“If it was not for Soviet power, you’d perhaps be a cowgirl and bring milk or some vegetables to Saratov Market on Saturdays and I’d buy them from you.” Rita giggled.
“And, besides that, I would follow the three Ks rule for German women: Children, Kitchen, Church.” Ulya chuckled.
“And your mother? What—”
“I have no mother.” Ulya moved her eyes up to watch the few lazy clouds flowing overhead. Never knowing her, Ulya felt nothing for that young woman with the round face and dark eyes on the black-and-white framed picture on her father’s desk. Like a vicious circle that drew her into its orbit, the memory of that day engulfed her again. She was eight or seven. Through the split open door, she saw her father clutch the picture in his hands, his trembling voice preserved in her head. “My Natasha, my one and only love, why did you leave me?” Ulya didn’t understand it then but now she knew it shocked her to see her father, always strong and reliable, feeble at that moment, more like a weakling.
For many years—and it still stayed with her—the terrifying suspicion felt like an acute sense of despair. Her Vati did not love her, Ulya. Later, another realization surfaced—he blamed her for the woman’s death. Even now, a trace of that unexplainable sensation of a frog leaping in her chest made her freeze. In her early teen years, she’d learnt to turn into her own mind, setting herself into a lonely world, and resolved to trust only herself. In any case, she had never been one to speak about her personal life, her feelings, even to her only friend, who never probed.
Meanwhile, the German women started putting out flatbreads, early summer vegetables and herbs from their baskets on a spread blanket. They called their children for a snack and the little ones sat and consumed their meal in what looked like mute reverence.
“They make me hungry.” Rita motioned at them with her head.
They picked up their food, wrapped in newspaper, and satisfied their hunger with rye bread, radishes, green onions, and boiled eggs. Worn out by the heat, they chewed in silence.
When the sun was down, they took one last dip in the Volga, and with the seven o’clock boat, Rita departed for Saratov.
It was after midnight when the sound of a car stopping in front of their house made Ulya throw herself to the window. Through the night darkness sparsely illuminated by a light from a pole, Ulya watched two men climb out from the back seat and turn around as though scanning the street and the houses. Two other figures joined them. All disappeared from her sight. Seconds later, an insistent doorbell rang.
Her father stepped from his office. “I’ll open it, Schätzchen.” There was something in the tone of his voice that made her flinch.
Three men with hard faces entered, one of them keeping his right hand in his pocket. Behind their backs, Maria Adolfovna, the local mail woman with whom they were on friendly terms, lingered on the threshold, her head bent. Without introducing themselves or stating the purpose of their appearance, the older one, thick set, said, “Citizen Kriegshammer?”
Just addressing someone with “citizen” meant big trouble.
Her father let out a long, audible breath and nodded. So did Ulya.
The man waved a paper in her father’s face then refolded it and returned it to his pocket. “A search warrant.” His voice, unemotional, chilled Ulya.
“Why?” Her father’s face was a drawn scape of despair. “I’m a member of the Communist Party.”
She saw something she’d never seen before—her Vati was scared. He’d known it was coming. Somehow, she was sure of it.
Ignoring her father’s question, the one with his hand in his right pocket motioned to other men to start the search. “You too go with them,” he poked his finger at Maria Adolfovna and watched the three disappear inside the study.
“I protest! On what grounds?”
“Shut up and take a seat. Hands on the table. Don’t make me manacle you.” The man waited till her father did as he was told and turned to Ulya. “You too, sit quiet.”
And so they sat on opposite sides of the table listening to the noises coming from the study: the sounds of drawers pulled from the desk, rustling of papers, books thrown on the floor, the furniture sliding across the hardwood floor, the intruders’ heavy breathing.
Was her father involved in something anti-governmental? Was he a member of an anti-Soviet organization? Questions burst inside her, torturing, bringing a wave of doubt with them. She almost stopped breathing and shook her head trying to shed the idea from her mind. “Vati.” She wanted him to look at her.
“Don’t worry, Ursula. They won’t find anything.”
Won’t they? She saw his fingers trembling. Hers curled into fists.
As if bored by doing nothing, the man, whom Ulya judged was in charge, got up with an obvious swagger and opened their fine glass-fronted cabinet, pulling the Meissen porcelain teacups one after another. Then, with his thumb and index finger, he picked up a silver teaspoon and twirled it, whistling under his nose and roaming with his eyes. Ulya cringed as she watched the spoon disappear into his pocket.
When morning flickered behind the window, they finished the search—her bedroom and her father’s, the kitchen, the bathroom, and the storeroom included—leaving nothing in its place. They offered Maria Adolfovna some papers to sign. As a law student, Ulya knew—a search protocol. The woman’s miserable face could not hide her exhaustion. Poor Maria Adolfovna. Her mail delivery shift starts soon, Ulya thought.
The superior gestured to his subordinates at the drawers filled with her father’s papers and the clippings of the newspaper archive. “Carry the haul to the car and come
