The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII

by Marion Kummerow

  “My father’s crime was not so big, otherwise, he would not be kept in a settlement and have rights to communicate with me.”

  He peered at her with an expression of some taunt. “That aside, your loyalty to your German ancestors is not a surprise to me.”

  “There was no loyalty. I’m a Soviet person and though not Russian, I love my country and I fought for it.”

  The interrogator said nothing, as if he had a sudden, more pressing thought. “Who was your case officer?”

  “I’ve already told you and wrote it in my report.”

  “Repeat!”

  “Major Vyacheslav Konstantinovich Godyastchev. Saratov NKVD branch.”

  “Ha!” Zaitsev snickered. “He got his six grams of lead. Four of his agents defected to the Germans. Citizen Kriegshammer, your full confession about being recruited by SD may ease your fate. Moreover, we have reliable information that you worked for Germans with deliberate enthusiasm.” He waved some papers in front of her face.

  She remained motionless. Where could he find so many confessions in the depopulated city? Not so quickly, at least.

  He got up, took a step to her and, in an instant, a punch landed on her temple so hard her head snapped to the right. The pain made her lose focus for a second. His voice came through the ringing in her ears, “While retreating, Germans left many of their agents behind. Names, addresses, passwords for connections with them. What was your assignment?” He whipped out the questions.

  “That was my assignment from NKVD—to gather information about the enemies of the Soviet power on the occupied territory. I had an immediate connection with the Vitebsk Underground.”

  “That may have been your assignment before you changed loyalties. If there were any. It must have been Godyastchev’s intention to plant you here to expose our agents to Germans.”

  Zaitsev started circling around her, his hands behind his back, then a quick turn and a blow threw her to the floor, face down. A kick to her ribs from his boot followed. She doubled up. His hand yanked her head by her hair. “Speak up!”

  Her head hurt like hell. A cut inside her mouth bled, and she could taste blood. “I’m not a German agent and I can prove it.”

  “How?”

  “I have to talk to your superiors.”

  He hit her in the gut again. “I’m your superior!”

  It took a moment for her to realize her head and face were moist. Most likely, she’d fainted, and he’d poured water over her. “We’ll follow the procedure tomorrow.” His tired voice sounded as though through a blanket of fog. Then, a solid grip on her arms dragged her away, the guards’ boots thumping. They shoved her into the same cell. Trying to ignore the pain, she released all her muscles, forcing her mind to work, banishing any emotion of self-pity as useless. So now she knew what SMERSH meant. She felt her heartbeat accelerating. Fear? Did she ever have it while working against the Nazis?

  As the hours passed, she stared at the ceiling and thought about her happy childhood—her Vati, the Volga, her only friend Rita who got her involved in this mess but still was dear to her; Nathan who in reality was Sergey Posokhov; the little girl whose mother she’d killed, and her heart skipped a beat with an uneasy thought: Did the girl survive the Soviet offensive? Did she have enough to eat?

  Ulya placed one hand to her slightly heaving belly, and at a twitch inside—or did she imagine it?—felt if not love, then profound gratitude to Ewald. The only soul who understood her but who was not destined to see the child he so desired.

  From the corridor came the sound of steps and the next moment her solitude was broken by somebody being pushed inside. That person almost fell on top of her. Ulya winced with pain and suddenly, a deep, chesty cough doubled her up. The body—now she saw it was a woman—crawled away on all fours.

  In no mood to strike up a conversation with a newcomer, Ulya held her breath, but it was not the woman’s intent as it turned out. “Why did they arrest you?”

  Ulya remained silent.

  A sigh. Most likely she had an inner monologue before Ulya heard her say, “What could I do? I had to feed my two children.”

  Something stirred in Ulya’s chest. Poor woman. “I understand. Any mother would sacrifice all for the sake of her children.” A quick painful thought pierced her mind: What would I do to save my child? For a fleeting moment, she imagined a tiny body held close to her chest. How strange—and she recalled it with curious incomprehension—she had never wanted to be a mother. When other girls tended to their dolls, her Malvina set on the shelf by the window, gathering fine sandy dust from the street. When other girls cradled their rag dolls in the crook of their arm, singing them the songs nobody sang to her, she took great pleasure in climbing trees with her boy neighbors, fighting them with sticks, pretending they were sabers, later playing a game of cards under the old lilac tree in the corner of their yard, with the inner excitement memorizing swear words they flaunted in each other’s faces.

  In the moist, stinky dimness of the cell, she replayed it all over and over, every moment of it, and savored it like Ewald’s apple strudel. Ewald. Her ache at losing him did not disappear but slipped back, the emotional anguish for the time being exhausted.

  “But you? Why are you here?” The woman’s voice intruded into her musings.

  “You don’t need to know,” Ulya cut her short and instantly caught herself on the realization it sounded rough if not abusive.

  “And how did you survive?” the woman probed.

  “Working.”

  “For Germans?”

  “They ordered everyone to register at the labor exchange. Did we have any choice?”

  “And what did you do?”

  Her questions irritated Ulya. The loving mother of two did not look emaciated. Did her services to the Germans provide a nourishing life or—A stoolie?

  Ulya forced herself to get up only to flop on the floor. Let the woman think she fainted.

  For two days and two nights, Ulya shared the cell with the woman. With remarkable persistence, she tried to strike a conversation, but Ulya pretended to be too weak even to talk. Then, at last, she was taken away and didn’t return. Ulya sneered at the thought, You can’t catch old birds with chaff.

  During the periods of consciousness, conflicting thoughts and feelings tore Ulya’s mind. What was next for her? A quick firing squad? But most likely a single shot. The terror of making a wrong decision overwhelmed her. As though she had a choice. Her will to resist, to pursue her goal—to carry the assignment she was entrusted to fulfill—now was eroded by uncertainty. Could there be a right answer to her doubts? She was still trying to read the situation and work out a plan. But was there any?

  The light from the opened door shook slumber off her. Ulya squinted in the direction of the voice, “Kriegshammer, out.”

  She mustered all her strength to force herself to stand up and take a few steps toward a guard in the doorframe. Pain in her whole body and a terrible headache made her reel. The soldier took her by the elbow. A mercy of a hangman before the execution, the thought struck her.

  Today, the guard escorted her to another room. At the desk, an officer sat—bare headed, sour-faced, in his forties. As though to prepare himself for what he’d see, he massaged his eyelids with his fingers before looking at her. Without introducing himself, he said with quiet emphasis, “I have carefully read your piece of literary work. I’m going to save you the mental torment to second guess what I believe, what I know, and what I’m going to do with that knowledge. I will also give you my word that killing you is not my preferred option, however, it is still an option. The way I understand it, you were collaborating with the Germans, providing them with information regarding the Underground, its messengers, secret places, actions planned.”

  “Comrade—”

  “Major Kolomiets to such as you and you should be wise to remember that.”

  “Your assumptions, Major Kolomiets, are wrong.”

  “No, Kriegshammer, I believ
e not.” He snatched a bunch of papers from a drawer and waved them in her face. “We have written reports from several self-confessed local collaborators who were witnesses to your treacherous activities first in the Civil Council then in the service of SD.”

  “May I ask you to show them to me, Major Kolomiets?”

  Either he again had not heard her request, or he didn’t consider it necessary to answer, but he walked from behind his table and stopped in front of her. “We can play these games all night long if you chose to, but the longer it goes on, the bigger the chance I lose my patience. Do you know what it means?”

  “What, Major Kolomiets?”

  “I delegate my responsibility to my helpers—they are less talkers than doers—while I’ll go to sleep. I’m exhausted. There are so many like you here.”

  “Only here?”

  He smirked. “Unfortunately, not. So, will we talk?”

  “I want guarantees I can reveal the information to you. I need a written order from Moscow.”

  “Ha! No less than from Moscow?”

  Ulya didn’t like the fire in his look. Eyes blazing, he pulled out his Browning and pushed the barrel to her temple. For a long moment, he stood quivering as she stared at him and waited. He jerked the pistol back and made a noise that was between a groan and a sigh. “All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

  On her return to her cell, to the sickening stench, she lay on her mattress, but the multiple bruises on her ribs and thighs prevented her from fully enjoying the chance to relax. Ignore the pain, the humiliation, she mentally commanded, refusing to feel sorry for herself.

  Hardly had she time to take a comfortable position when keys rattled in the lock. “Kriegshammer, out! Face the wall, hands back.” Then, after the guard locked the door, he ordered, “Move!” A push of a rifle on her shoulder blade.

  In the room she’d left ten minutes ago, two men, ununiformed, stood at the window, smoking. One of them, with badly smallpox-marked cheeks—like Stalin’s, the image ran through her mind—motioned her to come closer. She took a step toward him and received a punch to her stomach. “Talk!” he voiced in a raised tone.

  “Relax yourself, Boris. There is no point in shouting. A broad. She’ll confess in the end. Everyone does,” the younger one, thickset, reasoned with his comrade. “Were you recruited by SD?” he asked in the same calm voice.

  “No.”

  “We know differently,” the one addressed as Boris barked.

  “I demand you record the interrogation.”

  The pockmarked one laughed out loud. “See, Rustam, she demands! The records, my dear, are written during the daylight. During the nights, it’s too dark.”

  “Which way did you communicate your information to SD? In writing? Reporting in person?” The Thickset continued as calmly as he’d sounded before.

  “I was a translator, and I communicated whatever useful information I could get to the Underground.”

  “She doesn’t understand the seriousness of her situation, don’t you see?” Boris hissed through his teeth, agitated more than a minute ago.

  “If you tell the truth—” Thickset said again.

  “In any case, you’ll shoot me before the sun rises.” Ulya didn’t let him finish.

  “Not certain. We’ll preserve your life to help us dig a lot of shit others like you produced during the occupation.” A smirk spread across his face.

  “That’s what I was left here to do.”

  “Blatant lie. We are not the fools you take us for. You are an idiot if you don’t fully comprehend your situation!” The one addressed as Rustam abandoned his playing calm.

  It drove them mad that she just stared at them in silence. She got a strange satisfaction out of that; in reality their prisoner, she controlled the emotions of her encounters; she angered them, not the other way around.

  “I suppose we should transact our business. Are we to stay here through the night?” Boris hissed through his teeth then swore with great and filthy ease.

  Sideways, she saw him coming up behind her. The next moment, he hooked her at the throat, immobilizing her, and she felt both terrified and entirely calm. After what seemed a long time to her but in reality, must have been only a matter of seconds, she heard the younger one saying, “Well, let’s get it over with.” He swung a punch and caught her just below the eye. The shock sent black waves through her and an impulse—to kill them. She would do it without regret and with abounding pleasure.

  When in the morning Ulya woke up in her cell, not even remembering how she got there, the stink seemed to catch in the back of her throat. On all fours, she crawled to the opposite corner from her own vomit, the attempt so laborious, she felt her pulse racing, sweat congregating on her forehead, pain, nagging, like she’d experienced during her days. Suddenly, something warm gushed from between her legs and she dreaded to see what it was. But the understanding of what had just befallen her, was crucial. The ache in her chest expanded, deep and hollow as if a piece of her was leaving her. The baby. The dream.

  Ewald. You so much wanted a son. Forgive me. She felt eerily detached from what was happening to her, as though she was wandering through a nightmare. And then, she wept.

  58

  July 1944

  Night after night, Ulya would wake with a start to find that nothing had changed and fall back again into a half sleep, only to be startled back into wakefulness once again. That was when little by little, several disconnected notions formed in her mind and the pieces started to fit together. For a fraction of a second, she gasped for breath, stunned by the magnitude of the idea that could bring her to the point from where there would be no turning back.

  Her torturers continued summoning her, sometimes at day, mostly at night. The guard would take her down the familiar corridor, open the door of the interrogation room, and push her inside. Boris would thrust a piece of paper and a pencil at her. “All you have to do is to sign here, and we’ll leave you alone.” He pointed his finger at the bottom of an empty sheet. As if they both were actors in an eerie play, they worked the same scenario with little variations.

  “Do you expect me to sign something I have not read?”

  He would kick the chair from beneath her, sending her crashing to the stone floor. It looked like he had a favorite way of inflicting agony—paralyzing kicks to the ribs. And even when she was on the floor, he cursed and cursed, foully and ardently. If only she had enough energy to apply her martial arts ability to kill him, to strangle or bash his scalp with one—one would be enough—blow.

  How much could she stand? The limit of endurance, she found, was long after a tortured body felt like crying for relief. Yet she had that last, uttermost, strength of will to resist them. She would not succumb to capitulation. Although she had lost her baby and there was nothing for her to cling to, she knew she’d avenge herself even if she did not know yet how. Just to do it, she’d held on to consciousness and to her will to struggle and continue living.

  For the next three weeks, her every-day routine consisted of being escorted to a washroom with a basin, a three-time daily prison meal of watery porridge or bean gruel and a chunk of bread left on the floor. There were times when she thought she had been there forever. They seemed to forget about her.

  Today, the sound of keys jangling in the door signified the end of her isolation. There was no usual “Face to the wall, hands back, get moving!” Instead, “Follow me.”

  She shambled through the corridor that now burst with life, a steady stream of officers passing from room to room, young women with papers in their hands hurrying in and out. Faint sounds of typing. Telephones ringing.

  In Zaitsev’s office, another officer manned his desk, Zaitsev at attention to his left, jaw locked. As his head swung to face Ulya, the tendons on his neck stood out, a stare of pure loathing directed at her. He looked like a man who had just received a severe dressing down. Ulya held her gaze on him for a moment then moved her eyes to the other man in a higher rank, his ha
ir white-streaked, eyes pink with exhaustion.

  “Lieutenant-Colonel Krivosheyev,” he introduced himself, his voice terse. Motioning her to take a seat in the chairs in front of the desk and, without waiting for her to sit down, as though he was in a hurry to finish unpleasant business, he said, “We have established your position. The report from the Center says that—he read from a document on his table— “You were promoted to senior lieutenant and were awarded The Order of the Red Star for your contribution to the defense of our country . . . Take my apologies. Surely you, of all people, understand how crucial the thorough interrogation is. The enemy left many of his agents behind.” He motioned Zaitsev away with a wave of his hand and the latter marched out with a tense, jerky gait.

  She forced her thoughts toward the new state of affairs that was supposed to make her feel relieved. And thankful? But she couldn’t feel anything. She was empty.

  A pat on the back and that little piece of tin they would fix to her chest could not compensate her sacrifice and pain. The pre-war naivety was gone. She had come to understand she was just a cog in the mechanism of the power, easily replaceable.

  Krivosheyev sent her an encouraging smile. “Welcome back to the ranks. If you want, you can have a week of vacation. However, if you’re able to work right now, the Command would appreciate it.”

  She straightened up on the chair. “No need to convince me. I don’t have much of a choice. And I would obey anyway.”

  “We will talk about freedom of choice some other day. Perhaps. Now, I want to tell you that I believe in you, Ursula Franzevna.”

  She flinched when she heard herself being addressed by her given name. “May I ask for a favor?”

  His eyes came up to study her face. “What is it?”

  “I want to know about my father.”

  “I thought my colleague Lieutenant Zaitsev must have told you.” Krivosheyev flipped through a rather thick file. Her file, she perceived. “Your father was executed back in September 1939.” So impassive, so matter-of-fact. Executed.