Every other hour, the broadcast asserted: “The Germans are being pushed back. There is no need to leave.” Meanwhile, every day, the sky was black with airplanes. High-flying bombers droned above, released black dots and, after the succession of blasts that followed, returned to their base. Becoming increasingly loud, the humming of artillery joined the noise of the bombs.
The cannonade drew closer and closer. From the opposite side of the city, explosions were heard. That was when the human sea flooded the streets and roads, slowing down along the narrow Nikolskaya Street. Buses vanished. In their place, horse-driven carts appeared overfilled with boxes and bags, furniture pieces, cages with cackling hens. Some people pushed wheelbarrows stacked with goods. Many on foot. Older people with sticks, dragging tired feet. Little children clutched their parents’ hands. Moving at a snail’s pace, the human mass on occasion halted, giving way to soldiers in formation led by officers, then closed in again and trudged on when the soldiers were gone.
The morning of July 5 brought the sound of heavy fighting and then another kind of blast audible from the city. Ulya perceived that Stalin’s Directive of the scorched earth defense was in progress.
22
Natasha
July 5, 1941
The radio continued broadcasting the persistent battles, the Red Army retreats, but in the Vitebsk direction, the enemy was fought off twenty to thirty kilometers to the west of Polotsk.
By now the familiar sound of air raid sirens overpowered the noise of hammers, screwdrivers, and axes that accompanied the dismantling of the plant equipment for leaving. The workers labored for over ten hours a day; however, no one would take a break or flee for cover to the basements, which were prepared in haste for protection from the bombing.
During the first days of July, the Luftwaffe was tenacious with its pounding of the city, leaving more and more crumbling brickwork and misshapen architecture with their violent air assaults.
The plant buzzed like a beehive. In a panic, the director and the management rushed through the workshops, stimulating the people with words, often empowered with well-rounded Russian curses. Only Sergey Vladimirovich, silent and composed, now dressed in blue working overalls that made him more approachable, appeared here and there to help with the lifting of heavy equipment or a kind encouragement.
“Natasha.” She heard him address her from behind her back and swung around. “Let me do it.” He took the hammer from her hands and swung it to hit the huge fastening bolt at the base of the lathe. One after the other, he loosened all sixteen. “Now, you step back and let the men complete the task.” A faint light twinkled in the depths of his intelligent brown eyes. Was it warmth in them? ran through her mind. When the spell of his gaze lifted, he was already heading to the workers who had just finished moving another lathe bed.
Natasha started packing the small parts of her machine. With care, she wrapped them in oilpaper then put them into the huge wooden box, which she marked after she nailed it shut.
Finding him with her eyes, she approached the group of workers who had just finished with another machine. “Sergey Vladimirovich, what do we do with this box?” Either he didn’t hear her or already had something more important on his mind, but he didn’t show any reaction, and the next instant, she saw him on his way to the hall exit.
“Don’t touch it!” Anton’s voice stopped her as she bent to lift the box on the lift fork. “I’ll do it.” He shoved her aside.
Natasha guessed she recognized love and care in his gaze but feeling fatigue gathering behind her eyes was too tired to attach any thoughts to her observation. With nothing more than a quick nod to him, she spun and went to help Elvira collect the small pieces of her friend’s lathe.
23
Ulya
July 8-9, 1941
The day before, the city was on fire, started as a result of the bombing, and the next day, the sun was blazing. Big puffs from artillery shell impacts covered the cloudless sky. Fights kept unfolding north-west of the city. The West Dvina’s shore was burning.
From her observation post, Ulya watched rows upon rows of Soviet military units, mostly infantry, supported by a few artillery squads heading to the west. The next day, like an ebbing wave, they appeared in small, distinct groups or singly, bloody, barely able to move. Military tracks collected them to draw away eastbound. Retreating? Defeated?
Ulya felt a presence behind her back. On instinct, she readied herself for a potential fight and spun around.
In the doorway, Rita stood dressed in camouflage, a backpack of the same pattern in her hand, her eyes red, perhaps due to lack of sleep.
“Rita!” Ulya quickened her steps to embrace her friend. “Where have you—” Rita’s steady gaze stopped her in her tracks.
“Too many wolves in the local woods.”
“We can get them all quickly eliminated.” Ulya reacted on impulse then shook her head. “Ah, Rita, Rita.”
A quick smile moved across Rita’s face, which otherwise looked concerned, even oppressed. “Forget about Rita. Agent Cloud.” She officially-mockingly stretched her hand for a shake. So little and delicate, a girl’s hand, Ulya thought, holding it in hers.
“Bagdan too?”
Her head bobbed once, so slight a movement it was almost unnoticeable. “Yes, my dear Agent Hunter, we are on the same side of the barricade.” She gave Ulya a long look as if considering whether or not to speak what was on her and Ulya’s mind, then ventured, “Yes, it was I who recommended you.”
She plucked from her breast pocket and handed to Ulya a slip of paper. “Read.”
General Headquarters made a decision to change your assignment. Your deployment to Germany is canceled.
“It looks like Germany came to
