Suddenly, all critique of the militaristic, warmongering politic of the German government and their persecution of the Jewish population vanished from the front-page headlines and radio broadcasts, and so the Soviet people learned the Germans were again not enemies. On the contrary, they became allies.
On September 1, the allies started the war, and on September 17, the Soviet Union cancelled all pacts with Poland.
During the last weeks, something strange was going on, and only the blind could not see the airplanes coming in swarms and landing on the airbase. On market days, the peasants brought news about military columns moving covertly during the nights in the direction of the Polish border.
On September 17, the moment Natasha entered the production hall, the alarm wailed, stalling lathes’ engines and the loudspeaker called for attention. “Comrades! Citizens of our great country!” The Chairman of the Soviet of People’s Commissars Molotov announced and explained to the Soviet citizens why the Soviet government could not remain indifferent to the destiny of the kin-blooded Ukrainians and Byelorussians living in Poland after its government ceased to exist. “The Red Army must honorably fulfill the honorary mission in performing its great liberating task,” he proclaimed in his speech.
Vitebsk suddenly blossomed with placards. From the building walls and billboards, they encouraged the population: “Give a helping hand to the West-Ukrainian and West-Byelorussian brothers!” “Returning West Ukraine and West Byelorussia into the family of the Soviet People is our sacred duty.”
The Red Army marched toward Lvov.
14
Ulya
Beginning of October 1939
Saratov; Balashikha, Moscow Region
At exactly nine o’clock in the morning of October 1, Ulya opened an unmarked entrance door of the gray-brick four-story building on Sakko and Vancetti Street. A formal voice stopped her in her tracks. “Stop! Your summons.”
“My name is Ursula Franzevna Kriegshammer. I need to see Senior Lieutenant Godyastchev.”
“A major already.” The sentry cast her a sharp glance and picked up one of three phones on his small desk. “Ursula Franzevna Kriegshammer is inquiring for you, Comrade Major.” He opened what she figured was a registry book and, after making some notes, motioned for her to go. “Second floor, room twenty-one.”
She stopped in front of a simple door with 21 in white paint and knocked.
“Comrade Kriegshammer.” Major Godyastchev got up and motioned her to take a chair in front of his table. “Glad to see you again.”
I’m not. She stared into his eyes.
“Glad you didn’t forget our conversation on May third in 1938.”
“I did not. Why is my father arrested?”
“Your father, Franz Fridrikhovich Kriegshammer was arrested for treason. He was in contact with a Gestapo agent who in 1938 brought a letter, or should I say, instructions to the local counter-revolutionary organization. Besides, on the directive from the German government, he spread anti-Soviet propaganda in his newspaper and among his friends and colleagues.”
“A blatant lie.”
“Three people confessed to it.”
“Who?”
“You are in no position to ask me questions.” His face neutral, he flipped through a folder on his desk.
The silence was oppressing.
“What will happen to my father?”
“If the court finds the accusations confirmed, he, most likely, will be executed.”
She gasped. Executed. The thought tore at her insides. Still, she tried to keep her shattered control.
“You can, though, ease his sufferings.”
She would give anything, even her life, to spare his. “How?”
“I like your attitude. If you work for us, I can promise you that your father, even if convicted, will reside in a settlement somewhere in Siberia and though without the right of movement, the living conditions in such colonies are much better than . . .” He stopped for a long moment as though trying to find an appropriate analogy and, not finding it, went on, “Besides, I could arrange the mail communication rights for you.”
The decision came in a flash. “I am ready to serve my socialist country, the Soviet government, and Comrade Stalin.”
She fancied she detected an ironic look in his eyes. Still, he pulled a one-page document from a folder. “I’m required to get your consent to complete confidentiality before proceeding. The subject is sensitive and a matter of national security. You are obliged never to reveal any information about what you’ll learn here.”
She stretched her hand to the document, as he pushed it to her over the table, and picked up the pen.
“You can read it first.”
Whatever it was, she was adamant about saving her father. She was not naïve. Not anymore, at least. The Soviet power was quick on violence against its own citizens. This thought alone prompted her to comply. She examined the paper and signed. “Now what?”
“You read this. It requires your immediate decision.” He placed another document in front of her.
She scanned it. A special school. Training for one year. Away from home. Any contact with family and friends forbidden. She added her signature. “When?”
“May I ask you to step out for a minute? I’ll call for you.” His hand was already on the receiver.
She exited into the corridor, deserted as before, only the click-clack of typewriters and muffled voices heard from behind the closed doors.
In those minutes she was left to her own devices, she contemplated her action. Was it the only option? Was her acceptance prompted by her mind or her heart? She wouldn’t know. And it didn’t matter anymore. The most important thing was that her father’s life be spared, and she’d have mail
