And yet, she was glad to be back home. She wandered around the apartment, running her fingers along the furniture pieces, the spines of the books of which only the works of Lenin and Stalin were left, opening and closing the doors of the wardrobe and of the fine glass-fronted cabinet in the kitchen. It didn’t surprise her that their china and silverware had disappeared. As she continued exploring the rooms, she didn’t find the family photo albums and noted to herself first with disbelief and then with comprehension that most of her personal things were missing too. The clock was also gone.
In her father’s study, she lingered longer, staring at the desk by the window overlooking the courtyard from where her father could oversee the escapades of their four boys-one girl gang as the neighbors called them—some lovingly, others with incomprehensible resentment. With her palm, she brushed the dust that had accumulated on the black leather sofa now cracked more than how she remembered it. She let her mind slip to the time when her Vati sat on it and thought of how different his and her life was now from how it was two years ago. But still the question she tried to banish lingered: was his indictment justified?
In the wooden cupboard in the bathroom, she found her hand mirror and peered at her reflection—pale face, dark circles under her eyes. Sad eyes or perhaps hardened.
Five days passed in blessed relaxation, saddened only by the fact her father was not with her.
“Anybody home?” A female voice came from the street.
Ulya hung over the windowsill. “I’m home.” She looked down at Maria Adolfovna, their mail woman. The witness to her father’s arrest.
“How are you, girl? I haven’t seen you for eternity.”
“All is well, Maria Adolfovna. Working.”
“I have a telegram for you.”
“I’m coming down.” Who would send her a telegram? Not her superiors, that was for sure. They had other means of communication. Vati! Maybe they had acquitted him and let him go home? With a sensation of weightlessness, she rushed to the door.
Maria Adolfovna met her on the staircase landing, her eyes down. “Are you holding any hard feelings?” Her chin dropped to her chest, her voice falling almost to a whisper.
“No. You performed your responsibilities. I would do the same in case . . . you know.”
“I’ve heard—” Maria Adolfovna opened her mouth to say something else but did not. “What am I chatting here with you about! I have to deliver mail to three more streets.” She extended her hand with the telegram and rushed off.
Ulya held her breath before taking the wobbly typed lettering on the slanted strips in. Her joy passed at the first word of the telegram: “Wedding June 21 You maid of honor Vitebsk Nikolskaya Street 1 Come Rita”
At first, she opposed the idea of going. Little by little, the disappointment changed to acceptance. She’d see Rita. For a moment, she forgot her life was not hers anymore. Without special permission, she couldn’t move a finger. At the thought, she clenched her hand, and a moment later, willed herself to relax. Her father’s life depended on her.
Surprisingly, the home phone worked. She called the number she had received from Vladimir Kharitonovich, and after a short account, got permission to visit her friend. “As you arrive, report to Comrade Kovalyonok at 2-78-13. All your actions are subject to his approval. Clear?”
“Yes.”
20
Ulya
June 18-21, 1941
Vitebsk
The train moved with a soothing motion. Alone in the compartment, settled with comfort on the cushioned seat, Ulya followed the terrain with her eyes. How many meters till that old, big tree? She could hit its trunk without difficulty. And that pole, much thinner. Even with a shotgun, she would not miss it. The only standing hut on the slope. She could not destroy it with a RGD-33 hand grenade. To get to it, she must be at least another hundred meters closer. Such was her thinking when the train slowed down up the slope. Ulya watched a man who dragged along a country road, walking his shaggy horse. An easy target. She caught herself reaching with her right hand to her hip where her holster used to be during shooting exercises. Her hand stopped midway. Crazy! She still could not distance herself from who she’d become in the last two years.
Stations came and went. A few people got off. Others got on.
In Smolensk, three newly made pilot lieutenants barged into her compartment, threw their backpacks onto the top shelf and, after a brief greeting, hit the sack in total disrespect of their immaculate uniforms. They rubbed the sleep out of their eyes only when the train, its brakes screaming, slowed down then stopped in Vitebsk. “We go farther,” one of them said and helped Ulya get her satchel down from the overhead rack.
Impressive in its redbrick and pre-revolution architecture, the railway station building reminded her of the one in Saratov. At the entrance, Ulya noticed a man in the militia uniform and, threading her way to him through the throng of people, took inventory of the languages spoken around her: Russian, Yiddish, Byelorussian, Polish.
“How do I get to Nikolskaya Street?”
“Your documents!”
Ulya showed her passport to his tense face.
“Kriegshammer,” he muttered, examining it, then returned it to her. “Take that exit to the station square. Ask for the five-line bus. Yours is the last stop.” He saluted and rushed to catch up with a young man who fought his way against the stream of people pushing toward the train platform.
A whistle trill pierced the air. The young man made a sharp turn and ran toward the exit right into Ulya’s arms. He shoved her out of his way, but she caught him and
