When she left the foul-smelling place, the interrogator yelled to the sentry downstairs to send a guard up.
This time, he didn’t offer her a seat but placed what looked like the last page of her interrogation report on the side of the table closest to her. “This is the questionnaire with your answers.” He dipped a pen into ink. “Sign here.”
“May I read the whole document?”
His face contorted as though from a toothache and he grabbed the page. With jerky movements, he snatched a stack of papers from a drawer and gave it to her with a pencil. “This is your chance to tell the truth. Write your story in detail. All your actions during the occupation. All the names of the collaborationists you worked with, addresses of all meeting places, how you were recruited by SD.”
“SD?”
“Yes, all the truth.”
Then, turning to the soldier at the door, he yelled, “To the cell.”
Inside, a wall of human stink assaulted her, and she had to fight the urge to gag. But it was not the only stench. Her own when she lifted her arms appalled her. How she needed a wash! Taking only shallow breaths through her mouth, she surveyed her confinement: the chipped and flaky surface of the concrete floor, patterns of cracks on the walls. She spotted deep runners embedded in brickwork, most likely from bullets. At the height of human heads. Finding something that looked like a mattress, she lowered herself on its filthy surface.
Outside the walls of the cell, June was at its end, nights already warm. Inside, it felt like a sepulcher.
So, Zaitsev did not trust her.
It took her hours to complete her report. She knocked at the door, but no one came. Her teeth chattering, she curled into a ball like a hibernating animal, feeling herself shiver against the cold, her thoughts on the interrogation.
As the dawn manifested a new day behind the small gridded window, she heard a clink of the keys and the door opened.
“Your meal. When you finish, I’ll bring you to Senior Lieutenant Zaitsev.” The soldier placed an aluminum military mug with a good chunk of bread topping it on the floor.
Her throat contracted as she tried to swallow. Still, she broke off little pieces of bread and forced them down. She had to. Who knew when she’d get something to eat again? Whether she even would have the chance? It struck her that if things went wrong, she might be executed. She battled a decision whether to offer Zaitsev the information she first thought smart to withhold—the lists with the names and addresses of the collaborators she’d buried in the dugout.
Zaitsev cleared a space on the table, laid her pages in front of him, and read them, pausing only to light a new bitter-smelling cigarette, his hand trembling slightly. He read them twice, first, his eyes gliding over her hand-written text, then with intense concentration, going back to the previous pages as if puzzling something out. The barest hint of a grimace flicked across his features now and again.
At last, he finished reading. The look on his face. Eyes steely, his thin taut mouth clamped.
“Kriegshammer, you are a daughter of an enemy of the people. With the Germans here, a perfect chance to atone for him against the Soviet power.”
“My father’s crime was not so big, otherwise, he would not be kept in a settlement and have rights to communicate with me.”
He peered at her with an expression of some taunt. “That aside, your loyalty to your German ancestors is not a surprise to me.”
“There was no loyalty. I’m a Soviet person and though not Russian, I love my country and I fought for it.”
The interrogator said nothing, as if he had a sudden, more pressing thought. “Who was your case officer?”
“I’ve already told you and wrote it in my report.”
“Repeat!”
“Major Vyacheslav Konstantinovich Godyastchev. Saratov NKVD branch.”
“Ha!” Zaitsev snickered. “He got his six grams of lead. Four of his agents defected to the Germans. Citizen Kriegshammer, your full confession about being recruited by SD may ease your fate. Moreover, we have reliable information that you worked for Germans with deliberate enthusiasm.” He waved some papers in front of her face.
She remained motionless. Where could he find so many confessions in the depopulated city? Not so quickly, at least.
He got up, took a step to her and, in an instant, a punch landed on her temple so hard her head snapped to the right. The pain made her lose focus for a second. His voice came through the ringing in her ears, “While retreating, Germans left many of their agents behind. Names, addresses, passwords for connections with them. What was your assignment?” He whipped out the questions.
“That was my assignment from NKVD—to gather information about the enemies of the Soviet power on the occupied territory. I had an immediate connection with the Vitebsk Underground.”
“That may have been your assignment before you changed loyalties. If there were any. It must have been Godyastchev’s intention to plant you here to expose our agents to Germans.”
Zaitsev started circling around her, his hands behind his back, then a quick turn and a blow threw her to the floor, face down. A kick to her ribs from his boot followed. She doubled up. His hand yanked her head by her hair. “Speak up!”
Her head hurt like hell. A cut inside her mouth bled, and she could taste blood. “I’m not a German agent and I can prove it.”
“How?”
“I have to talk to your superiors.”
He hit her in the gut again. “I’m your superior!”
It took a moment for her to realize her head and face were moist. Most likely, she’d fainted, and he’d poured water over her. “We’ll follow the procedure tomorrow.” His tired voice sounded as though through a blanket of fog. Then, a solid grip on her arms dragged her away, the guards’ boots thumping. They shoved her into the same cell. Trying to ignore the pain, she released all her muscles, forcing her mind to work, banishing any
