As the hours passed, she stared at the ceiling and thought about her happy childhood—her Vati, the Volga, her only friend Rita who got her involved in this mess but still was dear to her; Nathan who in reality was Sergey Posokhov; the little girl whose mother she’d killed, and her heart skipped a beat with an uneasy thought: Did the girl survive the Soviet offensive? Did she have enough to eat?
Ulya placed one hand to her slightly heaving belly, and at a twitch inside—or did she imagine it?—felt if not love, then profound gratitude to Ewald. The only soul who understood her but who was not destined to see the child he so desired.
From the corridor came the sound of steps and the next moment her solitude was broken by somebody being pushed inside. That person almost fell on top of her. Ulya winced with pain and suddenly, a deep, chesty cough doubled her up. The body—now she saw it was a woman—crawled away on all fours.
In no mood to strike up a conversation with a newcomer, Ulya held her breath, but it was not the woman’s intent as it turned out. “Why did they arrest you?”
Ulya remained silent.
A sigh. Most likely she had an inner monologue before Ulya heard her say, “What could I do? I had to feed my two children.”
Something stirred in Ulya’s chest. Poor woman. “I understand. Any mother would sacrifice all for the sake of her children.” A quick painful thought pierced her mind: What would I do to save my child? For a fleeting moment, she imagined a tiny body held close to her chest. How strange—and she recalled it with curious incomprehension—she had never wanted to be a mother. When other girls tended to their dolls, her Malvina set on the shelf by the window, gathering fine sandy dust from the street. When other girls cradled their rag dolls in the crook of their arm, singing them the songs nobody sang to her, she took great pleasure in climbing trees with her boy neighbors, fighting them with sticks, pretending they were sabers, later playing a game of cards under the old lilac tree in the corner of their yard, with the inner excitement memorizing swear words they flaunted in each other’s faces.
In the moist, stinky dimness of the cell, she replayed it all over and over, every moment of it, and savored it like Ewald’s apple strudel. Ewald. Her ache at losing him did not disappear but slipped back, the emotional anguish for the time being exhausted.
“But you? Why are you here?” The woman’s voice intruded into her musings.
“You don’t need to know,” Ulya cut her short and instantly caught herself on the realization it sounded rough if not abusive.
“And how did you survive?” the woman probed.
“Working.”
“For Germans?”
“They ordered everyone to register at the labor exchange. Did we have any choice?”
“And what did you do?”
Her questions irritated Ulya. The loving mother of two did not look emaciated. Did her services to the Germans provide a nourishing life or—A stoolie?
Ulya forced herself to get up only to flop on the floor. Let the woman think she fainted.
For two days and two nights, Ulya shared the cell with the woman. With remarkable persistence, she tried to strike a conversation, but Ulya pretended to be too weak even to talk. Then, at last, she was taken away and didn’t return. Ulya sneered at the thought, You can’t catch old birds with chaff.
During the periods of consciousness, conflicting thoughts and feelings tore Ulya’s mind. What was next for her? A quick firing squad? But most likely a single shot. The terror of making a wrong decision overwhelmed her. As though she had a choice. Her will to resist, to pursue her goal—to carry the assignment she was entrusted to fulfill—now was eroded by uncertainty. Could there be a right answer to her doubts? She was still trying to read the situation and work out a plan. But was there any?
The light from the opened door shook slumber off her. Ulya squinted in the direction of the voice, “Kriegshammer, out.”
She mustered all her strength to force herself to stand up and take a few steps toward a guard in the doorframe. Pain in her whole body and a terrible headache made her reel. The soldier took her by the elbow. A mercy of a hangman before the execution, the thought struck her.
Today, the guard escorted her to another room. At the desk, an officer sat—bare headed, sour-faced, in his forties. As though to prepare himself for what he’d see, he massaged his eyelids with his fingers before looking at her. Without introducing himself, he said with quiet emphasis, “I have carefully read your piece of literary work. I’m going to save you the mental torment to second guess what I believe, what I know, and what I’m going to do with that knowledge. I will also give you my word that killing you is not my preferred option, however, it is still an option. The way I understand it, you were collaborating with the Germans, providing them with information regarding the Underground, its messengers, secret places, actions planned.”
“Comrade—”
“Major Kolomiets to such as you and you should be wise to remember that.”
“Your assumptions, Major Kolomiets, are wrong.”
“No, Kriegshammer, I believe not.” He snatched a bunch of papers from a drawer and waved them in her face. “We have written reports from several self-confessed local collaborators who were witnesses to your treacherous activities first in the Civil Council then in the service of SD.”
“May I ask you to show them to me, Major Kolomiets?”
Either he again had not heard her request, or he didn’t consider it necessary to answer, but he walked from behind his table and stopped in front of her. “We can play these games all night long if you chose to, but
