One day, she was snapping away when the door flew open. She slipped the camera between the files and turned to see a man in his early fifties in a good wool European style coat and felt hat in striking contrast to what Ulya’s eyes were accustomed to. “Fräulein Kriegshammer, Hauptsturmführer Hammerer awaits you.” He spoke in good Russian with a mild accent. She tried to decipher where it might have originated but was not sure.
With a sickening flutter in her chest, she slipped into her coat and followed the man outside. To keep up with him, she had to go almost at a trot. They proceeded along Suvorov Street and, after turning to the left, toward the Holy Assumption Cathedral. The appalling realization came to her of where she was being taken—Uspenskaya Street 7, the two-story building of the former theological seminary. She knew the Einsatzkommando-9 had its quarters there. According to the rumors which circulated in the city, the rooms on the first floor were adapted as torture chambers and the entrance to the basement led to the jail.
Hauptsturmführer Hammerer, elegant in his decorated uniform as she remembered him, got up from his desk. “Glad to see you again, Fräulein Kriegshammer.” He bestowed her with a broad smile.
She mirrored his and hoped he believed that seeing him pleased her.
“I apologize I interrupted your work, but without you, as it seems to me, we are helpless.” He waited for her reaction and getting none, continued, “At least today.”
“At your service, Herr Hammerer.”
“You’ll accompany Herr Pshinskiy to help him in his talks with the local population.” He looked over her shoulder at the man who had brought her here. “Herr Pshinskiy will fill you in on the way to the first village, Markovshina.”
“Jawohl—Yes, Herr Hauptsturmführer,” he responded.
The road to Markovshina was all pits and ditches. Herr Pshinskiy sat in the passenger seat in front of her, interrupting the silence by confident remarks when the driver seemed lost.
At their first stop, at the hut that before the occupation most likely harbored the Kolkhoz administration, stood about twenty residents, mostly women, children, and a couple of old men, encircled from three sides by German soldiers clenching their hands on their guns.
After exchanging greetings with a middle-aged man who introduced himself as a village elder, Herr Pshinskiy and Ulya climbed the four-step wooden stair. Leaning to her, he uttered, “Please help me out if I happen to confuse some words.” With a strange melancholy in his eyes, Pshinskiy took a look around then cleared his throat into a snow-white handkerchief and only after that started delivering his speech.
“Esteemed villagers! Allow me to tell you that the Red Army suffers losses and enormous casualties and soon will be crushed. The bandits who call themselves partisans disseminate false propaganda and harm you more than they harm the German Army.” For an instant, he fell silent and stared at Ulya as though asking if his Russian was good enough. Although it was perfect, there was something strange in how he chose the phrases as though orating for a constituent assembly. Ulya assumed his way of talking may have seemed odd for the listeners.
“Respected villagers! The German administration is concerned the bandits deprive you of the output of your hard work. Please, don’t trust them. We, as your liberators from the Bolshevik oppression, are against any practices that may exacerbate tensions in the area or any military actions that may harm innocent civilians. You . . .” He spoke with great enthusiasm, but the way his gaze shifted downward made Ulya wonder if he believed in what he was saying. “We encourage you to report any unlawful activity and advise the administration about your fellow villagers who help partisans. Anyone who withholds information and with it helps the bandits, will be dealt with by the laws of wartime.”
The same procedure was repeated in Zagorye. Khotimichi was their last stopping place.
“Back to the city,” Pshinskiy commanded the driver and, visibly spent by his mission, climbed after Ulya into the back seat. After a few minutes, he turned his head to her. “Fräulein Kriegshammer, what do you think about my speech? Was it to some extent persuasive?”
“Unquestionably, it was, Herr Pshinskiy,” Ulya said, bringing vivacity to her voice.
“I wish Herr Hammerer would hear me speak.”
“I report to Herr Hammerer on all my activities related to the assignments I get from him,” Ulya stated, though it was the first time he’d ordered her directly.
“And?” He looked into her eyes and his hand landed on hers.
She slipped her hand away. “You were irresistible, Herr Pshinskiy. I have never witnessed anybody talking to the locals so eloquently. You moved people by your genuine concern about their wellbeing.”
“I was moved too. Poor people. They suffered under the Stalin regime a great deal.”
Ulya saw his eyes damping with tears. “Herr Pshinskiy?” Peculiarly transfixed, she caught herself staring at him.
“Ah, Fräulein. If not the Bolshevik Revolution . . . Khotimichi. Ah, Khotimichi.” He heaved a heartbreaking sigh. “The land belonged to my family.” He turned away and did not utter a single word till he stretched his hand to help her climb from the car at the door of the Civil Council.
After seeing the half-burnt villages and the people in rags and tatters, their eyes hollow, she was not especially eager to hear another Polizei discussion. But no such luck. Voices reached her from the yard.
“You look so exhausted, Fedot. Too much Harilka yesterday?”
“Go to hell, you. I would like to see if after what we’ve done yesterday Harilka or any schnapps would help you. You must have gone with us to the Black Pond.”
“It’s where we shot the Underground scums last year? It serves them right. But they didn’t learn the lesson. They are multiplying like cockroaches. If it would be in my power, I’d corral them all in
