On returning home, she found in the chest her child’s padded cotton blanket and sewed two cut out round pieces into her new purchase. Passing the wardrobe, she stole a glimpse at her reflection in the full-length mirror and a peculiar thought ran through her mind, If I marry and have children, my breast will grow big. Wasn’t that what she heard from the girls’ whispered conversations on the subject, yet dismissed as nonsense at the time? But maybe it was not so wrong? Marriage? Children? For the first time, Ulya perceived or rather found it important to ponder it. It was what the Volga German girls’ mothers taught their daughters. They called it three Ks: Kinder, Küche, Kirche—Children, Kitchen, Church. No, she was more like Russian girls. They wanted to study and work in a plant or in an office. Ulya couldn’t wait to become a judicial consultant.
6
Natasha
October 1938
Vitebsk
Was Natasha infatuated with their Komsomol secretary? Hardly. The pain from Stepan’s betrayal still lingered. Yet during every new encounter with Sergey Vladimirovich, she couldn’t help but notice how slender he was, though not as tall as Stepan, how different from the local men he was in his appearance. But what a wonder? He was from Minsk, the city much bigger, the capital of the Soviet Byelorussia, and a university-educated economist at that.
On a whim, she turned around and headed to the Komsomol meeting room away from the corridor that led to the checkpoint.
The door was open. He sat at the table, leafing through papers, making some notes.
Natasha glared at him for a long moment then knocked at the doorpost. “Sergey Vladimirovich, may I ask you a question?”
“Enter, Comrade Ivanova.” He threw her a questioning gaze. “How can I help you?”
Even his manner of speaking was different. Who of her acquaintances used such words? In the best way, it would be, “What do you want?”
“Sergey Vladimirovich, at our last Komsomol meeting, you pointed out we have to know more about the struggle of the European proletariat, umm, against capitalist oppression and, well, their fight for workers’ rights. What books would you suggest?”
“I’m glad you are interested, Comrade Ivanova.” As he smiled, two little dimples appeared on his cheeks, making him even more attractive. “Take that booklet. On the second shelf. Yes, yes, that one.”
She grabbed it. “Thank you, Sergey Vladimirovich.”
“Comrade Ivanova, I would encourage you to write a report about the subject. I am sure other Komsomol members will be interested in the information.”
When from the threshold she turned, hoping he’d watch her back, he was already busy with his papers.
7
Ulya
November 1938
Saratov
“Ulya, what’s the occasion? Why are you so dressed up?” Rita looked her up and down, her gaze lingering for a prolonged moment on Ulya’s chest. “And your eyes are sparkling.”
“Leave me alone.” Ulya brushed her aside.
“Did you fall in love, my girlfriend?”
And only the ring of the school bell saved Ulya from Rita’s peskiness.
While musing about Konstantin, Ulya didn’t use the word “in love,” but before she knew it, she imagined his handsome face and wondered why he chose her. She knew she was not beautiful. The best proof of it was that at twenty, she had never had a boyfriend. She’d never kissed, not even cuddled with a boy. Well, Gleb hugged her once or twice, but those were just friendly hugs. His letters were polite and neutral: “all is well,” “work and training are tense,” “wishing you all the best.” She thought of him as a friend she’d known as long as she remembered herself. Thinking of Konstantin was different.
Now that she had met him twice, she could not help but admit to herself that she looked forward to their comings together. He was interesting to speak with and even though his favorite topics—political tolerance and enemies of the people—evoked some inner protest, recapping her meeting with Lieutenant Godyastchev and trusting her gut, she kept her mouth shut, faking agreement, despite her occasional discomfort with his views.
She found his attention to her life and beliefs ordinary, but his curiosity in what interested her gave her an unfamiliar sense of escaping from her self-imposed jail of alienation. His own secrecy surprised her. All she could pull out of him was that he was a cadet in the military school and that he was an orphan who spent his childhood in a Volsk orphanage.
Despite his peculiarity, it pleased her to think she’d see him again. This time, on Sunday.
“Let’s go to a club. They have a dance party today.”
Before she could reply, Konstantin grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the Lipki Park, the sounds of a brass band playing a tango audible.
“I do not dance.” She snatched her hand away.
For a moment, he stared at her then shrugged as if tossing away disbelief. “No problem. What do you want to do?”
“Let’s just take a walk.”
He shrugged again and followed her along the alley. At the shooting gallery, they stopped to watch a young man who hugged a girl’s shoulders, whispering something into her ear. The girl pulled off a mitten. “That one.” She poked her finger at a stuffed monkey among the hand-carved wooden toys.
The young man handed the girl his coat, approached the barrier, took a rifle from the worker, and received ten pellets into his palm. “Consider the monkey yours.” After a quick, confident nod at the girl, he took position, aimed, and missed the brass disk on the wall. “The first shot is always the worst,” the man said and aimed again, and again, missing the shooting targets one after another. “Ah, what’s wrong with me today? Let me—”
“No, Pasha, let’s go.” The girl, her cheeks flushed, giggled and pulled her friend away from the shooting stand.
A triumphant smile appeared on the worker’s face as he observed a small crowd gathered in front of the stall. “Now, who is the next to
