“They are burning for the combat,” declared this representative of the Russian nation, “and to prove to Your Majesty by the sacrifice of their lives how devoted they are . . .” She caught herself mentally replacing “Your Majesty” with “Comrade Stalin” and that was the last she could concentrate on before she sank into blackness.
Two days later, she reached THE END and reluctantly closed the book.
Her body craved movement and exercise. She returned War and Peace to the library then headed to the stadium where the newly arrived cadets showed off their abilities to each other. They stopped and gawked at Ulya.
“See, we have a girl among us,” one said more with excitement than surprise. “So, one year in the woods won’t be lost on us,” the other said. “On one of us,” the third added with a smirk.
Ignoring them, Ulya approached a cross bar and started lifting herself. After she had completed ten chin-ups they began counting in chorus, “Eleven, twelve, thirteen . . . twenty.” “U-h,” one exhaled loudly as though it was him working out.
“Who’s next?” Ulya shifted her eyes from one to the other.
The older of them, Ulya would think him between twenty-five and thirty, spat on his palms and, with springy ease, jumped up to grab the bar. She turned her back to the men, which produced a sound of disappointment from some throats, and headed to the running track.
Her spectators were called into the building long before she finished her seven kilometers.
16
Natasha
June 1940
Vitebsk
Through the split open door, Natasha watched Sergey Vladimirovich. Immersed in reading a book, eventually he noticed her standing in the doorway. In haste, he closed the book, its cover reading German Language, and slid it into the drawer of his desk.
“Comrade Ivanova, do you have a question?” A blush ran over his cheeks.
To ease his embarrassment and hers while she couldn’t explain why her feet had brought her here, she muttered, “I think I lost my keys here yesterday.”
“Come in, see if they are still there. You sat in the second row.” He motioned at the chair she’d occupied a day before.
Natasha bent to see under the chair then looked around and, with a pronounced sigh, headed to the exit.
“Found?” A faint glint of humor in his dark eyes turned into an open beam.
She shook her head. He has a lovely smile. He should smile more often, crossed her mind.
Without giving it a second thought, Natasha set off for the public library on Smolenskaya Street. “I need a German textbook.” She approached a librarian who, for some reason, stared at her with unburdened surprise. “Stall eight at the right wall. You’ll find some there. Such interest in German textbooks of late.” The last sentence, she muttered under her breath.
Among the poor selection of the school textbooks, she found Deutsch for grade nine.
The woman noted it in Natasha’s newly issued library booklet. “Return it in three weeks or come in to request an extension.”
Natasha nodded her understanding and exited into the sunny street. In the little square on the same street, after looking around for an unoccupied bench, she found one and opened the book. In about three minutes, she closed it. No, she was not capable of learning the language. Lyuba was. She always helped her with her German, letting her copy the schoolwork.
Late in the night, remembering Sergey Vladimirovich’s smile and berating herself for a quick back down from a challenge, she pulled the textbook from under her mattress and tiptoed into the kitchen so as not to disturb her aunt’s sleep.
Werner: Mutti, Ich habe die Wohnung saubergemacht.
Gerda: Ich habe dabei mitgeholfen. Ich habe auch im Garten Blumen gepflückt . . .
Some words surfaced from her memory. Then more and more. Her eyelids drooped, and when she returned to her bed and her head hit the pillow, her last thought was, of course I can, at least I have had a “good” for German on my graduation exam.
17
Ulya
Autumn 1940-Spring 1941
Balashikha
Throughout the school year of 1940-1941, four hours a day, six days a week, Ulya taught German to three cadets, Arthuz, Oscar, and Grim. Of course, those were code names. They called her Hunter. At their first lesson, it took her one look to stop their attempts at flirting.
For her own supplementary education, her mentors constantly fed her with new materials: German History, German poets and writers—her favorite part, the maps of the country and, particularly, of Berlin and its suburbs, including the street maps, which indicated the government buildings. Analytical papers on the modern political situation in the country and the history of the NSDAP. Even Mein Kampf by Hitler was on the must-read list.
One day in January 1941, a new civilian made an appearance in the school, a middle-aged man dressed in an impeccable herringbone tweed double-breasted three-piece suit and expensive-looking shoes.
Chief of school summoned her into his office. “Hunter, make the acquaintance of Comrade Wagner.”
After they shook hands, Ulya glanced at Vladimir Kharitonovich.
“Comrade Wagner will correct your pronunciation. You must sound like a real Berliner. And not only that, Comrade Wagner will teach you good manners as they have in Germany, and how to dress, and—Well, I leave you alone for all your interesting excursions into the land of your ancestors. Here is the key for the room allotted for your classes. Number 8.”
Somebody had hung a Do not disturb sign on the door. The room—uncharted territory for her until now—was small but cozy with two massive tables and comfortable chairs. But before stepping inside, Comrade Wagner paused then said in a formal tone, “Behind this door, I’m Herr Wagner.”
Ulya acknowledged it with a nod of her head.
His introduction into the Berlin dialect astounded her. There was indeed a lot to learn or rather to change in her own pronunciation. After two hours of twisting her tongue and pushing her cheeks, Herr Wagner took pity on her. “Now, let’s move to Berlin.”
He pulled a heavy volume from
