“What’s that?” She squeezed through, coming closer to the announcement board.
“Read yourself,” someone grumbled.
Every member of the work staff who notices any communist activity, an underground working, and sabotage by the workshop’s crew must inform the administration with no delay. For concealing the information, a punishment will be imposed. An act of sabotage and intention to it will result in death.
Not a single word left their lips. With their heads low, the men headed to their workplaces.
31
Ulya
August-September 1941
Not having access to more than the inner material of the local government, day after day, Ulya translated and typed for the German administration reports from the Civil Council, the endless accounts from its administrative, finance, health, school, culture, and land departments. Every evening, her dispatches in miniature script found their way into the hiding place and disappeared regularly, most likely taken during the night. In return, she received her assignments and short news about the situation on the front. The last one reported heavy battles at Smolensk.
With an unsettling sensation, she witnessed how effective the Germans were at winning over the local population, playing a “fair” game by re-opening schools for children till 4th grade, policlinics and canteens for the Vitebsk inhabitants. Back in August, they’d returned to the city residents the Roman Catholic church of St. Antony, which during the Soviet time harbored the Antireligious museum. Worship began taking place in the Pokrov Church as well.
One especially hot day in August, she stepped to the window to let fresh air in. Voices reached her. “Heard the Germans released clergymen from Stalag 313.”
There was a noise of a truck starting, making several minutes of conversation inaudible. Then, she distinguished some names and memorized them. As suddenly as she caught the conversation behind the window, it faded away, leaving her with a sensation of an unexpected offering and hope the people would return. Nathan will know what to do with this bit of info.
With surprise and relief, she soon learned that the Polizei spent their smoke breaks in the backyard right under Ulya’s window. Since then, the first thing she did while entering her room in the morning was to open it as she did today.
“Yesterday, we had fun again,” a voice said. “These Jews . . . Not a word of protest when we drove them like sheep to the right shore of West Dvina.”
“Same when we shot them in July—mostly men, young and old. Not a single one fought back. Just plodded to the trench, heads down. We didn’t line up to shoot them simultaneously, instead, made them kneel at the edge of the ravine, one next to the other. Bang! Each and every one in the neck. They toppled over and down into the ditch. Then the next group. Bang! Others on top of their own. The last ones formed a line without a command. We had only to wait for them to get into position.”
Another excited voice chimed in, “Gavrilyuk, you must have watched how Germans invited them into the ghetto. That was hilarious! They ordered them to swim across the Dvina. The kikes flopped about like unhappy swine.”
They seemed to be intoxicated by their stories, by the fact they could share them with impunity. Ulya caught herself clenching her fists.
“I’ve heard we’ll have more of such fun soon,” a third voice chimed in.
“Shostak warned to be ready this evening. We go on a round up to pry out the rest of the Jews from the ruins on the Peskovatiki. Our men got a lead that they burrowed themselves into the ground like rats. Last time,” something inaudible, “sewer holes. What bastards! They concealed their little children, some still babies, there.”
“The Germans spared them the shit humiliation.”
Ulya cringed at their guffaw, thinking, You skunks, continue calling yourselves by your names. Make my task easier.
“So, you’ll have fun today, Grigoryev.”
“And you? Aren’t you assigned, Semyon?”
“Neah, I’ll escort women to the former circus to sort things that are left from the Yids. What a thorough nation these Germans are. I respect them. Top garments to one pile, underwear to another. Shoes a different pile.”
“A sweet spot you’ve hit. Women . . . girls . . . I bet any gold nuggets you can get your hands on too.”
“I wish. All the best stuff goes to SD. They keep a close watch on us while we sort.”
The voices drifted away and with it, the air entering her space was fresh again.
What did she feel while listening to such abominable details of how they treated Jewish people? What did she feel when she typed the next announcement: For every tip about a hiding Jew you get a reward of 1000 Rubles?
The memory took her back to her training in SHON. After she’d studied Mein Kampf, Herr Wagner had asked her what she thought of Hitler’s hatred for the Jewish people. She recalled replying, “I don’t understand this hate” and Herr Wagner’s extended silence. Then, as a thunder from a clear sky, “You should learn to hate them. It’s important for your future assignment.”
Did she learn? No, of course not. They were Soviet people like herself. Instantly, a question arose: But other Soviet people hated them, these Polizei, for instance. The morbid sensation their names would end up in her dispatches for the Underground gave her a certain relief.
That her work was not in vain, she learned days later while typing a report of those Polizei being killed in their own homes by “bandits,” namely partisans in German interpretation.
The last month of the summer brought a new wave of willing collaborationists. The Germans released dozens of local prisoners of war from Stalag 113. Most of them swelled the ranks of the local auxiliary forces. Were they all enthusiastic to serve the new regime, or did the unbearable conditions of the prisoners’ camp force them to betray their motherland? How could she know? She typed up their names, which later went into her dispatches and the duplicates into the spent artillery shell
