to the tray. On the threshold of his room, he turned around as though an unexpected thought struck him. “Fräulein Kriegshammer, for your day meal, you can use the officers’ canteen. Herr Schmiedecker did. There is a special table for the Russian employees. I’ll arrange a pass for you.”

  “I’ll be greatly thankful.” Ulya hoped her appreciation reflected in her face. The canteen where the German officers gathered could provide her with a new source of information. But what for? With Nathan gone her liaison with the Underground was irrevocably lost. Should she try to seek a contact herself? But her order was to avoid any risk, and she’d already broken it several times.

  A week later, as she entered the office, she found something wrapped in a snow-white napkin on her desk. “Udolph, how did it get here?”

  Wulff only grinned and returned to his papers.

  Without unwrapping the parcel, she knew what it was. Should she eat it? For Nathan’s daughter, she resolved and slipped the priceless gift into her handbag.

  In the evening, she was not particularly surprised when she noticed her strudel-man—so she had dubbed her unexpected well-wisher—on the street as she closed the entrance door behind her.

  He broke into a smile, showing a white row of perfect teeth. “Fräulein Kriegshammer, sorry I didn’t show up for several days. My responsibility kept me in Ogorodniki.” Suddenly, perhaps at the slip of information, he crimsoned, which made his otherwise pale face, most likely from the low temperature, less frozen. “In any case, I’m here and ready to supply you with more strudel.” Not getting a word from her, his glowing look faded. “But maybe you did not like it?”

  “I did, Herr Demel. Very much.”

  “Oh, you still remember my name,” he exclaimed with evident joy.

  “I do, but I don’t recall when I’ve eaten something as delicious as your strudel.” She marveled in her lie, in hopes the girl liked the pastry.

  “You see? No partisan can cook like a member of the Demel family.” He launched again into his mild pleasant laugh. “We have a cafeteria and patisserie in Vienna.”

  “So, you are from Austria.”

  “Yes, I’m Austrian, not these—”

  Was he trying to make her drop her guard or, maybe, just loosen up himself, she speculated?

  They walked on along the street, paying no attention to the heaps of snow and the demolition waste, which were pushed away from the road and the walkway by the hands of prisoners or the civilian population.

  “Do you have some special sweets in Russia?” He broke the silence.

  “Where I lived, on the Volga River, apple strudel was baked in almost every house. But my very favorite was the shortcake with custard and wild strawberries on top.” The nostalgia for those peaceful times and her father, their last celebration together swept over her like a wave. The familiar pull as apprehension coiled around her heart whenever her thoughts turned to her Vati.

  “Ah yes, you are a Volga Deutsche.”

  She glanced at him.

  “Sorry, I made inquiries.” Perhaps to distract her from the unpleasant situation, he blurted, “You look like my future wife.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  They kept walking for a time. “Here I quarter.” Ulya pointed to the wreck of a house.

  “May I be invited in for a coffee?” He colored, and there was something childish, innocent in his eyes, pleading her in his embarrassment.

  “I can’t offer you coffee, but if you drink tea—”

  “I do like tea. Thank you.”

  Inside her cold and austere abode, not daring to take off their overcoats, they settled on the sofa, soon drinking the hot, tasteless drink she called tea.

  He watched her over the brim of his cup. “Do you have a family? A husband? Children?”

  She shook her head, no.

  “Want to tell me more?

  “No. Another time, maybe. You tell me about yourself.”

  With a frown on his face, as if her inquiry reminded him of something he did not want to remember, he said, “I’m almost forty-five. Had two wives, and neither gave me a child. I wanted a son. Many sons would be even better.” The faint smile in his eyes held a touch of sadness. “But not all hope is lost. Recently, my sister met a young woman whose husband was killed on the front, and she agreed to marry me. She has a son, so I hope she’ll bear one for me too.” He took a thin stack of letters and a picture from his chest pocket. “Didn’t I tell you that you look like my Annchen? I can’t wait to meet her.”

  After they peered at the picture, there was a long pause as they sat side by side, each in their own thoughts.

  Ulya disturbed the silence. “I already know the name of your future wife but—”

  “Oh, sorry, I’m so excited to talk to a woman who understands my language that I forgot to introduce myself in a proper manner.�
� For some reason, he jumped to his feet, straightened himself, smoothed his uniform jacket, and rapped out, “Ewald Demel. Heil Hitler!”

  She also jumped to her feet. “Ursula Kriegshammer. Heil Hitler!”

  For two beats of her heart, they both stared at each other then plopped back on the sofa and burst out laughing, Ulya, almost choking into her palm. It took her a moment to collect herself and a thought came. When was the last time she even smiled sincerely? Forget about laughing.

  The clock chimed eight. He rose from the sofa. “Time.”

  She got up too and saw him to the door.

  Before closing it after him, he reached down to find her hand and kissed it.

  Ulya returned to the sofa that still held the warmth of their bodies and felt like crying. Since the start of the war, she did not remember having any normal human encounter. This Herr Demel. Who was he? Why did she feel something unfamiliar, something she could not put a name to?

  Caught in disbalance between gratefulness and suspicion, she was undecided whether she should consider his attention an honor or a trap.

  51

  December 1943

  “What would you like to order?” A soft, shy voice.

  Agnesya. It was something in the expression of the girl’s eyes that made Ulya search her face for an extra beat. “Coffee, please, and a piece of cake.”

  “We also have meat and mushroom pie, potato pie, stroganoff,” and then, like a bolt from the blue, in a lower voice, “Too many wolves in the local woods,” then louder, “blini—pancakes, and all kinds of sandwiches.”

  Agnesya? For a moment, Ulya was speechless, watching the girl’s eyes widen in either fear or pain. “We can get them all quickly eliminated.”

  The girl’s face relaxed. “I’ll be quick with your order, Fräulein Kriegshammer.”

  Agnesya. The last person she’d expected to be a contact.

  After finishing her coffee and consuming a half of the cake and wrapping the rest in the paper napkin, Ulya paid and left the canteen in a buoyant mood.

  In the evening, the following information in invisible ink ended up on the serviette: A panzer division. A mountain division. Infantry divisions 22, 246, 206, with 2nd and 7th Jaeger battalions. That much she had obtained from the carbon paper Udolph recklessly left on the table after he finished typing a document and went to hand it to Hammerer.

  The next day in the canteen after having her coffee and mopping her mouth with the serviette spared from the previous day, she waited for Agnesya to pick it up together with the empty cup.

  52

  Winter 1944

  Ewald was often on the move, inspecting, as he always told her in a whisper, the supply dumps, the names of the places slipping from his tongue now and then.

  With Agnesya as her new contact, she had no difficulty informing the Underground of the locations of the German Army supply storages. “Coffee,” and the name of the settlement was all she had to utter as she placed her order.

  It was not long till Soviet air attacks destroyed the dumps. Or partisans had a hand in all of this.

  Ewald cursed. “Verdammt!—Damned! The Russians destroyed our dump in Vorony. How did they find out about it? I think we have a “mole” in the Commandantur. Or maybe those were locals we hired,” he complained to Ulya.

  One day, after a successful operation on one of the supply dumps, Hammerer called Ulya to his room. “Fräulein Kriegshammer, you go with Major Demel and one of our people to a place where he’ll be questioning some local personnel. Please do your usual work. Translate questions and answers.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Hammerer.” She couldn’t believe her luck.

  As she stepped out of her superior’s room, a young man in civilian clothing, which didn’t hide his military bearing, got up from the chair at her desk and introduced himself as Herr Adamkus. Most likely a Lithuanian, Ulya made a mental note. Might understand Russian. So, she had to be on alert.

  “Let us please go outside. A car is waiting,” he said in passable German. He took the front passenger seat in the Horch, leaving the back seat for her and Ewald who was already in the car.

  Two motorcycle patrols with mounted guns in the sidecars provided escort in front and bringing up the rear.

  For most of the drive, they sat in silence. The bumpy road tossed Ulya to Ewald time and again. To her dismay, she caught herself feeling she wanted these unintentional contacts and almost choked when he pressed her hand with his to the seat. She didn’t pull it away till the car stopped at the next checkpoint for documents inspection after already passing several cordoned off zones. In about two hours, they reached a guarded wooden area encircled with two rows of high wire fences.

  “First, we’ll do a bit of sightseeing.” Ewald invited Ulya and Herr Adamkus inside a structure that looked like a bunker. A uniformed sentry unlocked the door and pushed it open for them.

  With sure movements, Ewald guided them past the stainless-steel shelves upon which canned foods and bins of carrots, cabbage, and onions rested in order. Ewald took his visitors farther to the back, to the meat and dairy locker. In another room, bottles of alcohol and tins of beer and cases stamped “vodka” filled the metal shelves. Inwardly, Ulya grinned at the thought she’d do her best to deprive Germans of consuming all these goodies.

  In a little room, bare except for a small table and backless chairs, a soldier lay a cloth and the three of them had a lovely snack, even Herr Adamkus’ pale cheeks gained some rosiness after the second shot of L’Essence de Courvoisier.

  Over Ewald’s head—a sure sign of higher rank—Adamkus announced in a commanding voice, “To business now.” Pulling from his briefcase some files and a pad, he ordered the accompanying soldier, “Bring them.”

  “Kozlov! Baranay! Ivashkin!” the soldier called, distorting the sound of the names.

  Three men entered. They confirmed they were local people who volunteered to work for the Germans. Oh, how scared they looked! Their bodies shaking, they breathed in shallow quick gasps, kneading the hats in their nervous hands. For a second, Ulya felt a deep sense of pity for them, but it passed—their names belonged in her next dispatch. She’d be the one to send them to death by the hands of partisans. Or would it be Germans who’d execute them?

  “The storage you worked in two weeks ago was destroyed by forest bandits. Did you point at the location?” At Adamkus’ raised voice, the two went into hysterics, swearing their allegiance to the German liberators and cursing partisans with all the vilest words Ulya had ever heard.

  Adamkus winced at every outburst without waiting for Ulya’s translation. A sure sign he understood Russian, or at least its foul language.

  Only Ivashkin reasoned, fixing the interrogator with an unwavering stare, “They know all your locations without our help.”

  At the end of the futile questioning, the files and his notes disappeared into Adamkus’ briefcase. “I’ll present my conclusions to Hauptsturmführer Hammerer, Herr Demel,” he said, not granting Ulya a glance.

  Even before they climbed into the car, the men had two more shots of schnapps and, on the way back to Vitebsk, Herr Adamkus seemed to be napping. Ewald and Ulya clung to each other in the back seat. He laced his fingers between hers then brought them to his mouth and kissed them. There was a gentleness in him that touched her and scared her at the same time. Not his gentleness but how she reacted to it. She stared at her hand in his. The oddest of sensations rippled through her, a yearning, as though being so close to him linked her to something precious. A connection like she had never felt before. There was a strange feeling of vibrancy in her veins—excitement, anticipation, or perhaps fear? He was from the other side. An enemy. No, her mind rejected even the idea of calling him an enemy. He was sincere. It felt like everyone around her pretended. But not him.

  53

  End of January 1944

  In the Only For German Soldiers Cinema, on the screen, the newsreel washed over her without taking her in. In the background of a bravura m
arsh, German troops arrived in Budapest . . . the brave German soldiers repulsed the Soviet attack in Pripet marshes and continued their offensive toward victory in Russia . . . happy faces . . . mouth harmonica playing . . .

  As though it was the most natural thing to do, Ewald placed his arm over her shoulder and, turning her head slightly to him, kissed her mouth. She was carried away by her own eager response to the touch of his lips.

  When gallows, rows of them, filled the screen, the camera zooming in on the lifeless bodies with cardboards dangling from their necks reading “For helping partisans” “Communist” “Saboteur”, he leaned to Ulya and whispered into her ear, “I can’t hold it any longer. Let’s go out and watch the sunset.”

  Was he as appalled by what was unfolding on the screen as was she? Or was it something else that prompted him to get to his feet without waiting for her reaction?

  They headed to the exit and, both in unison heaving a sigh of relief, stepped into the surprisingly mild late January evening. A quiet, twilight peacefulness hung over the destroyed city. “Splendid, isn’t it?” In his eyes, she could see a warm attraction, nothing like passion or desire. Most likely a pleasure to have a human being at his side after years living under the pressure of fear and brutality. “Hungry?”

  “Famished,” she admitted.

  “I have something to entertain you with but no strudel, I’m sorry.”

  Silently, she followed him up along Suvorov Street to a solid five-story house, a rare sight of a structure intact, surrounded on all sides by destruction.

  The apartment he occupied had two high-ceilinged rooms separated by a broad corridor. He disappeared in what she realized might be a kitchen, leaving her in a warm, welcoming, nicely furnished world. She took a chair at the table and looked around, her eyes lingering on the military style bed. Soon, he returned with sandwiches of salami and cheese on a big plate.