To stop the panic, on June 28, the Byelorussian government released a decision ordering the “arrest of individuals who spread all sorts of provocative rumors on the spot and subject them to court martial.” Despite the order, the rumors went on, only circulating in whispers.
Today, it took Natasha twice as long to barge her way through the crowd to get to the plant. It felt like swimming against the tide—the solid mass of people continued to push in.
“Natasha.” Sergey Vladimirovich stopped her at the gate. “Go to management and take your evacuation papers.” He consulted his watch. “In four hours, you should be at the train station. Our plant is being shipped to Sa—” He drew his eyebrows together. “With other workers, you’ll go to the place where the equipment is being transported.”
She bobbed her head. His embarrassment of the unwanted slip did not divert her from raising the question. Were they going to Samara? Saransk maybe? Or Saratov?
He stretched his hand. “Good luck, Natasha.”
For the moment he held her hand, she forgot how to breathe. “And you?”
He made an uncertain move with one shoulder and hurried away.
On her way home, she wrestled with the dilemma of what to take with her to the evacuation. Were they going to a warm-weather place or to the north?
Home, she found her aunt in bed. “What’s wrong?”
“Threw my back out,” she moaned.
“While digging, I’m sure.” Natasha recalled how generous Sergey Vladimirovich was in offering his help these last days and said, “Can I help you with something?”
Her aunt got all googly eyed. “Since when have you become so caring?”
“I evacuate,” Natasha said, ignoring her aunt’s remark.
“Where do you go?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere with the plant. But how can I leave you behind?”
All of a sudden, as if the fear of saying a wrong word was forgotten, her aunt shouted out, “Won’t my Red Army defend me? Where is our air force? Where are our tanks?” Her face smeared with red blotches, she dropped eye contact with Natasha. With an anguished “Ooh,” she half rose, supporting herself on her elbow and, watching Natasha rushing about, instructed her, “Take some winter clothes.” “Don’t forget this . . .” “Don’t forget that . . .” irritating and pushing Natasha’s nerves to the limit.
After Natasha stuffed her things in a cardboard suitcase, she bent to her aunt and placed a peck on her cheek. “But maybe I’ll be back soon.”
“Take care of yourself, Niece.” Her aunt smothered a sob.
The sky dimmed in the east. Natasha approached the railway station, but to get close to the platform was a challenge. It looked like the entire city was storming it. Mostly women with teenagers. Bending under the bags of belongings, they swore and pushed one another in an attempt to get to the train cars. A chain of armed soldiers held the line, letting only the citizens with special papers embark. “Are we not human?” some screamed; others spoke in whispers, “The Communist bureaucrats and administration already left with all their belongings.” “With their cars and furniture.” “My neighbor took even his dog and two cats.”
With much effort, Natasha squeezed through the crowd and pushed into an officer’s hand her evacuation pass. After studying it, he sent her away with a movement of his head. “The last car.”
“Natasha, Natasha!” she heard Elvira yelling. “Here.” Her friend, half-hanging out of the window, waved with one hand at her.
Inside the car crammed with her fellow workers, Natasha searched for Sergey Vladimirovich. Elvira, perhaps offended she didn’t thank her for the spare seat, grumbled, “Stop gawking. He is not here.”
“Who is not here?” Natasha said, then became aware of how her heart choked at her friend’s words.
“Don’t play dumb.”
Saying nothing to Elvira’s mocking, Natasha grabbed her suitcase and pushed through the overcrowded car, all the way hearing Elvira yelling behind her back, “Idiot, where do you go? Are you off your head?”
Getting out of the train station proved even more difficult. Only when the locomotive blew its whistle and started moving, carrying the smell of burning coal with it, did she stop to catch her breath. Now, what would she do?
She ran to the plant, maneuvering between the bombed buildings and heaps of rubble. The plant workshops stood abandoned. The gate open. And the only noise she heard she guessed was a distant cannonade. Natasha felt ice spreading through her stomach. Would she see Sergey Vladimirovich again?
25
Ulya
July 10-11, 1941
The German bombardment continued, the humming of explosions coming nearer and nearer. The Soviet troops fought back on the outskirts of the city.
Ulya climbed up the ladder and pushed the trapdoor to the attic open. From under the turned upside down wicker basket, she took the binoculars and observed what she could see through the small windows. Based on the banging of the cannonade and plumes of smoke that rose to the sky, Germans attacked from the side of Chepino, from Gorodokskoye and Polotskoye highways, and already were on this side of West Dvina, in Ulanovichi, the airbase and railway bridge area. By now, she didn’t even need a map.
The German airplanes brought not only bombs. Right over her house, like giant snowflakes, pieces of white paper fell. Ulya hurried outside and picked one up, which read,
The German Army brings you a new order. Don’t fret, we set free all of you except for Yids and Communists.
She folded the leaflet and, returning to the attic, shoved it behind a plank.
The next day, before dawn, she heard a strange noise. Or did she feel it first? It seemed to travel through the walls, making them quiver. After some long minutes, her ears picked out the distinctive sound of engines revving, some clanking. The rumble intensified, becoming a roar. The air itself seemed to vibrate.
