Their voices went down and for some time, Ulya could hear only snatches of phrases: “The prisoners from Fifth Regiment stalag.” “So, they dug their own graves?” “We did a clean job, just shot them.” And a single retort, “They are people like us.”
She rubbed her temples—lately she suffered from headaches because she had to concentrate hard to understand what they were talking about, especially some words in Byelorussian confused her.
They continued arguing, but they hissed the words in such a low tone, she couldn’t catch anything anymore. Suddenly, a voice rang out distinctly, “All sent to the other world by our hands.” And the last she could hear was, “Earth was groaning, moaning.”
40
Natasha
April 1942
In her dream, Natasha saw a child stretching his arms toward her, and she wanted to take him, but where her arms were supposed to be, there was nothing. When did she have her period? was the first clear thought as she jerked from her sleep. End of January? Or later? What was that nauseating sensation she got in the last two weeks?
The day passed in thrilled anticipation. What if she was pregnant? With Serezha’s child! And yet, she knew it was the worst time to have a baby. She’d talk to her aunt before she told Serezha, she decided.
Upon returning home, she stormed the room and from the threshold cried out, “Aunty! I have—” She found her in bed. When she lifted her eyes at Natasha, pain flickered in them.
“Something tortures you, Aunt Anna? What is it?”
“Let me alone. I . . . They . . . I just must not . . .” She burst in tears. “Murderers! Accursed fascists! How I hate them.” She screamed in agony again and again.
Natasha darted to the kitchen and returned with water. “Drink.”
After her aunt emptied the glass, she uttered, “I feel better.”
“You can tell me. I promise I won’t tell anybody.”
Clamming her lips as though trying to prevent herself from opening them, she shook her head. “I can’t keep it to myself anymore. I just can’t.” After a few long minutes, she continued in sinking tones. “They keep transporting children from children’s houses. From Polotsk. From other places. We have to check them before they—” She grabbed Natasha’s hand. “They are emaciated, yes, but comparatively healthy.”
“Why then if they are healthy?”
Then, like a dam broke, “They bleed them out. They murder our children so they can save their soldiers.” A glazed look of despair spread over her face. “Tell me, what can we do? What? How can we boot these three times accursed Fritzes from our land?”
What was there to say? “Aunty, you calm down now. We’ll discuss it some other day.” She wrapped her arm around her aunt’s shoulder and closed her eyes, feeling how nausea came up to her throat and how tears gathered on her lashes. It was the worst time to tell her aunt what she so much wanted to share with her.
They sat in silence, minutes ticking by, each thinking her own thoughts. I should talk to Serezha about Aunty, she decided. As an experienced surgical nurse and working in the German hospital, her aunt could help the partisans a lot. To avenge for the kids whose blood they drained. For all the evil they did.
41
Ulya
June-July 1942
Ulya turned to the knock to see an SS Sturmann erect in the door frame. “Fräulein Kriegshammer? You are summoned to Hauptsturmführer Hammerer. I will escort you.”
She did not need any escort. By now, she knew the way to the Einsatzkommando-9 headquarters. The day that had started so well—sunny but not hot like the previous days—promised to change to something unpleasant.
As ten minutes later she and her escort stood face to face with Hammerer, he motioned to the soldier to remain at the door and extended his hand for a shake. “Fräulein Kriegshammer! So nice to see you again. Much to my regret, it’s just about work. I personally am in need of your help in translating.”
“My pleasure, Herr Hammerer. I thought Herr Schmiedecker—”
He didn’t let her finish. “Ah, Herr Schmiedecker. He is no longer with us.” He raised his eyes and arms up in a theatrical gesture.
What did they do to him?
It was frightening how much he was able to read her thoughts. “He did not live up to our expectations,” and, obviously not going to elaborate, checked his watch then continued. “Now, getting down to business. We are going to interrogate or rather have a heart-to-heart talk with those former members of the Soviet armed forces who volunteered to serve the Third Reich. Your responsibility is formal: to translate my questions and their answers.”
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”
He turned to the huge metal safe that stood by the wall at arm’s length from his table, took a key from his britches pocket and, obscuring the safe door from her line of sight, cracked it open. Some files from it disappeared into his briefcase. He pointed at a small end table on which a pad and a fountain pen lay. “Pick those up and follow me.”
In front of the building, a Horch waited with the motor running. Offering her to climb into the backseat, he took the seat beside her.
The car sped off through the bumpy streets. As a formation of troops blocked the way, the driver slowed down. At Hammerer’s deep sigh, Ulya turned her head to him and froze. Her glance fell on the gallows erected about twenty meters away from the roadway, a lonely female figure dangling from it. She recognized her instantly. She wanted to look away but couldn’t.
“Fräulein Kriegshammer?” Hammerer’s voice jerked her back to the reality. He half-turned his head to the gallows. “These lonely she-wolves . . . When they leave their tangled woods, they end up—” He studied her with curiosity. “Kriegshammer, you are one of them,” and after a pregnant silence, continued, “but of course, I don’t mean you are like them, the bandits. But you know
