There was no end of the reports submitted to the Ortscommandantur, and today, she prepared a new one: “During the months of July-October 1941, fifty-seven members of the Vitebsk Auxiliary Police took part in the elimination of the Jewish ghetto prisoners in Ilov ravine.” Their names specified, they rightly belonged in Ulya’s clandestine reports as well.
Like a countercurrent stream, more and more often, she typed reports like this one: “Bandits killed three Polizei in their homes.” She enjoyed the feeling of the keys, watching the words form on the piece of paper before her. She hardened herself against giving way to her anger when she prepared another type of dispatches: “Klepikov from our village hides some people in his barn.” Or, “I have seen Marfa Dekevich go to the wood with a sack and return without it.” Or, “Antonina from the last house on our street urged villagers to flee to partisans.” Every tip was concluded with the name and address of the informer.
Not all the time was Ulya shackled to her typewriters. After the harvest, she accompanied the deputy burgomaster and his entourage to the village festivals with dance and music, which the German district officials and members of the security units attended as well. Like today.
“Fräulein Kriegshammer.”
She recognized Herr Schmiedecker aka Wagner’s voice and turned. He stretched his hand for a shake. “It’s good to see you again, Fräulein Kriegshammer. We didn’t really get a chance to talk much the first time I met you at Deputy Burgomaster’s.” He turned his head around then his eyes drew back to her. “Life prospers for your compatriots,” he said in the loud voice.
“Yes, people are satisfied. As long as it continues this way—”
“Why would anything change?” He widened his eyes. Concern? A warning?
“But of course, it will change. For the better.” She tried to keep a straight face, which provoked a suppressed burst of laughter from him, and she joined.
“Herr Schmiedecker,” a voice in German came from behind Ulya’s back. She already felt the presence of another person in their earshot. “Is it that lovely Fräulein Kriegshammer you’ve told me about?” A tall Hauptsturmführer with the SD patch on the right sleeve of his uniform jacket and a peaked hat adorned by a death’s-head and crossbones in his left hand either to air his head or out of politeness, closed the distance between them and gave her a once-over. His eyes, set under a high forehead, were a striking shade of steely gray and together with a chiseled strong nose and blond hair could make him a model for the ideal Aryan.
She waited till he offered his hand for a shake. “Max Hammerer. We even have similar names.” His firm voice spoke of an unassailable authority. His hand was strong, and he held hers a moment longer than she thought appropriate. “Though we have never met, I read your reports on a regular basis. I do like how meticulously you prepare them. Where did you learn to type?”
“I learned by myself when I couldn’t find work after—”
“Your father was arrested.”
Ulya widened her eyes and hoped her new acquaintance didn’t detect falseness in them.
“And I don’t ask you why you, in the Soviet Union, had a personal typewriter?”
“It was not personal. My father took it from the editorial office. He was the chief redactor of a newspaper and often worked at home.”
His mouth opened most likely to ask her something else when a soldier approached him on the run, saluting Heil Hitler then handing him a slip of paper.
“Excuse me, Fräulein. Herren.” Hammerer stepped aside and opened the dispatch. His face unreadable, he put it into his pocket. “Herr Schmiedecker, we say goodbye to our lovely Fräulein Kriegshammer. Join me.” He bid farewell with a nod of his head and strolled to the parked Opel, the messenger on his heels.
Briefly, Herr Schmiedecker took Ulya’s hand in his and, while leaning to place a kiss, whispered, “Be aware of this wolf.” Without a farewell glance at her, he quickened his steps to join Hammerer in his car.
In the corner of her mind some small fear settled.
32
Natasha
November 1941
“Give me these spare parts.” Golubev, the head mechanic, dropped a slip of paper on Natasha’s desk.
“Are you eating them, the spare parts that is? Not a week goes by you don’t get some from me.” She narrowed her eyes at him then flipped through the pages. “Here. November first.”
“It was the wrong diameter. Let me find out what I need.” He headed to the shelves behind her back.
“No, Golubev. I don’t want a rope around my neck.” She jumped to her feet and spread her arms. “Over my dead body.”
Golubev spit on the concrete floor, gave her a murderous look, and stormed out of the storage unit.
She replayed the scene inside her head now, one week later, sitting in the director’s room of the locomotive depot in front of the interrogator Astafyev of the Vitebsk District Police.
After asking for her name, date of birth, and address, and scribbling something on his pad, he looked at her sharply, assessing. “How long have you known Golubev?”
“Since July.”
“Did you notice anything suspicious?”
“For instance, what?”
“Does he spend all his time working, or does he carry out any conversations with his co-workers?”
“We have no time for chatting. We work hard for our liberators. For the glorious Third Reich.”
He looked at her, his eyes probing. “Are you mocking the new power?”
“I am serious.” She bestowed on him her most charming smile. “But why all this questioning?”
He took the bait and lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you. There are saboteurs among the workers in your depot. All the locomotives that leave the station got wrecked some kilometers into the train path and especially in the wooded areas at that. Lately, after the train stopped, it was overrun by bandits and they looted the cargo.”
“How can I know who did it?”
He leaned over the table to her. “If you keep your eyes and ears
