The man shook his head in agreement. “Date of birth?”
“November 7, 1917.”
Again, a smile appeared on his face. “A most significant day for our country. You are the first person I have met who was born on the day of the Bolshevik Revolution.”
Ulya returned his smile.
“Born in?”
“Pokrovsk, now Engels.”
“Your nationality?”
“German.”
“Mother’s name, date of birth, place of birth?”
“I have no mother.”
“Wrong answer, Comrade Kriegshammer. Your mother, Natalia Ivanovna Polyakova, was born in 1900 in Saratov, deceased November 7, 1917. So, you are half-Russian.”
Ulya cringed at the reminder. A feeling of abandonment and bitter resentment, rooted in her from an age when she couldn’t explain to herself why other children had mothers, but she had not, had developed into full denial. “I am German, Comrade Godyastchev. Am I arrested?”
“No. Why?” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “We just have to talk.”
“If you already know everything about me and my family, why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Protocol demands that I should. And yes, you are right, we know everything. Interrupt me if I’m wrong.” He looked at her, not unkindly, and continued as if talking to a friend, his voice almost approving. “You were the best pupil at your elementary school, and you are now among the top students at the university. You proved yourself faithful and active first as a Pioneer and then as a Komsomol member and one of the best activists of the University’s Agitprop Brigade.” His gaze stopped for a fleeting moment on the Komsomol badge, which sat next to another, the GTO High Achiever, on her blouse.
“Your performance in athletics is astonishing. Sixty-meter sprint in nine seconds. One hundred meters in thirteen seconds. Long jump four meters ninety-five centimeters. Grenade throwing twenty meters. Well, that’s not great, but you can improve it with more practice. You are well-trained in speed skating, cross-cycle crossing, skiing, swimming.”
He has a good memory, or he prepared himself well.
“You are the best shooter in your OSOAVIAKHIM group in Engels, both with the small-bore rifle and the handgun, and from both hands at that.” He glanced at his hands and shook his head. “Astounding. I don’t know how anyone can do it.” He moved his eyes back to her.
Was there genuine admiration in them? He seemed to enjoy enumerating her successes as though they were his own. “You have made twelve parachute jumps.”
“Fourteen. Your information is not up to date.”
“Your last two jumps were not qualified.” As if she hadn’t interrupted him, he continued matter-of-factly, “And besides, I can’t help but commend you for applying for a pilot program.”
Aware that the last five minutes or so he spoke in perfect German with a slight accent she could not place—not the Volga German though—she had switched to the language too.
“I have to compliment you.”
“What for?” She arched her eyebrows, signaling her humorous surprise.
“You are quite a good actor. I liked you as the Commissar in the Optimistic Tragedy. How long were you with the school drama group?”
Had she been on their radar for six years? She calculated in her mind. “Since the fourth grade. Till I graduated. But why ask? You must have it in my dossier.”
Ignoring her sarcasm, he went on. “I have to praise your command of German. Most of your compatriots speak with such terrible accents. Do you speak German in your family?”
“Yes, with my father.”
“Franz Fridrikhovich Kriegshammer.” He shook his head as if bemused. “By now, most of the Soviet Germans have adopted Russian names.”
“People call him Franz Fyedorovich.”
“And his friends and colleagues, while visiting him, do they speak German?”
“Some do.”
“And what do they confer about?”
“I don’t eavesdrop.” Her mind turned to the image of her father’s colleagues and friends who, after a cup of tea, would proceed into his study where they continued their discussions in subdued tones, of which she could hear little.
Godyastchev’s voice broke into her reverie, “Did somebody visit your father lately? A person you hadn’t met before?”
“I don’t pay attention to who visits my father. I’m too busy.” The image of an aging man in an expensive, perfectly cut suit who showed up two weeks ago emerged in her memory. After an energetic handshake with her, he had disappeared with her father into the study. “Please close the door. It’s a confidential talk.” His voice was authoritative, in intelligent Russian. Replaying the scene in her head—was she suspected of snooping?—she felt annoyed now as she was then.
“You seem to contemplate whether you have to tell me something?”
She locked eyes with Godyastchev. “Yes. To ask why I am here?”
“I’ll answer your question later. Now, tell me how often you go to church? You are a protestant. Right?”
“I’m an atheist.”
“And your father?”
“He doesn’t go to a church either.”
“Going to a prayer service and being religious are two different things, you know?”
“He is not religious. Allow me to ask you again why all this questioning?”
“Easy, easy, Comrade Kriegshammer. Here, I ask questions.” His voice didn’t betray any irritation. “Are you acquainted with Petrushev and Ginzberg?”
“Not in person. But I’ve heard they were—”
“Yes, arrested. They disseminated anti-Soviet propaganda. By any chance, have you noticed who of your fellow students were in contact with them?”
She knew what he was getting at. “No,” she said, at the same time recalling how, on several occasions, she had spotted Rita talking to Ginzberg.
“Well.” He pushed a piece of paper across the table. “Here, you sign that you won’t divulge any information about our conversation.” He waited till she read the document and wrote her signature, then on a slip of paper, which he tore from his notepad, he scribbled something. “This is my phone number in case you have any information to share.” He looked at her from behind his glasses. She guessed she recognized something like approval as though he was sure that was not their first and last conversation. “You may go, Comrade Kriegshammer.”
Ulya breathed a sigh of relief and hastened to the auditorium, urged by the
