How much could she stand? The limit of endurance, she found, was long after a tortured body felt like crying for relief. Yet she had that last, uttermost, strength of will to resist them. She would not succumb to capitulation. Although she had lost her baby and there was nothing for her to cling to, she knew she’d avenge herself even if she did not know yet how. Just to do it, she’d held on to consciousness and to her will to struggle and continue living.
For the next three weeks, her every-day routine consisted of being escorted to a washroom with a basin, a three-time daily prison meal of watery porridge or bean gruel and a chunk of bread left on the floor. There were times when she thought she had been there forever. They seemed to forget about her.
Today, the sound of keys jangling in the door signified the end of her isolation. There was no usual “Face to the wall, hands back, get moving!” Instead, “Follow me.”
She shambled through the corridor that now burst with life, a steady stream of officers passing from room to room, young women with papers in their hands hurrying in and out. Faint sounds of typing. Telephones ringing.
In Zaitsev’s office, another officer manned his desk, Zaitsev at attention to his left, jaw locked. As his head swung to face Ulya, the tendons on his neck stood out, a stare of pure loathing directed at her. He looked like a man who had just received a severe dressing down. Ulya held her gaze on him for a moment then moved her eyes to the other man in a higher rank, his hair white-streaked, eyes pink with exhaustion.
“Lieutenant-Colonel Krivosheyev,” he introduced himself, his voice terse. Motioning her to take a seat in the chairs in front of the desk and, without waiting for her to sit down, as though he was in a hurry to finish unpleasant business, he said, “We have established your position. The report from the Center says that—he read from a document on his table— “You were promoted to senior lieutenant and were awarded The Order of the Red Star for your contribution to the defense of our country . . . Take my apologies. Surely you, of all people, understand how crucial the thorough interrogation is. The enemy left many of his agents behind.” He motioned Zaitsev away with a wave of his hand and the latter marched out with a tense, jerky gait.
She forced her thoughts toward the new state of affairs that was supposed to make her feel relieved. And thankful? But she couldn’t feel anything. She was empty.
A pat on the back and that little piece of tin they would fix to her chest could not compensate her sacrifice and pain. The pre-war naivety was gone. She had come to understand she was just a cog in the mechanism of the power, easily replaceable.
Krivosheyev sent her an encouraging smile. “Welcome back to the ranks. If you want, you can have a week of vacation. However, if you’re able to work right now, the Command would appreciate it.”
She straightened up on the chair. “No need to convince me. I don’t have much of a choice. And I would obey anyway.”
“We will talk about freedom of choice some other day. Perhaps. Now, I want to tell you that I believe in you, Ursula Franzevna.”
She flinched when she heard herself being addressed by her given name. “May I ask for a favor?”
His eyes came up to study her face. “What is it?”
“I want to know about my father.”
“I thought my colleague Lieutenant Zaitsev must have told you.” Krivosheyev flipped through a rather thick file. Her file, she perceived. “Your father was executed back in September 1939.” So impassive, so matter-of-fact. Executed.
She swallowed hard, trying not to reveal her anger. In October 1939, she read his first letter, his last was dated May 1941. All was a blatant lie. His letters forged. Something inside her turned rock hard and died.
“What is my assignment?”
“Let’s start with the turncoats. The Polizei, collaborationists, sympathizers.”
“I have the lists of them. Hidden. You’ll have them on your table tomorrow.”
He gave her a quizzical look. “You never mentioned it during the interrogation.”
“It was my trump card.”
“Smart.” A shadow of displeasure ran through his face. “But why do I have to be surprised? I’ve read your file. Your hiding place, is it far away?”
“If you let me go by foot, it’ll take me about an hour. Maybe more. How passable are the roads?”
“We go in my car,” Krivosheyev said.
Pointedly, she looked at her soiled and stinking rags, which she could not call attire. He understood her hint. “Sentry!” A soldier poked his head through the door. “Bring Comrade Kriegshammer to the bathhouse.”
“Yes!” He saluted and stepped aside to let Ulya go first.
“Private! Wait.” Krivosheyev found a slip of paper on the table and made a note. “This is for Major Matveyev. Her uniform must be ready when she is finished in the bath-house. “See to it.”
Thirty minutes later, she stood in front of him in her uniform, maybe a bit too loose but still an NKVD uniform with senior lieutenant epaulettes.
“You look different.” The lieutenant-colonel’s eyes swept over her. “We should go.”
Outside, a middle-aged sergeant opened the door of a brand-new foreign Jeep and they clambered into its back.
As they drove through the city, no one spoke. Similar to other parts of Vitebsk they passed, Nikolskaya was in a state of destruction and only Bagdan’s house was spared as though by a miracle, proving it was their intended destination. “Slow down.” Ulya touched the driver’s shoulder. “It’s that one on the left.”
Without windows or doors, like a skeleton, inside, the house was bare of anything. Not a single lamp. Not a single piece of furniture. Fresh and old mice
