The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII

by Marion Kummerow

  “Where in Siberia?” Hammerer asked.

  “Iskitim Village. It’s in the Novosibirsk district.” He fell silent.

  “Education?”

  “Seven-years of school then a technical school. I’m a good locksmith.” On his otherwise sullen face a lopsided smile appeared.

  Seeing Hammerer’s irritable countenance, Ulya came to the man’s rescue. “Sukhov, are you a Communist?”

  “No. My parents were from the repressed. The cadres would not accept me into the Communist Party.” He heaved a deep sigh.

  “So, you are angry because they wouldn’t accept you?” Hammerer smirked.

  Sukhov tilted his brow, staring at Ulya in stupefaction.

  “Was it your wish to become a Communist party member?” Hammerer looked amused.

  “No. I did not want to. I was happy they did not shoot my parents and—”

  “Your army rank?” Hammerer gestured Ulya to continue translating.

  “An infantryman.”

  “If you engage in collecting information and rumors from other prisoners, it will be very useful for the German command.”

  Blinking in bafflement, as though in hesitation, the prisoner whispered, “Yes, yes, happy to fulfill your wishes,” and looked around with haunted eyes.

  It became obvious Hammerer had lost all interest in this thick-skulled young Russian. “Get him out of here.” He motioned to the guard.

  Sukhov startled as the German stepped closer to him and threw a desperate glance at Ulya.

  “You can go with him.” Something told her the young man would remain in the stalag.

  A slightly different scenario repeated with the other candidates for a special training intended to infiltrate the Soviet rear as Ulya figured out.

  All taken prisoner. Once Red Army troopers, now in tattered clothes hanging loosely over their skeletal frames, they screamed hateful shit at the Soviet power, Stalin, and their Political Commanders, swearing their allegiance to the Reich.

  Only the last one, Novikov, seemed different. Composed, his eyes cold and proud, he told his story. Born, educated, parents, sergeant of a motorized rifle brigade, he was taken prisoner while shell-shocked in combat.

  “Communist?” Hammerer’s face, as always was bereft of emotion.

  “A week before June twenty-second, I applied to the Communist Party.”

  Hammerer turned his head to Ulya. “Tell him if he puts on a German uniform, he’ll live.”

  Ulya translated Novikov’s reply, “Herr Hauptsturmführer, I can’t fight against my countrymen. I swore my allegiance. Would you?”

  After making some notes in his paper, Hammerer nodded at the guard to take the prisoner away.

  “I would like him on our side.” Turning his gaze away from hers, he continued as though talking to himself. “I despise people who today are on one side and tomorrow on the other. How can one trust them not to change loyalties to a third?”

  When their eyes met, a look of tired sadness passed over his features.

  The days went along as usual. The “window-radio broadcasts” supplied Ulya with more and more alarming details.

  With warm weather like today, she could keep her window open. Soon enough, a familiar voice—Fyedorov—drifted into the room. “I’m so freaking exhausted by these everyday raids. First, they rounded people for sending to Germany, and now they see conspirators in everyone, young and old. Today, again, we’ll be heading to sweep through Mogilevskaya Square and up from there the streets along the shore.”

  “What, are you saying there is no single Underground worker left in the city?” Borisevich. His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  “Maybe there is, but I haven’t had a single free day from the end of May. Haven’t seen my wife and sons for weeks.”

  “Stop whimpering, at least your stomach is not empty. As are theirs,” Borisevich retorted.

  “Thank heavens.” And after some moment’s silence, “Time to go. Parade in three minutes.”

  As soon as their steps faded away, Ulya prepared her cigarette dispatch and headed to the toilet room, hoping her message would be delivered in time and her information could spare some Underground workers. Or just some innocent people.

  In recapping her last meeting with Nathan, she heard him saying, his voice cracked, “There are everyday raids in the city. They took four of our men. I suspect the chain of secrecy has snapped somewhere or, there is a plant among us.”

  “I’ll keep my ears open, Nathan. Those Polizei are rather talkative,” she promised.

  Days went by. Raids continued. More arrests followed. Something was amiss, and it haunted her.

  Less than a fortnight later, she stood before Hammerer again.

  “I think I have something to tell you.”

  She stiffened inside. “You have my undivided attention, Herr Hammerer.”

  “We keep a sharp eye on the people before offering them what I want to offer you.”

  She knew where he was heading, however, recalling Herr Wagner’s remarks, willed herself to widen her eyes in feigned interest.

  “I suppose you understand that we have to be careful about the people we recruit. You know, all these Soviet agents, partisans, Underground workers.” He pulled a cigarette, offering, “Would you?”

  She nodded. So, he knows that I smoke though he obviously had never seen me doing it.

  He clicked his silver lighter with the swastika engraved on it and leaned close to her, and a moment later, she inhaled the mildly sweet smell of Echstein N.5.

  “My wish is that you work for me.”

  “A wish or an order, Herr Hammerer?” she dared.

  “Still a wish. We need only willing and enthusiastic employees.”

  “Do you deem me a good fit?” she asked, twisting her mouth as though contemplating, her mind making a quick calculation: working for Hammerer would bring her close to the archives and records with the names of the Soviet Party functionaries, NKVD agents, Army political workers, and officers who were arrested and who among them had accepted a proposal to change sides, as well as the compromised local Komsomol activists, Soviet agents left on the occupied territory placed under SD surveillance. She might get information about their agent network among the locals. Knowing names was all she needed to help the Underground. She returned her gaze to Hammerer.

  “Yes, I do consider you a good fit, otherwise, I wouldn’t make this offer. Our work requires a special kind of person. I’ve watched you for some time. You’ve proved your skills as not only a perfect translator but as a person of calm attitude and devotion to the Third Reich. It supports the information from your Komsomol member file, except for the devotion part.” A half-smile touched his otherwise hard mouth.

  Her Komsomol file? Does he have my NKVD file as well? She could hardly suppress astonishment and fear, and ultimately was not successful enough for him not to recognize her surprise.

  “Yes. We have our people everywhere.” He placed his elbows on the desk and joined his fingertips. “Perhaps a couple of considerations could help you make a decision, but I think you have enough reasons to hate your former country and be more than enthusiastic to help the cause to avenge for your father and—” A phone’s shrill interrupted his tirade.

  “Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer Filberg. In five minutes,” he said into the receiver then jerked to his feet. Shielding the combination lock, as he had done before, he took a thin file from his safe. It instantly disappeared into his briefcase. From the upper drawer of his table, he pulled out a piece of paper. “Read it. I hope to find you here when I get back.” He motioned to his adjutant, a flaxen-haired youth with a Wound Badge, to let Ulya stay in the anteroom and hastened out of the door.

  Forgetting for an instant about Hammerer’s paper, Ulya pondered: moving to another place meant losing her secret place in the Civil Council. Besides, she’d be exposed to all the surveillance during her working hours. But did she have a choice?

  Ulya got comfortable at the little tab
le with a typewriter on it, and started reading,

  The Decree of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet No.21-160 from 28 August 1941 “About the resettling of the Germans residing in the Volga Region.” Reading on, she couldn’t believe her eyes.

  According to reliable information received by the military authorities, there are among the German population living in the Volga area thousands and tens of thousands of diversionists and spies, who on a signal being given from Germany are to carry out sabotage in the area inhabited by the Germans of the Volga.” She slid her eyes through the document, “. . . for the prevention of serious bloodshed . . . to resettle the entire German population . . . to the districts of Novosibirsk, the Omsk Region, the Altai Region, Kazakhstan . . . to urgently execute the removal of all Germans from the Volga Region.

  Again, and again, reading into every word, Ulya refused to believe such vileness befell her people. She startled at Hammerer’s cool voice that broke into her stunned contemplation, “And I can add that your people were given four hours to prepare for the evacuation. Any who resisted were shot summarily.”

  She locked her eyes with his. “I thank you for your trust in my ability to work for the Third Reich and the people of my country.”

  “Good.”

  Now in his room, he gestured for her to take a seat and slid a two-page document across the table.

  After reading it, she signed both originals, in Russian and in German and, for a second, imagined how pleased Nathan would be.

  Hammerer examined her signature and the next moment, the document disappeared inside his safe. “No need to remind you that from this moment you are an employee of the Third Reich. I expect you to greet your German colleagues with Heil Hitler and answer their salutations likewise. I will formalize your new position with your Civil Council superiors. Report for duty tomorrow at eight o’clock.”

  “What are my responsibilities, Hauptsturmführer Hammerer?”

  “You’ll carry out general secretarial duties for me, including translating. Heil Hitler.”

  With almost inappropriate speed, she jerked to her feet and raised her arm in the salute. A smile in Hammerer’s eyes betrayed his amusement.

  It was too late to return to the Council to leave the news through the cigarette dispatch. She set off for the news kiosk on Liberty Square which, to her relief, was still open. While nearing it, she saw a young woman in a brief conversation with the seller and slowed her pace. The woman turned to leave and her face struck Ulya as familiar. It was her, the one she had seen with Nathan six months ago. Something stirred in Ulya’s gut. Was it a coincidence or was the woman involved? She must find out.

  Ulya bought New Way and went home to prepare her message about her transfer to SD.

  42

  Natasha

  July 1942

  With the windows blackened, the house was in darkness. A single candle burned for light. It was after curfew and Natasha awaited Serezha’s arrival at any minute. She felt chilly, unsure. How would he receive her news?

  Her waistline had thickened. Anyone interested in finding an answer could explain it with her regular visits to the German restaurant and the food parcels Hahn supplied her with. Not her aunt. Although gynecology was not her specialty, she’d confirmed Natasha’s condition and was not happy. On the contrary.

  “Is it a German bastard?” She glared at Natasha with burning, reproachful eyes. And at her “No, Aunty,” screamed, “Do you think I don’t know where you spend some evenings? Where do you get all these delicacies? People have seen you going with a Fritz to the restaurant and —” Her nostrils flared with fury. “You better get rid of it or—” she spat out the next words, “otherwise, get out of my sight!” Natasha cringed at the words her aunt lashed at her.

  “Aunty.” She threw herself to her and knelt. “It’s not what you think. Please, please don’t think so badly of me. But I can’t, believe me, I can’t tell you who fathers my future baby.”

  “You tell me, or I don’t want to see you here again!”

  Natasha got up from her knees and, biting her lips to control the sobs, spoke with desperate firmness, “It will be the way you want.”

  Natasha saw her expression freeze, and, after the crushing silence, her aunt shut the exit door after herself with a crash, leaving Natasha pondering, nausea rising in her stomach. The only chance to save her child was to go to the partisans. At that moment, disturbed and trapped in the situation when she had no right to disclose her affiliation with the Underground, she forgot she had to talk with Serezha before making a drastic decision. And where would I go, anyway? The thought crossed her mind, immediately followed by doubt. How was it possible her kind and loving aunt Anna, the closest thing she’d ever had to a mother, would kick her out?

  The following days went without Natasha crossing paths with her aunt at home. But today, there was that gut feeling that in the next hours everything might fall into place. What do I do if Serezha decides I should follow my aunt’s advice? She slumped on the floor and vomited violently.

  Deep in the night, a knock jerked Natasha from her slumber. The door opened and there he was, crossing the doorway, a little bouquet of wildflowers in his hand. “Natasha,” he exhaled.

  She flung herself to his chest. “Will you stay?”

  He shook his head. “Just wanted to see you and say how much I miss you.”

  “But do you have a minute?”

  He consulted his watch. “I’m sorry.”

  There was no time to go round-about. “Serezha, I’m pregnant.”

  Undisguised astonishment touched his pale face as though it were siphoned of blood. “Pregnant?”

  “What do I have to do? My aunt wants me out of the house.” She heard his quick intake of breath and stared across at him, her heart pounding.

  They stood in silence for a long, painful minute until he ventured, “But now? It’s impossible, it is just impossible.”

  Her body stiffened in shock. So be it. As her aunt insisted.

  Leaving him on the threshold, Natasha went to the table, pushed it aside and, after moving one floorboard, pulled from under it a slip of paper—Hahn’s dispatch. “Here.” She took a step to Serezha and stretched her hand toward him.

  He took the folded paper, pushed it into his bootleg, and the next moment, he clasped her body tightly to his. “Darling. Darling Natasha. We’ll do our best to save this child. Our child. We will.”

  Tears she’d held in check for so long slowly found their way down her cheeks.

  He didn’t kiss her as he always did while parting with her, he only touched her face, brushing her tears away, whispering sweetly, “Natashen’ka. Natashen’ka.”

  With his innate sensitivity, he apologized before uttering, “I hope getting information from Hahn is still acceptable for you.”

  “Don’t worry, Serezha.”

  “Something else. Tell your aunt, we handed over her last delivery of the medicaments. Tell her, they saved the life of . . . she knows who.”

  “My aunt?” The shock of discovery hit her full force. “My aunt?” she repeated.

  “I’ll talk to her about your situation.”

  He disappeared in the darkness, leaving her with a light shining in her heart. My baby. Your papa loves you. And your aunt will too. She smiled at the thought.

  43

  Ulya

  August-September 1942

  The gallows in all the central parts of Vitebsk were never left vacant. Here and there hammers knocked, busy erecting new ones. People were corralled and forcibly escorted to the places of execution. More and more Communists, partisans, and Underground members were put to death by hanging. Merry places for Germans. When she could, Ulya skirted them or hurried past with her head down, sparing herself from the shows and the German soldiers amusing themselves. No such luck today though.

  “Heinz, me on the background of this one!” one said, positioning himself so the hanging body could get into the picture. Two more joined. “Hey, Andr
eas! Just take a close-up of the two of us.” Their arms around each other’s shoulders, both smiled into the camera. The happy faces intended no doubt for their mothers or friends or children. To their Lizchens, Gertrudchen, Annchens. For them, they were heroes.

  For the local people, these fascists who amused themselves, were the three times accursed occupiers. Not for all, a voice inside declared. There were so many collaborators, she was sick of typing lists with their names. Ulya caught herself clenching her hand into a fist and willed herself to release it.

  It was the end of summer when Ulya met the young woman again. She was with an officer. Hahn, as she learned later. A Wehrmacht Communications Officer of the occupying Administration. And this time, the young woman’s light summer dress revealed a little bump at her midriff.

  In her mind, Ulya connected those two with Nathan. Could their affiliation be a key to the failures of the Underground?

  In the weeks that followed, she kept a close eye on both the young woman and Hahn. She would change into the baggy man’s suit and hide in a half-destroyed building across from Hahn’s lodging or opposite the German officers’ restaurant, which the couple frequented.

  While spending time in the young woman’s company, Hahn, she noted, behaved with coolness. As for the woman, whose name she learned was Natasha Ivanova, she showed her devotion out of place. Ulya’s spying on her brought a disturbing revelation: Nathan visited Natasha on Kommunisticheskaya Street 11 on several occasions. Was she his messenger or . . .? Ulya tried weighing the whole structure of events and caught herself in an unfamiliar feeling akin to resentment.

  Could she question Nathan about the young woman? No. It would expose her private investigation. But how could she warn him? How? Or maybe . . . What if Nathan . . .? Her mouth went dry at the suspicion her mind led her to.

  Weeks after weeks, the indecision of the situation haunted her.