“I had to fight off people to keep a reserved place in the cafeteria. Where have you been?” Rita whispered as she moved aside to let Ulya take her place beside her on the bench in the lecture hall.
“I wasn’t hungry and went out to have a gulp of fresh air.”
“Attention, comrade students!” The lecturer banged the pulpit with his baton. “Today we continue on the topic of the political economy of Socialism. As our leader Comrade Stalin said in his speech at . . .”
But the lecture wasn’t on Ulya’s mind. The talk with the NKVD senior lieutenant left an unpleasant residue. What, do they expect me to become a stoolie? In my own family? Or denounce my fellow students? And instantly an unsettling thought surfaced. What has Rita in common with Ginzberg?
Her friend nudged Ulya. “Hey, stop daydreaming.”
“I’ll look at your notes later.” With her photographic memory, she could allow herself to be distracted.
“Next time, you make the notes,” Rita scoffed.
While making her way to the ferry after the last lecture, Ulya felt a strange presence over her, like a cloud or a shadow. She could not help but look around while hastening to the pier yet saw only the usual citizens—the students like herself; young mothers with prams or with older children; men and women rushing on their business; teenagers, noisy and carefree.
On the boat, crossing to her town on the opposite shore of the Volga River, Ulya peered into the swamp-green waves being cut by the smart vessel for a while, before turning her gaze to the passengers. Her eyes scanned them to read their ever-somber faces. Today, those were mostly familiar people: the elderly woman with a wicker basket covered with an embroidered cotton cloth had new shoes, which seemed to trouble her since she tried to kick them off her heels; the fidgeting teenager with his ever unkempt starch shirt seemed uncomfortable with his shaved head, now and again touching it with his hands as though wondering where his hair had gone; and the old, pockmarked man of about fifty. She would prefer not to have him staring at her with his deep set, shifty eyes, lewdly licking his lips till wet.
Who were all these people? What was on their minds? How did they feel about Lenin and Stalin? Did they idolize them? Why did some citizens disappear without a trace, while others seemed to justify the actions of the authorities? Even glorified it—at least as the newspaper articles and radio broadcasts claimed. Did she belong to the latter? The arrest of two Komsomol members from her course was the first instance that cast a cloud of doubt over her. No. No. No. She snapped at herself mentally. How could she ever question the rightness of the Soviet power? No doubt, they committed some punishable crime.
2
Natasha
September 3, 1938
Vitebsk, a city in the Socialist Soviet Republic of Byelorussia, about 1200 km north west from Saratov
Natasha was among the last to slip through the Machine Tool Plant’s checkpoint, taking a risk at being stopped and then reprimanded in public for coming late to work. In the women’s locker room, she changed into her overalls and stepped through the door into the vast hall of the workshop. At the entrance, a group of her female colleagues discussed something in hushed voices, nudging each other, suppressed peals of laughter coming from them.
“Natasha, come here.” Elvira waved her hand. “We have news for you.”
Natasha threw a pointed look at the clock above the door with hands nearing seven. “What happened?”
“Have you seen the new Komsomol secretary? Eyes he has! Big!” Her own eyes expanded. “Brown like chocolate.”
“And a handsome one,” one woman added.
“Not without a flaw,” another giggled.
“Shut the hell up, Halina, a slight limp doesn’t spoil a man,” Elvira retorted.
“And why is the news for me?” Natasha knit her brows.
“But you are the only one who is single.” Someone heaved a sigh.
“Pfui. I’m done with men.” Stepan’s image flashed in Natasha’s mind. His forget-me-not flower eyes, his mouth with its constant smirk but so sweet and ravishing when he kissed her, his strong arms crushing her every time they made—She almost choked at the recollection. A year had passed since that late summer evening in 1937, but the ache of that day crept back into her chest.
A voice jerked her from her musings. “What’s wrong with you?” Kirillov aka Pavlovich, their best turner, stared at Natasha.
She loathed the ever-present look of sorrow in his eyes. The man of her father’s age, with the large family—children from two to twenty and his ever-pregnant wife—what did he want of her?
“I’m fine.” She spoke over her shoulder in reply. While she headed to her milling lathe, she felt the gaze of Anton, their sixteen-year-old apprentice, and turned to see his habitual smirk. Like Stepan’s. Again, her chest grew heavy with a familiar ache.
“Ah Pavlovich, Pavlovich. The old geezer. Can’t take his eyes off you.” Anton peered at Natasha and the smirk slowly vanished from his face. “Are you all right?”
“Mind your business.” She turned to her lathe and pressed the button. The machine’s chattering with occasional little squeaks lulled her into the memory, which still pressed on her heart. For the hundredth time, she saw in her mind the stamped envelope on the kitchen table as she entered the house that day. She still could recall her feeling of excitement—The letter! From Stepan!—and see herself grab the kitchen knife and with the tip of its blade get underneath the paper where it stuck out and with a jerk, open it. A double folded piece of paper fell on the floor. She picked it up and froze for an instant before unfolding it, confident it was the so long-awaited proposal, the logical result of her three-year-long and faithful relationship with Stepan. She could swear to God she did not kiss another man even once in those years. But now, she would prefer not to remember how she was sweating and panting in the thrilled
