26
Natasha
July 11-25, 1941
On July 11, the fight continued inside the city. And then, compared to the madness of the previous days, silence ensued, disturbed only by the murmur of motorcycles and solitary shots.
For the next week, Vitebsk was like a dead city.
On July 17, Natasha found a leaflet affixed to their gate printed in Russian and Byelorussian, All citizens of Jewish origin must register. Have your passport with you. And the address where to go.
They were not Jewish, so Natasha and her aunt dismissed it with an easy mind. And yet, at the uncertainty of what to expect for them, Natasha felt pressure pushing against her chest and convinced her aunt to wait.
With every passing day, her aunt became more irritated. “Will we sit here like mice in a hole? I remember when Germans stayed here during the Great War nothing bad happened.”
“What do you suggest we do? We must keep quiet. Why ask for trouble?”
A week later, her aunt couldn’t take the uncertainty any longer. “Go to the city and find out what’s going on. How long can we stay without bread? Luckily, I stashed enough salt, sugar, and matches.”
“I’ll go, Aunty. Tomorrow.”
The next morning, a knock made them wince. “Who’s there?” they cried out in unison.
“It’s me, Polina. Open the door.” With its characteristic “r”-intoned accent, the voice of their neighbor came then the tugging at the door.
The friend of her aunt barged inside, almost knocking Natasha down. She swiped sweat from her forehead and plunged onto the backless chair. “They have ordered all Jews to register.”
“But that’s for Jews. What concern is it of ours or yours?” Natasha’s aunt shot back.
“That’s exactly what I expected, but they sent a man forcing us to come to register. I’ve been there today and tried to explain. What kind of Jew am I if only my great-grandfather was Jewish? We, in my family, have never talked about him. And we attended service in the Orthodox Christian church!” Stains of scarlet appeared on her cheeks, and Natasha recognized fear in her eyes. “But that was before the Revolution,” she added as though suddenly concerned her admission of attending worships banned by a Soviet policy might bring her trouble.
“So, what’s the problem?” Natasha’s aunt raised her eyebrows.
“They would not listen. See, they gave me and all my family members these patches.” She pulled out from her pinafore pocket a round, yellow piece of fabric, about ten centimeters in diameter. “Said we have to stitch them into the right sleeve and the back. Said all Jews must have them.”
“What’s the difference. Just wear them. Keep out of trouble.” Natasha’s aunt gave a shrug.
“Aunt Polina, how did they find out who is Jewish and who is not?” Natasha interjected.
“Do I know? They had us on one of their lists. Do you know, they established some Judenrat, said it will take care of us all.”
“But what should the non-Jewish people do?” her aunt interrupted Polina.
“Register as well. In the City Council on Tolstoy Street, four.”
“It’s where the Communal Bank is?” Natasha asked.
“Was. Take your passports. You’ll get a new one.”
“We’ll go right now. In any case, we need to go to the market. Right, Aunty?” Natasha replied when Polina was already on her way out.
It took a while to reach the Council. The streets and many buildings of their beautiful Vitebsk were in ruins, some still smoldering, the burning odor hanging in the hot, summer air.
Jackbooted, field-green-clad German soldiers swarmed the city streets. Barking voices. Tired but happy faces. On every intact structure hung red flags bearing a white circle with a large black swastika inside.
Walking on, Natasha and her aunt passed by wrecked trucks and heavy guns, human corpses here and there on the baked earth. To the right of a mangled building, women, children, and the elderly, most likely Jews judging by their clothing, lay prostrate. The same picture at the Psychiatric Clinic on Bolnitchnaya Street, the still air saturated with the cloying stench of rotting bodies, clouds of large iridescent flies buzzing around crazily. “What, no one is concerned about burying them?” Natasha muttered, pressing one hand to her nose.
Most of the houses on Tolstoy Street remained intact. A rather long line stretched to a building. Natasha and her aunt joined the silent mass of people. Only deep sighs audible, suddenly, a voice cut through the silence as though talking to himself, “Why feel sad? Maybe it’ll be better under Germans. What good did we have with the Communists?” He smacked his lips.
Some people nodded. Others shrugged. Many lowered their heads so as not to express their reactions. Natasha threw a side glance at her aunt. Her face was tense, her eyes unreadable.
Encouraged by the tacit acceptance, the orator, a mature man of intelligent appearance, a teacher or a bank employee perhaps, Natasha thought, would not let up. “What, haven’t you heard the Germans are going to allow free trade? Yes, yes. Don’t look at me this way,” he convinced a woman who stood in front of him and now half-turned.
“How do you know?”
“People say. Germans distribute seeds and their leaflets promise to return us to free land ownership. I’m telling you.” He smacked his lips again.
Fricking agitator. Natasha was annoyed but kept her irritation to herself.
It took hours to get first to the door with a hand-written sign Registry then to the table where
