III
Something Else in Store
Ulya
Vitebsk
45
February 1943
It was now more than a year and a half since the German troops had occupied Vitebsk. The population had decreased significantly—that was what the Civil Administration reported to the German Commandantur. The city full of stray dogs and cats before the war, was now devoid of them, all consumed by starving people or wolves who were occasionally sighted among the rubble, driven to the city by the barbarically cold winter.
In the course of the last five months, flyers reading Stalingrad remains and will remain Soviet plastered on top of the orders and regulations of the occupying power caused a lot of trouble to the civil and military authority.
Today, on her way to work, Ulya heard a rifle crack and as she turned the corner, she watched a Polizei dispel a small group of onlookers who were examining something pinned to the bulletin board. “Move!” “I’ll shoot!” “Disperse!” The Polizei brandished his rifle, shoving the people away.
What a commotion? Ulya came closer to see a high-quality, two-color map of the Stalingrad war theatre titled “THE CRUSHING DEFEAT UPON THE WEHRMACHT.” How short and how significant. A moment of perplexity gave way to admiration. The tide of the war had turned against the Germans. Under the eyes of the Polizei and the bystanders, she ripped the map off, tore it in two then let it fall on the ground. Readable if somebody picked it up. From the corner of her eye, she saw a teenager throw himself at the map and stuff it in the bosom of his coat. This small action resistance brought her gloating satisfaction.
“You are one minute late.” His voice toneless, Hammerer’s eyes darted to his watch then with a slow movement of his head to Ulya.
“My fault, Herr Hauptsturmführer. It won’t happen again.”
“I must be sure of it. Show me your wrists.”
She exposed her hands, red and chapped from cold.
“You deserve to be punished, Fräulein Kriegshammer.” A long, crushing silence followed. “Instead, I’ll reward you with—” From the drawer of his table, he took something and clutched it in his fist. “Step here. Closer. Closer.” He opened his hand. “Take it.”
She did not move. “I appreciate your kindness, Herr Hammerer, but I don’t think I can accept such an expensive present.” Not from your bloody hands, she thought but kept her face emotionless. You and your kind don’t purchase things; you take them from your victims.
Not a single muscle moved on his face. “Your hand, please.” He reached for her and pulled her slightly to him. The cold metal of a small gold ladies’ watch embraced her left wrist. “And with that, I have a suggestion for you.”
“An order you mean?”
He laughed, throwing his head back. “But of course, it’s an order.”
“I’m all ears, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”
He produced his silver cigarette case, cracked it open. “Want one?”
She shook her head, no.
He took one for himself, lighted it. “Aren’t you afraid of living alone in the house on the edge of the wood?”
“Merely a grove, Herr Hammerer.”
“Still. Since wolves slip to the city, they can visit you on the outskirts.” He exhaled smoke at the ceiling and watching it, added, “Wolves.” As he returned his gaze to her, she forgot to breathe for quite a few heartbeats. “Large groups of them in the area. We have reported cases of attacks on individuals. Didn’t you know about it?”
“Not about attacks. I hear them though, howling now and then.”
“Ah-ha, you do hear them!” Hammerer became animated. “That’s my point. It’s only a matter of time . . .” A master of suspense, he continued only after he stabbed the butt in the ashtray. “We have a vacant flat in one of the houses on Zamkovaya Street. It’s a bit damaged, but the spared part can accommodate you.”
Losing the perfect position of her house, and especially with regard to Nathan’s visits, her mission would be much more complicated. “Jawohl, Herr Hammerer. When do you want me—”
He didn’t let her finish. “Am I right in assuming you don’t have furniture, an Old Father’s Clock, and crystal candelabras to pack?”
It wasn’t new for her that he enjoyed playing a sympathetic person, and she decided to play along with him. “Only a stack of Rembrandt pictures. I think I need a small truck to move them.”
Again—he rarely even smiled—he burst out laughing. “I’ll send you a couple of soldiers to help, and a lot of packing paper. Tomorrow then. But now we have a less enjoyable—or maybe it’ll be indeed pleasant work for you.” He motioned her to step out with him and locked both doors with his keys.
They headed through the corridor and down the staircase, to a part of the building she had never been to. He opened the metal door, and with emphasized courtesy let her step in first. Just like Herr Wagner, aka Schmiedecker, briefed her back at SHON. What did they do to him? For the hundredth time, the question cut through her thoughts. By now, she was sure she could guess.
A rather big, windowless room met them with a dank chill. A low, semicircular arched ceiling of whitewashed brick loomed overhead. Where the stone floor was uneven, water under their feet made little sloshing noises.
In the diffused illumination of a bulb naked in its socket, she saw two men standing at attention. The sound of the enthusiastic Heil Hitler! and their heels as they snapped them together was like a door slamming shut.
She moved her eyes to a man whose tunic was blotched with brown stains, his hands bound behind his back, his ankles strapped to the chair standing in the middle of the room. On the concrete floor around him, blood already had started to congeal. There was something familiar about his crumpled frame, yet it took her a few seconds to place him. And at that, she could feel her blood draining away.
“Did he say anything?” Hammerer looked at the two men, and at their “No” he
