The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII

by Marion Kummerow

  Clad in a woolen tracking suit, she lay in bed, curled into a ball pulling the eiderdown quilt around her. Still shivering against the cold, her thoughts were on how risky their way of communication had become. Of the curly wormwood shrubs, only the dried-up stalks remained and her footprints on the snow led directly to the secret place.

  He came in the night, knocked at the window, and waited for her to come to the door to open it. “An uninvited guest is worse than a Tartar,” he greeted her with the well-used Russian saying.

  At the sight of him, she felt an odd pang and was glad the darkness of the room screened her delight. “On the contrary, you are very welcome, Nathan.” What would she give to learn his real name, and who was that young woman she had seen him with a week ago? His darling or a fellow-partisan? The words of the Polizei, “These Untermenschen are fucking everywhere, war or no war” awoke unfamiliar feeling in her. She shooed it away, pleased he was here in front of her.

  Although he wore a sheepskin coat and a fur cap with flap ears, his twisted posture showed how cold he was. He pulled his coarse woolen mittens off and rubbed his hands together to keep them warm. “Might you have some hot water for me? To drink.” His voice was hoarse from a cold or thirst.

  “Sure. Even coffee.”

  “I see you have privileges in working for the administration.” His face creased into a sudden smile and he eased closer to the stove. “May I?” He pushed a half-burned log into the blackened hearth. It glowed and caught along a splinter and into what was left of the embers of a fire. He fanned it into flames with a strip of cardboard he picked up from the floor. “Our goal now is . . .” The flames lit the right side of his tired but lovely face and, for a moment, she forgot to listen.

  “To implement some changes into the method of our communication.” His voice returned her attention to what he was saying.

  Again, she noted how cultured his way of speaking was. “I’m all ears.” She sat at the table staring into his eyes, which were black, and the reflection from the fire in the stove made them spark.

  “The snow betrays our secret place. If a stranger comes, he’ll find it easily. I offer you to write the most urgent information on the cigarette paper and stuff the tobacco back.” He held out a cigarette packet to her.

  “Thanks, I don’t smoke.”

  “Time to learn. In case of danger, you or our man who’ll pick them up, can destroy the information by smoking, and even without this precaution, cigarettes won’t attract immediate attention. You’ll tuck them in the crevice behind the upper part of the doorpost from inside in the toilet room on your floor.” A shadow of a smirk appeared on his face. “Right under their noses.”

  Ulya nodded, mentally agreeing with the method. Men and a few women used the same toilet room and the massive iron latch provided needed privacy.

  “You’ll get the assignments the same way. And the latest news from the front.”

  “What about now? They say Moscow is—”

  “Moscow is holding up.”

  Ulya acknowledged his information with a nod. “What if I can’t squeeze all my reports into the gap or lose access to it?”

  “We’ll meet at a safe place and the time communicated through the newspaper stand on Liberty Square. Do you read the New Way newspaper?”

  “I don’t have time for it.”

  “Now, please, find it. To establish a meeting, go there to buy the New Way. On a small piece of it, leave your message in invisible ink.” He took a dark glass vial from his pocket and set it on the table in front of her.

  At SHON, she’d learnt how to prepare and apply invisible ink, and how to make the message visible.

  “On the left-hand side of the stand, there is a gap between the planks. Tuck your message into it. Even if by chance it falls out, the seller will notice and pick it up.

  “Nathan?”

  He looked up at her.

  “Are we done with the official part?”

  He inclined his head, and his eyes followed her movements as she unwrapped a cloth from a loaf then pulled a saucepan from the oven. His fur cap already lying on his lap, he opened the collar of his coat and straightened his shoulders. “It’s so nice to be in the warmth of a real house.”

  Was he spending nights in a partisan hideout? Or did he lodge in the city? Better not to know, she agreed with the principle of secrecy. She wished she could offer him her—The word “bed” refused to form in her head.

  “Here.” She stretched her hand with a cup and almost let it go when his fingers touched hers. He took it from her, sniffed. “Real.” Then, after placing his right hand to his chest in a gesture of appreciation, accepted a hunk of bread. “Heavenly offering.” He almost closed his eyes for a moment.

  She watched him savor what little she could give him and thought of the emergency store left in the dugout, instantly rejecting the idea to seize the opportunity to offer him more. She was not sure he knew about her little hiding place and besides, all the foodstuff was of German origin.

  He finished the meager supper and, after placing the cup on the table with reverent care, rose to his feet. “I should go.”

  “You can stay.”

  “I can’t.” On the threshold, he halted for a moment. “I thank you for all your work.”

  The open door let in a swish of cold air and a cloud of snow violated the coziness of the room. “By the way, Nathan.” She caught him on passing the doorway. “Remember the name, Grigoryev Semyon Ivanovich. A dentist. He is now with the local Polizei. Lives on Zamkovaya thirteen. I have no proof of it but heard other Polizei talking. While as a Hivi in the stalag Fifth Regiment, he personally pulled gold teeth from the prisoners’ mouths.” She saw Nathan cringe.

  “I’ll remember the name. We’ll pay him a visit.” He swayed, then straightened himself, gave her a silent salute. She thought she recognized a moment of hesitation in his eyes before he disappeared into the darkness of the night. But maybe she just imagined it.

  She stepped to the entranceway and, despite the icy wind, waited until he disappeared between the trees into the darkness of the grove. Nathan. Suddenly, she felt how lonely she was. But why? Wasn’t it her normal condition in the past two-and-a-half years? Her Vati. Somewhere in Siberia. Her friend Rita. The war parted them. And now, she looked forward to seeing Nathan. Sifting the unfamiliar feelings, she wondered if perhaps she was fond of him more than she was ready to admit to herself?

  Ulya dozed off and woke with a start, sensing something murky creeping into her mind. It was the truth: Nathan was becoming too important. Not sure she wanted it, she felt an unsettling emotional discord. I should get my head straight again on my goals, she urged herself.

  One of the axioms she’d learned in SHON was: Don’t fall in love because the object of your infatuation can turn out to be your enemy.

  36

  Natasha

  February 1, 1942

  A chunk of a snowball shot at the window made Natasha startle, sending her pulse into erratic beats. She threw the mending aside and lifted the curtain a bit. His back shielded from the street by the current bush, Sergey Vladimirovich gestured at her, asking if there were anybody else in the house and if he can enter.

  “Come in,” she said as though he could hear her and immediately realized how stupid it was of her. She waved her hand, signaling invitation and hastened to the door. It was not latched, according to one of the many new Administration rules—any violation resulted in execution or placement in a labor camp—but she wanted to welcome him on the threshold.

  Hardly had he time to step inside before his knees gave way. He lay at her feet, his padded jacket torn and saturated with melted snow, his face hidden in his hands. Oh, dear. So drained. How much she wanted to press him to her chest and sing him a lullaby. She knew it was crazy of her, but she could not help it. So, she lowered onto the floor by his side, took his fur cap with earflaps away, and placed his head on her lap. The words and the melody came on their own. “Sleep little one, go
to sleep, so peaceful the birds and the sheep, quiet are meadows and the trees, even the buzz of the bees . . .”

  He slept like a child, his breath noiseless. His face, which bore two or three days of bristles, relaxed. “Serezha,” she whispered endearingly and loved the sound of it. Choking from almost unbearable tenderness, she stroked his tangled hair.

  Was it ten minutes or an hour that passed before her legs became numb and she needed to change her position. She moved a bit.

  “What?” He stirred then lifted his head. “Natasha?” In his eyes, she saw surprise and worry.

  “My aunt is at her friend’s, helping her daughter with child delivery,” she said, though he hadn’t asked her.

  Dropping their eye contact, he pushed himself up from the floor and stretched his hand to help her up too.

  An awkward silence ensued. “After the deputy burgomaster was killed yesterday, the SS and the Polizei are all over. The Germans more savage than ever. Sorry, I had nowhere to go.”

  “Who killed him?” Natasha asked, though according to the rumors that spread through the city, some adhered to the opinion partisans condemned him to death for his collaboration with the Nazis while others argued Jews did it out for revenge. But this was nonsense since no Jews were left within and around the city.

  He left her question without answer. “When is your aunt back?”

  “I don’t know. She may not even return home before going to her night shift in the hospital.”

  “I have a question to ask,” he uttered as though not sure if he should bother her with what he wanted to say.

  “Ask,” she said, taking in the dark circles around his lovely brown eyes, his filthy looking attire. “Ask,” she repeated, sensing his hesitancy.

  “What do you think of the Germans?”

  “The same as others think.”

  “There are some who embraced the new power with unbridled enthusiasm.”

  “Ah, these, you mean Polizei. Do you remember Anton from my workshop? Kanankov?”

  Sergey Vladimirovich broke eye contact. “No. I don’t recall the name. Perhaps he wasn’t a Komsomol member.”

  “He was, but he betrayed it to become one of them.”

  “And not only him then.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase, Serezha.” She felt heat stealing into her face, and she hurried to correct herself. “Sorry, Sergey Vladimirovich.”

  “Serezha, if you wish.”

  “Are you with the partisans, Serezha?”

  He kept silent for too long.

  “You must not tell me this. I know, and I’d like to help.” There was not a slightest doubt in her heart she would join the struggle against the occupiers without hesitation.

  “Are you ready to take the risk?” His stare hardened. “You do see our people hanging on trees and crossbars.”

  “I do. And that’s why I want to fight them. I hate the fascists with all my might.”

  “Natasha, give me a piece of paper and a pen please.” After he finished writing, stopping for a long moment before adding something else, he pushed it to her. “Read and sign it if you agree.”

  It read as an oath to spend her life for the cause of freeing her Motherland, the Soviet Union, from the accursed occupiers. With a steady hand, she put her signature. Later, she wouldn’t remember the exact words, something like, In the rearguard of the enemy, I will work for my Soviet country faithfully and with sacrificial diligence. The assignments I receive, I pledge to carry and not to divulge their content even under torture.

  He took it, checked the signature. “Natasha, now you are one of us.” He stretched his hand to shake hers then got closer to the stove and threw the paper—her oath!—inside. She jerked toward the stove. He caught her by her arm and didn’t let it go till the glowing ember ignited the paper and burned it to ashes. “Let’s sit.” He waited till she took a place at the table then sat down on the stool. “I’m sure you know the shoe polish stand on Liberty Square?”

  “But of course. I stroll by it every day on my way to work.”

  “This is your first assignment. Please, pay good attention to what I’ll tell you right now. At exactly seven, an Oberleutnant in Wehrmacht uniform, tall, about thirty years old, comes to the polish stand to have his high boots cleaned. That’s his everyday routine.”

  “I know Deniska, the shoe shiner.”

  Something changed in Serezha’s face, as though an invisible hand grabbed at his throat.

  “And you said, Oberleutnant . . .”

  His eyes acquired a hard gleam. “Ah, sorry, Natasha. Give me please another slip of paper and a pen.” He sketched the epaulets. “On his jacket you’ll see a small red strip that goes from inside to the button. Pay attention to his left hand. He keeps a riding crop on him all the time. Black and with a tassel. Tomorrow, you must be there a couple of minutes before seven but having enough time to buy the New Way. Once you spot him approaching, peer at the newspaper as if it claimed your full interest and move in his direction. Try to collide with him as though by accident. Can you do it? The way you did at the factory when you wanted to attract my attention?”

  The smile in his eyes reminded her of that wonderful time when she could see him every day except Sundays and find a way to touch him even in a brush. “You let the newspaper fall to the ground. I know he is a gentleman.” His face twisted with pain. “I’m sure, he’ll pick it up. Your words are: “Entschuldigen Sie, Herr Offizier. Ich war im Lesen vertieft—Sorry, Herr Officer. I was immersed in the reading.” And remember your most flirtatious smile. You are so good at it.” Serezha brushed her hand. “His response is ‘Ah, Russische Intellektuelle—Ah, Russian intellectuals.’”

  “This Nazi? Is he—?”

  “Natasha, please. You need not know more than that, I assure you. Just do as you are told.”

  She repeated the phrases several times, first stumbling while all her thoughts were on how to prolong time with him.

  “Sounds good now.” His eyes on her, he spoke, “Natasha, what I’m asking you to do is very dangerous, but at this moment, I have no choice but to involve you.”

  “I understand, and I pledge to carry out my assignments.” She recognized in his eyes respect and admiration he did not even try to conceal.

  “I have to get going.” He breathed out. “To be at the place before the curfew strikes.”

  “It’s long over the time. You can stay here if you wish.”

  He cast her a long look. “Your aunt—”

  “She must be already in the hospital and won’t come home till six in the morning or even later. In any case, you mustn’t be concerned about her. I know, she hates the fascists. On several occasions, she worked up the courage to sneak into the ghetto to bring food for her friend’s family.”

  A momentary look of discomfort crossed his face. “Natasha, this is a big mistake. Under no circumstances, even under torture, should you say such things. Even if the person is not related to the partisans or Underground, and acts out of pure kindness, the fascists will find a reason to . . . you know.”

  What a blockhead I am. I’ve spoiled everything. But she didn’t dwell long on it, all she wanted for him was not to risk his life. For her, it meant she had to convince him to stay put in her house. Tonight. Tomorrow morning. She released a tiny sigh. What sense was there in thinking about even the next day? “Serezha, you can sleep in the kitchen.” She gave him her most flirtatious smile. “Is it how I should beam at that Nazi?”

  “Yes.”

  She saw him buttoning his padded jacket without getting up from the stool and, at the same time, his eyes struggled to stay open. Losing the fight against exhaustion, his head fell on his chest. “You doze, I’ll put on the samovar and make something to eat,” she whispered. How nice it would be to cook for him, she imagined while placing on the plate two boiled potatoes, a hunk of dry dark bread, and a tiny piece of German sausage. With that last sugar cube left, she’d sweeten the tea. He’ll like it, she rejoiced at the thought
. Meantime, the samovar came to a simmering boil.

  He lifted his head and the next moment, she saw him cramming bread into his mouth. “Sorry,” he mumbled and, after swallowing, said, “And you?”

  “You eat. I have enough at the canteen when Krieger has his shift, as today. He spoils us a bit. From the other one, we call him Fat Dickhead, none of us could get dirt.” She poured hot water into faceted thick-wall glasses and stirred. “Here, tea.” She pushed it his way.

  He lifted the glass to his nostrils and sniffed. “Smells like black currant leaves.”

  “Yes. With a bit of mint. We saved plenty.”

  Without uttering a word, they drank the aroma infused hot water. “More?” she ventured to break an awkward silence.

  “Enough for me. Thank you, Natasha.” He turned his gaze away. “Let me sleep here, at the stove.”

  “Yes, of course, Serezha, of course, but the stove cools out in no time, you’ll freeze in the kitchen. Together, it’ll be warmer.” Her body tensed deep inside. “My aunt and I, we sleep together when she doesn’t have her night shift.” She got up and went to the other room, leaving the door open. Without undressing, she slipped under the padded blanket and lay sidelong.

  A minute or two passed, perhaps longer, till he joined her.

  Hot all over, she tried to throttle the thudding of her heart. They lay so for a long time. Unmoved. Only the barest contact.

  “Serezha.” She brushed his shoulder with her hand, just a slightest touch. “Do you know how to love somebody?”

  “You mean physically?” The line of his beautiful mouth tightened.

  “Serezha. I love you.”

  His eyebrows flickered a little.

  She thought she understood his silence and hesitated for a moment, watching him. Her mind told her to take the initiative and she moved closer, impelled by her own passion.

  With a little push of her hand, she prodded him to get on his back and unbuttoned his padded jacket then his trousers. He closed his eyes and seemed to hold his breath.