useless. I tried reading, then embroidering. But books would fall from my hands and the whimsical, bright embroidery patterns brought no joy.
One morning, having returned from center-city, I found a huge bouquet of red carnations in my room and a figure all in white—it was Andrei.
“It took me eight days to get here from Moscow,” he said animatedly. “You can’t get on a train. It’s all soldiers going to the Ukrainian front. Finally, I squeezed into one. German planes strafed us on the way. Went to the Moscow draft board, thought I’d go straight to the front. But they wouldn’t take me. Had to go to my place of residence. But they won’t take me here either. I’m an odd case: with a university education I belong in the officer corps, but since I haven’t been in the army I can’t be a commander. So they told me to wait for induction papers.”
How good it was that at least one friend arrived in these days of partings. We shared our grief and apprehension, but he brought me small comfort. He said that the mood on the home front was depressed, that the virtually unopposed German invasion had made everyone despondent. We walked the streets and parks, rustling with their luxuriant greenery, and spoke of a strange dichotomy creeping into our souls. We greedily read the papers, seeking hope and assurance in them. But the meager bulletins spoke of deeper penetration into new territory, without even mentioning the names of surrendered cities. On the third of July, Stalin came out with his famous speech. He called for livestock to be driven off, for grain to be burned, for the enemy to be denied everything of value. While reading the speech I had no inkling that
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within some twenty-four hours our home was to lose what, indeed, was most precious.
The night from the fourth to the fifth of July I awoke with a strange, agonizing feeling. It seemed that some icy hand had gripped my heart so it barely beat. I turned on a light and glanced at the clock—it wasn’t yet four. “There will probably be an air raid, it happens a lot at dawn now,” I thought to myself, opened a shutter and began to listen intently to the silence. A dog barked somewhere, another responded nearby. A vehicle passed by—probably transporting the wounded. The garden gate clicked and steps were heard on the flagstone walk, closer and closer, followed by an impatient knocking on our door. I’m throwing on a dress but mother is already unhooking the door chain with trembling hands. Poor mama, she always worries—it’s probably just the usual identity papers check.
The raspberry bands of NKVD service caps flamed up in the electric light. Two of them enter without greeting, and demand that we hand over any weapons and radios. We have never had weapons and the radio had been turned in long ago. A search begins. One of the unexpected guests, dark and morose, plunges into closets, flinging out books and undergarments. The more polite one approaches father’s bed, produces a small, white arrest warrant and says: “Get dressed.” These words freeze my innards. What I feared so much in those terrible nights of 1937–38, when black automobiles stopped at almost every door, has come. Destiny had mercy on our family then.
But an unexpected blow is all the more painful. Mother became stone still, her hands fell into her lap, her face froze. I begin to ready papa for the sorrowful journey. I pack underwear and food. Crazily, it seems awfully important to include a needle and thread. Papa is so neat; he won’t stand a missing button or the smallest hole. But it turns out that prisoners are not permitted anything sharp, not even needles. Remove the penknife from your pocket, surrender the razor, even if it is a safety razor. Money is allowed: 180 rubles, all that we have. Finally, everything is ready but I must treat papa to some tea: strong, with milk, the way he likes it. I have put the teapot on long ago and now, while the NKVD finish their paperwork, pour tea into a pot-bellied blue cup. Papa smiles meekly, drinks. He is given the papers to sign. They are in a hurry. “There’s a lot of work today,” says the dark one. Nothing, of course, was found during the search. They take papa’s passport, employment ID and those beautiful gold-lettered commendations which he had been awarded for his scientific work.
It is time to part. Mother cleaves to father and I am afraid to look at her. Papa kisses her quickly, once again, then carefully moves her aside and says to me: “My little Tania, I entrust mother to you, keep her from harm.”
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Rest assured, daddy, my dear, my beloved friend. I will do everything in my power. How desperately we hold ourselves in control, both he and I, not wanting to make things more painful in these dreadful moments.
“You may come on the eighth,” says the lieutenant.
“Oh, I’ll come. Of course, I’ll come. I’ll do everything. I’ll get to everyone. Dear daddy, don’t worry.”
“It’s useless,” he shakes his head wearily.
And so, they take papa away. I want to walk with him, at least another several steps together. But they don’t let me. It is dawning, and I see how papa, his shoulders hunched, walks down the path. He looks back, then hastens. How hard it is for him. The door slams, the engine turns over. . . . He’s gone . . . The NKVD, did in fact, have little time. That night some five thousand members of the Kiev intelligentsia, engineers, doctors, agronomists shared my father’s fate.
I walked back to the empty house; tried to comfort and quiet my mother; mechanically put the strewn items in their proper places. If only morning would come. I’d call Shura. He is my “valerian drops,” my tranquilizer, as I jokingly referred to him. A true and devoted friend, he would think of something, give sound advice. But Shura was powerless. Nor did my visits to the waiting rooms of the NKVD amount to anything. When I came on the eighth, the assigned day, I was told what hundreds of others were told: “It is wartime. No information about particular individuals can be given out.” I came again and again only to receive the same response. I fought my way to the district attorney and to the military prosecutor. The first said laconically: “He’s not on our lists.” The second looked through his papers, called his secretary, made a phone call and finally said: “There is no such case.” Then he glanced at my white knuckles and said in a softer voice that the NKVD had simply removed my father as an “unreliable.”
Oh yes, he was unreliable—my father. After all, thirty years ago he had studied in Germany and did not hide the fact. He spoke German well, never went unshaven, and despite warnings from the party secretary at work, wore a gold wedding band. The nature of his crime was clear.
The administrators at the draft board were astounded by father’s arrest. They tried to convince me that it was a misunderstanding which would soon be corrected, but refused to pay for the days my father had worked. At the publisher’s where he was owed more than two thousand rubles for his latest book, they also refused to pay. It was useless to argue. All institutions were feverishly preparing for evacuation. Hardly any employees came to work. The offices were empty, the desks gutted. Stoves were crackling everywhere. Mountains of papers, documents, account books, engineers’ calculations were
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