The street was deserted. Feeling a strange numbed comfort, Ulya approached the hut. Only a thin ray of light making its way through a crack in the shutter indicated a candle or a kerosene lamp burning inside. Soon the house fell into darkness.
Ulya shoved pieces of newspaper through the multiple cracks in the wall then wheeled her head around, peering at the frozen earth at her feet. In an instant, her eyes found a piece of concrete block. Refusing to feel sorry for what she was about to carry out and, after looking around, finding no onlookers, she barricaded the door with it then set the fire. Two blocks away, she turned her head in the direction and saw flames dance between the charred heaps.
There was no gloating but there was no relief. Could Ulya be sure Dobrova was the only one to possess the information? Questionable. The girl was in danger. So was she. Her chest grew heavy with a familiar ache. What if NKVD started interrogating the matter? Who knew what they would dig up? What if Hammerer survived the explosion in which she almost lost her life?
She had to find a way to protect the girl. And herself.
61
April 1945
The shutters were closed, and it was dark save for the halo of a candle flame. It cast trembling shadows across the walls. Ulya and three other women—stooped, black-clad figures—sat on benches and swayed, letting out the long, drawn-out wailing laments over a coffin on the floor.
At the knock on the door, Ulya turned her head. A long moment later, a whisper came. Words undistinguishable.
“Are you looking for a place to stay?” Ulya asked in a lowered voice. No wonder. Vitebsk inhabitants kept returning to the city only to discover their houses didn’t exist anymore. Finding a shelter, a roof over your head was considered a blessing.
A young woman inched through the door and, after taking the situation in, stepped closer to Ulya. “No, I am looking for Natasha Ivanova. She must live here.”
“She used to live here. The deceased was her aunt.” Ulya got to her feet and, as she headed to another room, called over her shoulder, “Come with me, and shut the door after you.”
The young woman who could be Ulya’s age, looked exhausted and rather worn, but her mild and beautiful features were hard to miss. She followed and, after closing the door as she was told, squinted at Ulya as though trying to recognize in her something familiar, but Ulya knew they had never met. “Who are you? Why are you interested in Natasha?”
“I am Lyuba. I am her best friend. We were schoolmates. We—”
Lyuba? Like the girl’s name? This woman was godsent! struck her like a bolt and with it a decision formed with clarity. She didn’t let her finish. “When did you see her last?”
“The last time . . . before the war. But why? Why is it so important?”
“I see,” Ulya said. “I see.” After a moment’s deliberation, she continued, “What did you do during the war?”
Seemingly annoyed, the woman turned to go.
“Wait.” Ulya grabbed hold of her elbow. “I see you are not from around here, are you? Otherwise, you would know that during the occupation Natasha was a well-known figure . . . so to speak.”
The woman stared at her, uncomprehending.
“She was known for her special relationship with the Germans.” Ulya stepped to the bed in the room’s corner and bent down, raising a sheet that hung to the floor. Beneath it, like a hunted little animal, the girl hid in the corner curled into a fetal position. “You know, we’d better go outside for a minute.”
The visitor followed her into the backyard.
“Lyuba, you said your name was? I see you are angry with me, but still, I want to know what you were doing in recent years. Unless you answer my question, I won’t tell you more.”
“I have nothing to conceal,” Lyuba retorted. “I was with the Partisans first, then in German captivity. I was interrogated and cleared. If you want, I can show you the court’s decision and my release form.”
“Now, now, relax. I myself was fighting with the Underground. I only want the best for the girl.”
“Which girl? Do you mean Natasha?”
“Listen and don’t interrupt me. Your friend Natasha warmed a Fritz’s bed. In 1943, the Partisans executed her. I’d better spare you the details. This is not about her, it’s about her daughter. To the girl’s misfortune, the locals know who fathered her. They will never forget the Nazi who sent many of their kinfolks to the gallows.” She lied resolutely, even with relief. For the girl’s sake. “But why should the child answer for her bad egg mother? Until Natasha’s aunt’s death, she protected the girl. Do you understand what I am hinting at?”
“No, but why are you so interested in the girl’s fate?”
“It’s none of your business,” Ulya retorted, then added, “Just consider me a kind person. Don’t you believe there are any such people left?”
“Where is the girl?”
“Look for her under the bed after everybody departs. You said you were her mother’s best friend? I leave it to you to decide what fate befalls the child.” She looked around and, finding the doll in the corner of the room where she herself had set it a week ago, went there to pick it up. Ewald. Her heart sank as she pressed the doll to her chest, feeling the pain in her stomach throbbing like a wound that didn’t heal.
“What is your name?” The young woman stared at her, her gaze confused.
This Lyuba turned out to be really annoying, she thought. “You needn’t know. If anybody asks, I’ll deny I have
