Even her phenomenal memory was failing after eight hours of everyday training. What was it about the blast effect of the M-24 hand grenade? she guessed as she collapsed on the bed during the evening recess. The moment she thought she figured out what the blast effect was Sveta’s, that is cadet Halcyon’s, voice sidetracked her attention from the grenade. “Hunter, to the Chief of school.”
Ulya got up, smoothed her uniform, and headed to the first floor.
“Step in,” came at her knock.
“Allow me to report—”
“All right, all right, Cadet Hunter. I have something for you.” Vladimir Kharitonovich showed her a course paper envelope with her name in her father’s handwriting. Hiding the inner tremor, she took the letter from his hand. It was not sealed. They read it.
“Of course, it was opened and read,” he confirmed, as if reading her thoughts. “I leave you to it for ten minutes.” He pushed across the table a small piece of paper and a pen, then took a pack of Belomorcanal cigarettes from his table and stepped outside.
My dear daughter, I’m safe and sound. Work keeps me occupied. The only problem is that the temperature is below (there was a black smear over the number). It hurts my knee, which I (another smear), but I don’t give up. Thank you for your letter. I’m glad your work at the canteen is not a burden to you. Thinking of you helps me to (black smear). Your loving father.
The writing lacked her father’s precision of the characters and straightness of the lines. But over there, behind the Ural Mountains, they must have had cold temperatures by that time, she reasoned with herself. Or, he was just exhausted. What kind of work does he do? She had no doubt that even if she asked him this question, the merciless hand of a vigilant sensor would smear it.
She brought the letter to her face. It smelled of something she could not identify. Pressing it to her chest with her left hand, she started writing.
My dearest Vati, what a joy it is to learn you are well. My thoughts are all the time with you, especially when I wash utensils. I have your scarf with me, that one that is wool plaid and when my longing for you becomes unbearable, I put it around my neck and imagine you are close to me.
Without a knock, the Chief of the school opened the door. “Are you done?”
She nodded and added in a hurried script,
I love you as I love no one in this world. Please live for me.
Your Ursula
She raised her eyes to find Vladimir Kharitonovich watching her. “May I keep his letter? There is nothing . . .”
After a long while, he said in staid calmness, “You know my answer, Cadet Hunter.”
She put the letter on the table and left the room.
15
Ulya
June 1940
Balashikha
Aside from the indoor lectures and seminars, every day except Sundays, for hours, the cadets practiced crawling on their stomachs under barbed wire and through sand pits—in winter it could be the knee-deep snow—from which they had to shoot at moving targets. They crossed the local Pekhorka river by swimming and rafting; scouted through the local woods, pored over maps, memorizing the streets-and-squares names, the roads in all directions from the Balashikha settlement.
After ten months of training, the time for examinations came, which she passed with quiet confidence.
FROM THE INTERNAL DOSSIER
Cadet Hunter
Smart. Talented. Photographic memory. Fast learner.
Calm. Serious. Punctual. Well-disciplined. Exemplary self-control. Decisive and determined. Bold in her assessments and judgment. Displays tenacity, physical and mental stamina. Secretive. Reserved.
Physical training: very good.
Fieldcraft: very good.
Close combat: very good.
Explosives: very good.
Communication: very good, 12 words/min in Morse code.
Reports: very good.
In handwriting: Her hand won’t waver to kill.
On June 16, Chief of school summoned Ulya into his office.
“Congratulations on your successful completion of the course, Cadet Hunter. You are given the rank of second lieutenant.” Vladimir Kharitonovich stretched his hand for a shake.
What now? she thought, looking into his face.
“The Command made a decision to leave you in the school for continuing training and part-time teaching of the German language. The order takes effect immediately. You are granted a one-week vacation. Without leaving the school.”
One week! Unexpected luck.
By that time, Sveta had moved out, leaving no warm feelings toward her in Ulya’s heart. Sharing the same accommodation for almost a year, Ulya knew nothing about her roommate. Only that she studied the Czech language and, based on some words and a hardly distinguishable accent, was of Ukrainian descent.
Her mood suddenly buoyant, Ulya headed to the library and borrowed War and Peace.
While she held the heavy volume in her hands, her memory urged up a fragment of the past. At the solemn event when she was handed a red and gold badge with Lenin’s profile and her Komsomol membership card, one of the functionaries had asked about her favorite book. After she answered, “War and Peace,” everybody present first froze then exploded in outrage. The right answer must have been “works of Lenin and Stalin.” Or at the very least, Maxim Gorky’s. A little slip like this had almost cost her membership in the All-Union Young Communist League.
Enjoying the situation when nobody would disturb her, she snatched the pillow from the other bed and got settled in hers with the resolve of not checking the time. She always loved books, the smell of them, the feel of the pages on the tips of her fingers and the marvelous way she could travel to distant places with strange characters, the pleasure she was now deprived of due to her busy schedule.
After ten hours of uninterrupted reading, she was on page five hundred sixteen of one thousand three hundred, absorbing every single word, captivated by Tolstoy’s sophistication of word building and strength of thought. Her eyes stung with weariness, and she
