It was already packed with people. Among them, Natasha recognized Moishe, his face that of a martyr, but as long as she remembered, he always bore this tormented expression. Hugging his wife Golda on her shoulder with one arm, in the other, he clutched his youngest child, the two-year-old Marishka, to his chest. His older sons with their wives and children, one smaller than the other, huddled together. No one cried. No one begged.
Meanwhile, the man, whom Natasha saw from his back, ordered Polina to hurry up. “You, woman, ten minutes to gather your things.” A familiar voice. Natasha winced at the recognition. Her former co-worker pushed Polina toward the hut. Displaying his power, he kept strolling in front of her huddled family, playing with a truncheon in his hand.
Natasha threw her gown over her shoulders and ran to the street. “Anton, what do you want from these people?”
He spun and a momentary look of discomfort crossed his face. “Natasha! We are resettling the Jews to special quarters.”
“But Polina’s family is not Jewish, Anton.”
“I have an order and I’ll execute it,” he said, bringing authority to his voice as though trying to convince his accomplices of his loyalty to his new masters.
“If you care so much about these filthy Jewish scum, we can take you with them to the ghetto,” one of the Polizei blurted out and burst out laughing, supported by a roar from the other three Polizei. “Shut up!” Anton barked and turned back to Natasha. Leaning to her ear, his voice fell almost to a whisper. “Vanish.”
“You go, go out of harm’s way, Natashen’ka,” Polina’s daughter offered, her eyes filled with unshed tears.
Angry at herself for her helplessness but even more furious with Anton, Natasha hurried home. But what could she do?
“What’s going on out there?” Natasha’s aunt asked, her voice groggy.
“The Polizei are sending Jews somewhere—Polina’s family among them. And your Moishe, too.”
“But maybe it’s better,” she mumbled and went to sleep. Most likely, she didn’t even get it, dead tired after the twelve-hour night shift in her hospital.
29
Ulya
August 1941
Feeling her way through the debris to the Council, Ulya wondered what life had in store for her.
In the Council, she headed to room number six, and at the “Come in” after her knock, she entered.
The same clerk jumped to his feet. “Greetings, comrade—” He became red in his face. “Fräulein Kriegshammer. Bitte—Please. If you’d be so kind as to follow me.” Taking quick, nervous steps, he led her along the creaky corridor then up the central staircase and through the double doors. Behind these, a young man of heavy build with a Polizei armband on his sleeve looked Ulya up and down and gestured for them to wait. “Klimko is here and a woman,” he reported to somebody after opening the inner door.
“Let her step in,” a voice came.
The guard released Klimko with a wave of his hand and stepped aside, letting Ulya into a rather big room with dark red curtains draped against the early but already strong sun. The semidarkness was broken by a lamp on a big table at which a man sat, not old yet but his receding hairline betrayed his age. She made a quick assessment. He was not a German, perhaps a local, judging by his suit. Heavy smoke screened his eyes, and she moved her gaze to Hitler’s portrait suspended on the wall behind the man’s back. A new master. Of them. Again, she mentally excluded herself from them.
“Fräulein Kriegshammer, sit down, bitte—please.” The man motioned her to the chair in front of the table. From the moment she took a seat, she felt a presence of somebody else in the room, most likely in the left corner by the entrance, but decided against turning around to check.
Now she could make out the eyes of the man in front of her. They were watery blue, and hooded.
“We welcome you in our city,” he started in an authoritative voice, “and hope you’ll like it here, especially now that our area is free from the accursed Bolsheviks. I learned from your report, you too suffered from them a great deal, but let me assure you, and I’m talking in the name of our new . . . German authority, that the day of liberation for all our people is not far away. I hope your father can soon return to you from Siberia, but I am sure you’ll be glad to participate in the struggle to avenge his sufferings. And yours.” He stopped, most likely to catch his breath after such a long tirade.
“Yes, Herr—” She didn’t know who the man in front of her was, talking so eloquently.
He fixed a thin strand of hair away from his forehead and lowered his eyes as though pleased she called him “Herr—Sir.”
“Deputy Burgomaster.”
Ulya inclined her head as a sign of respect. One of the things she’d learned from Herr Wagner in his good manners course.
“You can do a great deal for our oppressed people working for the German Reich as a translator, and we have trust in you. But—” An expressive pause ensued. “We have had people claiming their perfect knowledge of the German language. Would it offend you if our Commandant’s personal translator, Herr Schmiedecker, chats a bit with you?” Without waiting for her reaction, the deputy burgomaster motioned to somebody behind Ulya’s back with almost a comical theatrical gesture.
Ulya turned her head and a sheer black fright swept through her. She knew it was the end of her.
Herr Schmiedecker offered his hand for a shake. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Fräulein Kriegshammer,” he said in Russian, his emotionless voice chilling her to the bone but even more an NSDAP pin in the middle of his right breast pocket. “As Herr Deputy Burgomaster had rightly said, and I could not say it better, we, the German Army, are here to lift the Bolshevik yoke off the Russians and other oppressed folks of the Soviet Union. And as Herr Deputy Burgomaster noted, you could help in this righteous struggle. Herr Deputy Burgomaster needs your support in communicating with the German authorities and, of course, the German authority needs your assistance with the purpose, and that’s the only purpose, to help make the life of the new Reich’s citizens dignified. Herr Deputy Burgomaster?” He turned his head to look at him. “Allow me to switch into German.”
“Yes, yes, Herr Schmiedecker. I’ll be thankful if you would allow me to leave you alone with Fräulein Kriegshammer. I’ve got enough on my plate.” After Herr Schmiedecker nodded slightly, enough to politely acknowledge his comment, Herr Deputy Burgomaster threw his arm up in the Hitler salute and stepped out in haste.
The man in front of Ulya, whom in the Special School she knew as Comrade Wagner, made a gesture around his ear indicating they might be listened to. It didn’t mean she could relax, still she signaled understanding with her eyes. Schmiedecker or whoever he was, continued in German. “Fräulein Kriegshammer, from your conversation with Herr Deputy Burgomaster I understand your Russian is perfect. Your report says your father’s language was German.”
“Yes. At home we spoke only German.”
“Oh, I can instantly say, your pronunciation reminds me of the Bavarian dialect. I’m personally from Berlin.”
“You speak different from what I’m used to.”
“And I know from your report you stay at the house of your friend with whom you studied at the Saratov University.”
“Her husband’s house.”
“Where is it? In your questionnaire, Nikolskaya Street.”
“It’s on the outskirts of the city, the last house on the street that borders the wooded area.”
“Ah. I’ve heard, one can hunt game there.”
“My friend stated it too.”
“Living so close to danger, aren’t you afraid? Too many wolves in the local woods.” He looked straight into her face.
“We can get them all quickly eliminated.” She uttered a relieved little laugh. “You only have to teach me how to shoot.”
“You are not deprived of a sense of humor,” he said and mouthed, “Hunter.” Then, loud and authoritative, he went on. “Well, in good conscience I can repor
t to my superiors that your German is perfect. Can you start working today?”
“Yes. What are my responsibilities?”
“That we’ll discuss in the presence of Herr Deputy Burgomaster.” He opened the door, and the man entered the room. His eyes darted to Schmiedecker. The latter inclined his head. “Fräulein Kriegshammer will be a perfect liaison between you and the German authority. As we conferred earlier, she’ll translate into Russian and type all kinds of addresses and public warnings and appeals, orders and recommendations from the German administration as well as the information and documents required from the local authorities under your and Herr Burgomaster’s wise leadership.”
He turned to Ulya. “Fräulein Kriegshammer, you can count on my help at any time. But now, I have to take my leave.” After shaking hands with Ulya, he saluted to the deputy burgomaster. The latter’s “Heil Hitler!” sounded too loud, and the arm flew up with sincere enthusiasm.
The instant the door closed after Herr Schmiedecker, the deputy burgomaster was like a new person. “Now return to room six. Herr Klimko is my right-hand man. He’ll advise you on your duties.” He picked up the telephone but let the receiver stop in the air far from his ear. “That’s all.”
She headed through the already familiar corridor to Klimko, who provided her with a ration card and her new Ausweis—identification card with a description of her instead of a photo. He pushed a ledger to her to sign that she’d received them. Even before the ink dried, he shoved a typed leaf of paper across the table. “Read and sign.”
Instruction
The most important responsibilities in the line of
duty are:
Obedience
Non-disclosure of professional secrecy
Ban on outside occupations
Prohibition to receive gifts and favors.
She signed.
In the next moment, he took some paper from the stack and a carbon from a different, thinner pile then picked up a ledger similar to what she’d seen on his table the day before. “Follow me, bitte—please.”
Without uttering one more word, he brought her to another part of the building and, after unlocking a door at the end of the corridor, motioned her to step in.
A tiny room, more like a chamber with a small window, accommodated a shelf and a table with what looked like typewriters on it. She lifted the typewriter hoods. Bashkiria of the Soviet production and Adler Favorite 2 of the German, both of which she knew how to operate from her training in SHON. A glass with a pen and a pencil and an inkpot completed her office supplies. Hitler’s portrait dangled on the wall the way she could not avoid his stare if she dared to lift up her eyes from the desk. She noted it to herself and, not even trying to hide her smile, moved her eyes to Klimko. He returned her gaze with a frown then placed the ledger and the cardboard folder on the table. Patting them, he said, “Here are the lists of the administration employees and the Police force. Compare the names from the ledger with the autobiographical information from the reports and have them typed. In German. Make a file for each person. Of all I gave you, by six, you must bring to my room. Did I express the task clear enough, Fräulein Kriegshammer?”
“You did.” She didn’t feel like bestowing another smile upon him, but after he stepped out could not help but see her beaming face in the reflection of the glass covering Hitler’s portrait. The wild animal runs to the hunter, a saying came to her mind. Nathan’s image—but no doubt it was not his real name—appeared in her mental eye. He wanted information about the collaborationists and here she was in their lair with all the records to be continuously supplied right into her hands. Not SS, SD, Gestapo, or Polizeiamt, but as a beginning not bad. She smiled for the third time this day.
Elated to start her work, she quickly wound the paper and a carbon into the brand-new Adler Favorite 2, cranked it into the proper position, and began typing.
How many of the young and not so young men expressed their enthusiasm to collaborate? Why? Who were they? The answer came from Klimko’s ledger. Mostly locals, claiming the Soviet power deprived them of their scrap of land and what little livestock they had and forced them to work in a Kolkhoz. They proclaimed their hate of Stalin and all Soviets and pledged allegiance to the Third Reich and Hitler. All applications were worded identically.
Ulya typed for the Germans and memorized for herself their names, their traitorous stories.
As it was getting close to six o’clock, she drew out the last page from the typewriter and put it into a separate file. Not a bad catch for the first day. She ran her eyes through the rows of names and addresses once again and, after gathering the ledger and the folders, made her way down the corridor to Klimko.
Home, in the night, she compiled the lists. She put her first report in the hiding place under the fence and a duplicate into a spent artillery shell which she hid in the smaller dugout. Only then did she fall asleep with a light heart.
30
Natasha
August-September 1941
Public transportation did not function any longer. To be at her workplace by eight in the morning, Natasha left her house at seven. Back in July, the labor exchange office assigned her to a railroad repair shop. Working for the Reich was the only legal chance to get bread, the meager 300 grams a day. With the ration card of her aunt, they could survive. With one additional meal her aunt got in the German hospital, they, not big eaters, managed rather well.
Every day at work, she could not help but notice the Germans kept reorganizing the local life to the satisfaction of many. Every week, she saw new personal property businesses open. The churches, most of them expropriated by the Bolsheviks soon after the Revolution and used during the Soviet time as warehouses or museums, started public services, bringing the locals with the German military personnel together. The black market thrived. To supplement their meager meals, now and then, Natasha set off for Smolensky market to buy an egg or two or a half-liter of milk and, not the least, to catch up with the local gossip.
The Germans frequented the market too. They fancied the knitted wool scarves. Scrunching them in their hands and smacking their lips, they mumbled, “Good, good. For my wife.” Their interest in the handmade carved little wooden figurines proved enormous. “For my child,” they cooed, adding their names, all those Wolfchen, Annchen, Gerdies.
The market’s bulletin board was plastered with announcements:
War of Russian people against Bolshevism is sacred. Struggle of the Russian and Byelorussian folks against Germany is senseless. Wehrmacht frees Russian people and does not infringe on their well-earned rights for the prosperous life and liberty.
Daily, all males ages fifteen to fifty-five must come to the commandantur at 13:00 to be sent to work. Those who refuse to work will be declared an enemy of the German Reich and will be executed.
Those who do not obey an order will be arrested on the spot and dealt with severely.
Strikes or any other attempts at resistance will be tried by court martial.
Natasha still remembered her shock from the view of the first gallows constructed on Liberty Square opposite the church. Rumors were flying that a girl had placed a bomb at the threshold of her house and the explosion killed a German soldier. But before it, they hanged Jewish people on trees. Her aunt told her she had seen it with her own eyes.
Before long, gallows became a part of the city’s scenery. The bodies of young and old men and women with cardboard signs hanging from their necks, reading, We are partisans who shot at German troops, attracted Germans like a performance. “Take a picture of me with this partisan,” they urged each other, pronouncing the word partisan with satisfied bravado. The locals looked away and shook their heads in despair. Natasha, mentally shuddered.
Today, from afar, a small group of her co-workers at the entrance to her shop diverted Natasha’s attention from the gallows, on which hung a lonely figure of a young woman most likely not older than herself.
“What’s that?” She squeezed t
hrough, coming closer to the announcement board.
“Read yourself,” someone grumbled.
Every member of the work staff who notices any communist activity, an underground working, and sabotage by the workshop’s crew must inform the administration with no delay. For concealing the information, a punishment will be imposed. An act of sabotage and intention to it will result in death.
Not a single word left their lips. With their heads low, the men headed to their workplaces.
31
Ulya
August-September 1941
Not having access to more than the inner material of the local government, day after day, Ulya translated and typed for the German administration reports from the Civil Council, the endless accounts from its administrative, finance, health, school, culture, and land departments. Every evening, her dispatches in miniature script found their way into the hiding place and disappeared regularly, most likely taken during the night. In return, she received her assignments and short news about the situation on the front. The last one reported heavy battles at Smolensk.
With an unsettling sensation, she witnessed how effective the Germans were at winning over the local population, playing a “fair” game by re-opening schools for children till 4th grade, policlinics and canteens for the Vitebsk inhabitants. Back in August, they’d returned to the city residents the Roman Catholic church of St. Antony, which during the Soviet time harbored the Antireligious museum. Worship began taking place in the Pokrov Church as well.
One especially hot day in August, she stepped to the window to let fresh air in. Voices reached her. “Heard the Germans released clergymen from Stalag 313.”
There was a noise of a truck starting, making several minutes of conversation inaudible. Then, she distinguished some names and memorized them. As suddenly as she caught the conversation behind the window, it faded away, leaving her with a sensation of an unexpected offering and hope the people would return. Nathan will know what to do with this bit of info.
The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII Page 74