He continued talking, but Natasha stopped understanding the meaning of his speech, taken by the tone of his staid calmness. The girls were right. His slicked back fair hair revealing his high forehead and the eyes, big and dark brown, made his appearance pleasant to look at.
“Only together, all like one, can we—”
“What happened to our former secretary, Prokop Afanasyevich?” Anton’s voice didn’t let Sergey Vladimirovich continue his speechifying.
A dead silence ensued.
Sergey Vladimirovich’s jaw tensed but he pulled himself together. “As a Komsomol leader, Comrade Ivashkevich did not fulfill expectations of the Party. He—”
“Well, clearly they—” Anton couldn’t even finish his sentence because shushing whispers interrupted him, “Then it’s how it had to be.” “Idiot.” “Shut up.”
Sergey Vladimirovich shrugged and continued orating about the modern political situation in Europe, about German militarism, the Munich Agreement between Germany, Britain, France, and Italy . . . Imperialists . . . Fascists . . . Aggressors . . . Invaders . . . the forcible partition of Czechoslovakia . . . the just struggle of the Republicans against the fascist Franco in Spain . . . “The Soviet Union is the only state that has remained true to the principles of the collective security.”
Natasha’s thoughts took her far away, to Stepan’s last letter. Forget about me. I am a married man now, and I love my wife.
“Comrades!” The Komsomol secretary’s voice jerked her from her memories. “Who of you is willing to participate in the Agitprop Brigade?”—as though it was ever possible not to—“Come closer to the table and put your name on the list.”
5
Ulya
October 1938
Saratov, Engels
“Are you the last in the queue?” Ulya asked a woman with two teenage boys by her side.
“We are. Though most likely we won’t be lucky to get tickets. One must come two hours earlier to get inside. But how can I if their classes end so late?” Her sons lowered their heads under her reproachful gaze.
Ulya couldn’t help but agree with the woman’s perception. The crowd in front of them, shifting and bickering, all trying to elbow each other from the ticket booth, was bigger than the movie theater could accommodate. Soon, from the ticket office, a loud grumbling erupted and, like a wave, reached the end of the line.
The woman in front of Ulya turned facing her. “You see? What did I tell you!”
Ulya sighed, looking into the woman’s disappointed face and headed away from the upset not-to-be viewers who began to disperse.
“I have an extra ticket.”
She turned at the sound of the voice to face a young man dressed in a fine gray suit and holding a cap of the matching color in his hand. With one quick look at him, she knew he was not only attractive with his intense gray eyes and powerful body, but the way he carried himself revealed his self-confidence. She paid him and watched him stride away to a phone booth. Most likely his date did not show up. Ulya silently thanked the girl.
The screen exploded with News, reporting successes of production, new schools and kindergartens and plants put into operation, followed by endless Kolkhoz fields with haystacks, tractors ploughing the land for winter crops, happy faces of workers and collective farmers. Then a sudden change to lots of people shouting, their fists thrust over their heads: “No mercy to the enemies of the Soviet people, German spies! They dream of the downfall of the Soviet Union!”
An annoyed whisper diverted Ulya’s attention from the screen. The young man who had sold her the ticket was threading his way in her direction, disturbing the other cinemagoers. “My place.” He pushed his ticket into the face of the teenager who sat to the right of Ulya.
A short, muted squabble erupted. “No, it’s mine. See my ticket.”
“Right, the seventh row, this one is the sixth.”
The teenager vacated the seat and, evoking discontent from the audience, made away.
Volga-Volga was a new comedy film full of tricks and dances and songs and a mild mockery of a bureaucrat. The young man beside Ulya roared. Time and again, his thigh nudged hers, so she had to lean away toward a fat woman, feeling her soft tummy every time they both burst out laughing.
End on the screen prompted the viewers to take to their feet and barge their way to the exit, pushing and elbowing each other. “What a great movie,” Ulya’s neighbor said from behind her back. With a half turn, she gave him a quick nod, enough to politely acknowledge his comment.
“You liked it too, did you?” he went on, following her to the street and, not taking the trouble to wait for her reaction, continued, “What direction do you go?”
She resisted the impulse to give him a curt response. “To the left.”
“What luck, I need to go there too.” He stretched his hand for a shake. “I’m Konstantin. You?”
“Ulya.”
“Ulyana, that is?”
Why should she indulge in a long explanation? “Ulya,” she repeated with quiet emphasis.
“What do you do, Ulya?”
Why was he clinging to her? she wondered. “I’m a student at the University.”
“Studying what?”
“Law. What about you?”
“I study at the Volsk Technical Aviation Military School.”
“To be a pilot?”
“An aircraft flight mechanic.”
She wanted to inquire about his future profession, but something in his look and his bearing made her hesitate to probe too much. He switched to the last films, which were hits at that time: If War Breaks Out Tomorrow, The Man With a Rifle, and Alexander Nevsky.
Still a half block from home, she slowed her steps. “That two-story red brick house is where I live. It was nice to meet you.”
He took a step as if to follow her then stopped. “Can I accompany you home?”
“Thank you, there is no need.”
With an adventurous toss of his head, and smiling as though he was sure she wouldn’t reject his idea, he said, “Maybe we can meet again?” His look subtly betrayed something else, some unspoken message, which alerted Ulya. What could this good-looking young man have to do with her, so simple and unattractive? Dried herring. That was what other girls called her behind her back. She fixed her gaze on him, which he withstood without batting an eyelid.
“Next week, on Saturday, maybe? I’ll have a day’s leave.” He looked at her expectantly.
She gave a nod of consent.
“At the entrance to the Lipki park then? What time?”
“At four-thirty in the evening.”
There is something rigid about him, something wrong, she thought, watching him stride away with his military posture. But how could she know? Her childhood friends aside, she had never had anything to do with a guy before.
Never interested in examining herself in the mirror, today, Ulya stopped in front of the wardrobe and, what she seldom bothered doing, looked at her reflection. The strong shoulders, too broad compared to her narrow waist and hips, the long strong legs, the hardly discernable breasts. Even at school, most of her classmates wore brassieres unlike her, who had never considered having one.
She tried to recall if she was aware of her disadvantage to the other girls. Not till recently. Her thoughts wheeled back in time to that summer day two months ago when during a beach volleyball game at the Volga she bumped into a girl. Now, Ulya remembered feeling self-conscious when she came in contact with her breasts, which were big and dense, and how all of a sudden, she perceived why the young men paid such interest to that bombshell, while ignoring Ulya.
The wall clock displayed four in the afternoon. The nearby promtorg would close at six. She took what money she had spared from her lunches and hurried outside into the street descending into twilight.
The little shop that mostly sold foodstuff had a small department with garments. She approached a full-bodied saleswoman behind the counter. “I need a bra.” The pumpkin
—that was what Ulya dubbed fat women—pulled a bunch of brasseries from a hidden drawer then looked her up and down. “Are you sure you need one? I have none in the size zero.”
Ignoring the woman’s mocking tone, she said, “Show me what you have.” From the fairly poor assortment of white cotton articles, she chose the smallest one, left rubles on the counter, and stepped outside.
On returning home, she found in the chest her child’s padded cotton blanket and sewed two cut out round pieces into her new purchase. Passing the wardrobe, she stole a glimpse at her reflection in the full-length mirror and a peculiar thought ran through her mind, If I marry and have children, my breast will grow big. Wasn’t that what she heard from the girls’ whispered conversations on the subject, yet dismissed as nonsense at the time? But maybe it was not so wrong? Marriage? Children? For the first time, Ulya perceived or rather found it important to ponder it. It was what the Volga German girls’ mothers taught their daughters. They called it three Ks: Kinder, Küche, Kirche—Children, Kitchen, Church. No, she was more like Russian girls. They wanted to study and work in a plant or in an office. Ulya couldn’t wait to become a judicial consultant.
6
Natasha
October 1938
Vitebsk
Was Natasha infatuated with their Komsomol secretary? Hardly. The pain from Stepan’s betrayal still lingered. Yet during every new encounter with Sergey Vladimirovich, she couldn’t help but notice how slender he was, though not as tall as Stepan, how different from the local men he was in his appearance. But what a wonder? He was from Minsk, the city much bigger, the capital of the Soviet Byelorussia, and a university-educated economist at that.
On a whim, she turned around and headed to the Komsomol meeting room away from the corridor that led to the checkpoint.
The door was open. He sat at the table, leafing through papers, making some notes.
Natasha glared at him for a long moment then knocked at the doorpost. “Sergey Vladimirovich, may I ask you a question?”
“Enter, Comrade Ivanova.” He threw her a questioning gaze. “How can I help you?”
Even his manner of speaking was different. Who of her acquaintances used such words? In the best way, it would be, “What do you want?”
“Sergey Vladimirovich, at our last Komsomol meeting, you pointed out we have to know more about the struggle of the European proletariat, umm, against capitalist oppression and, well, their fight for workers’ rights. What books would you suggest?”
“I’m glad you are interested, Comrade Ivanova.” As he smiled, two little dimples appeared on his cheeks, making him even more attractive. “Take that booklet. On the second shelf. Yes, yes, that one.”
She grabbed it. “Thank you, Sergey Vladimirovich.”
“Comrade Ivanova, I would encourage you to write a report about the subject. I am sure other Komsomol members will be interested in the information.”
When from the threshold she turned, hoping he’d watch her back, he was already busy with his papers.
7
Ulya
November 1938
Saratov
“Ulya, what’s the occasion? Why are you so dressed up?” Rita looked her up and down, her gaze lingering for a prolonged moment on Ulya’s chest. “And your eyes are sparkling.”
“Leave me alone.” Ulya brushed her aside.
“Did you fall in love, my girlfriend?”
And only the ring of the school bell saved Ulya from Rita’s peskiness.
While musing about Konstantin, Ulya didn’t use the word “in love,” but before she knew it, she imagined his handsome face and wondered why he chose her. She knew she was not beautiful. The best proof of it was that at twenty, she had never had a boyfriend. She’d never kissed, not even cuddled with a boy. Well, Gleb hugged her once or twice, but those were just friendly hugs. His letters were polite and neutral: “all is well,” “work and training are tense,” “wishing you all the best.” She thought of him as a friend she’d known as long as she remembered herself. Thinking of Konstantin was different.
Now that she had met him twice, she could not help but admit to herself that she looked forward to their comings together. He was interesting to speak with and even though his favorite topics—political tolerance and enemies of the people—evoked some inner protest, recapping her meeting with Lieutenant Godyastchev and trusting her gut, she kept her mouth shut, faking agreement, despite her occasional discomfort with his views.
She found his attention to her life and beliefs ordinary, but his curiosity in what interested her gave her an unfamiliar sense of escaping from her self-imposed jail of alienation. His own secrecy surprised her. All she could pull out of him was that he was a cadet in the military school and that he was an orphan who spent his childhood in a Volsk orphanage.
Despite his peculiarity, it pleased her to think she’d see him again. This time, on Sunday.
“Let’s go to a club. They have a dance party today.”
Before she could reply, Konstantin grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the Lipki Park, the sounds of a brass band playing a tango audible.
“I do not dance.” She snatched her hand away.
For a moment, he stared at her then shrugged as if tossing away disbelief. “No problem. What do you want to do?”
“Let’s just take a walk.”
He shrugged again and followed her along the alley. At the shooting gallery, they stopped to watch a young man who hugged a girl’s shoulders, whispering something into her ear. The girl pulled off a mitten. “That one.” She poked her finger at a stuffed monkey among the hand-carved wooden toys.
The young man handed the girl his coat, approached the barrier, took a rifle from the worker, and received ten pellets into his palm. “Consider the monkey yours.” After a quick, confident nod at the girl, he took position, aimed, and missed the brass disk on the wall. “The first shot is always the worst,” the man said and aimed again, and again, missing the shooting targets one after another. “Ah, what’s wrong with me today? Let me—”
“No, Pasha, let’s go.” The girl, her cheeks flushed, giggled and pulled her friend away from the shooting stand.
A triumphant smile appeared on the worker’s face as he observed a small crowd gathered in front of the stall. “Now, who is the next to try?” Noticing Ulya, he waved his hands as if shooing away birds. “No, girl, you go. Go away. I know you. You’ll leave me without prizes.”
“What, are you good at shooting?” For an instant, Konstantin’s glance sharpened.
“No. He must have confused me with somebody else.”
For a while, they wandered in the woody part of the park, conferring about the last events in Germany—Jewish pogroms and mass arrests of communists, and it seemed Konstantin avoided expressing his opinion but was mainly interested in what Ulya thought about the German affairs.
“Konstantin, all I know I get from the newspapers and cannot agree more with what they say. You better tell me about your airplanes.”
As though he didn’t hear her question, he pressed her against the trunk of an old oak and exhaled into her face. “Ulya.”
She stiffened but didn’t move away, curious at what would follow and not even flinching as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. When his left hand sneaked between the buttons of her coat seeking her breast, she wormed her way from his embrace. “No. Please no, Konstantin.”
He broke away. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It does not hurt. It’s what belongs to a marital relationship.”
A momentary look of discomfort crossed his face, and he checked his watch. “Six. Want to go home?”
She did not want to, but she nodded.
On their way to the Volga, they didn’t speak. As the pier came in sight, he broke the silence. “Next Sunday? The same time? The same place?”
“Are you angry?” She did not want to part with him, sensing his brooding mood.
“No, on the contrary. I just wa
nted to find out if you were a girl with loose morals, because I would never—”
She couldn’t explain to herself why she didn’t let him finish, but she didn’t. “Konstantin, in this case, you must meet my father. I told him about us. He would like to get to know you.”
Again, that fleeting hesitation in his look was not lost on her, which was why his words, “My pleasure” came as a surprise. “We’re off! All passengers aboard!” sounded. As she quickened her steps to the gangway to board the cutter, she heard him shout, “Next Sunday. Here.” And a moment later, as the boat pushed off, “Can’t wait to meet your father.”
On Sunday, Ulya stood at the riverfront, peering at the people approaching. An hour later, Konstantin still had not appeared. She found it vaguely disturbing and, after weighing the situation, decided to take a bus to Volsk the next day.
In the early morning, she caught Rita on her way to the lectures and, rejecting her inquiries about why Ulya wanted her to report that she had a cold, turned to go. “Playing truant?” were the last words she heard while she quickened her steps to the bus station.
A small and fuel-smelling ZIS-8 brought her to Volsk three hours later. She asked for a way to the Technical Aviation Military School and, after hastening through the streets covered with the first snow, found a high fence encircling it. At the checkpoint, she inquired with the sentry about Konstantin Petrov.
“Why do you want him?” The soldier eyed her with suspicion.
“He is my fiancé,” she lied. It was unlikely that just “a friend” would get her any information in such a place.
The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII Page 65