A short while later, Godyastchev pushed the door open for her. “Please.” He returned to his desk and waited till she took a seat. “Your course starts soon, really soon.” A tactful smile appeared on his face, which never betrayed his emotions. As if he had any. “You have two days to gather your belongings. On October third, you must be at the Saratov Railway Station. Get your ticket at the cash office for military personnel. The train departs to Moscow at six-thirty in the evening. In the capital, our man will meet you.” He stretched his hand for a handshake. “Comrade Kriegshammer, congratulations.”
She nodded and left the room, aware she had just crossed her personal Rubicon.
On October 4, a soldier, silent and collected, met her at the Paveletsky Railway Station in Moscow and drove his Emka-car, smelling of tobacco, for about an hour till they reached a wooded suburb. The road sign they had driven by ten minutes earlier read Balashikha. After crossing the guarded gates, he stopped the car at a nice, two-story building. He waited for her to pick up her satchel and led her inside.
She followed him past several closed doors and an open, airy hall set up with several rows of chairs, then up the stairs. The first door to the left was unlatched, and he motioned her to enter. She took the space in. Two roomy beds each covered with a thick blanket, two middle-sized office tables and two wardrobes. A small framed picture of Felix Dzerzhinsky and a bigger one of Stalin were suspended on opposite walls.
With his hand, her escort gestured for her to choose. It was remarkable how, without uttering a single word, he could communicate his messages. Ulya chose the bed closest to the window.
Again, with only a small movement of his head, the soldier commanded her to follow him out and to the staircase then down to the first floor where they passed a canteen hall and several classrooms judging by the rows of tables. At that, he left her alone.
Back to her new habitat, which she found austere, neat and tidy, and acceptable, she took her shoes off, lowered herself onto the bed, and dozed off, only a breath away from falling asleep.
In a minute’s time, something made her open her eyes. A young woman stood in the doorway, staring at her. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I am Svetlana.” She picked up her suitcase and stepped to the vacant bed. “I suppose it’s mine?”
Ulya made a welcoming gesture. “I’m Ulya.”
“Ulyana then?”
“Ulya.”
“Good. You can call me Sveta if you wish.” There was an obvious sharpness to her voice.
A knock made them turn their heads to the door that opened before they could voice their acquiescence. A young man popped his head around the door. “To the Chief of school. First floor.”
“All right,” Sveta answered for both of them, and a minute later, they found themselves the only girls in the group of young men who stood on alert along the wall. The door opened, and a young fellow stepped out. One after the other—it lasted scarcely five minutes for each of them—the cadets entered and left the room. Ulya was the last to find out what was to happen behind that door.
The Chief of school, a dark-haired and dark-eyed man in his forties, with a brush of mustache and a pleasant, far from commanding voice, introduced himself. “Vladimir Kharitonovich.” He directed Ulya to the backless chair in front of his table.
“Welcome to the school, Comrade Kriegshammer.” After asking her about her trip and if she liked the accommodations, all in perfect German, he continued, “You know it already, but I have to repeat it once again. No acquaintances, friends, not even the members of your family must know where you study and what work you’ll do in the future.”
That’s easy. You took my father from me, my only family, she thought bitterly with a feeling of fleeting rejection for this man, for what prompted her to find herself here, for all she had to do in the walls of this otherwise nice building.
“Your biography is very impressive, cadet, and since German is native to you, you can spend more time on other school subjects. Tomorrow, our lecturers will fill the cadets in on the disciplines. Furthermore, revealing your family name not only to your fellow students but to the instructors and service personnel as well constitutes a violation of the Charter. I’m the only one who knows your real name, Ursula Franzevna Kriegshammer. For all the other people, you are Hunter.”
Not even a Huntress? She smirked to herself. I’ll be up to the code name.
“You are here for a special mission and our task as your mentors is to nurture in you a patriot dedicated to our socialist motherland and the Lenin-Stalin party, and who in difficult combat or clandestine situations carries out her objectives with self-sacrifice.”
He handed her an identity card, a small double-sided cardboard document: on the left inner side was her picture with a big round stamp over it, on the other side, a red star and a number. No surname.
The teaching proved to be very serious. Taking any notes was prohibited. The cadets were to keep everything in their heads, which her photographic memory helped with a lot.
General education disciplines included the Russian language, literature, geography, social studies, VKPB history, foreign languages, special intelligence-gathering subjects—radio, cryptography, the acquisition and communication with intelligence. Combat weapon handling.
They had lectures on international affairs, economic geography of capitalist countries, basics of intelligence skills. Most were easy for her. Learning Morse code and how to forge documents required a bit more strain. However, she approached the disciplines as a hunter—identify a target, gather the information, decide ways and means, and take action.
The days were filled with physical training, class and field disciplines, theory and practice.
They learned how to handle rifles,
