“Aleksander.” She put a hand over her racing heart. “I didn’t hear you. What are you doing up?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” He hesitated and crossed to stand beside her. Like her, he was in a wool coat, but she could still somehow feel the heat of his nearness as his arm brushed against hers. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
They both gazed skyward, and for a moment, it felt as if they were alone in the forest. The others in their group slept, and the animals had all sought refuge from the cold. The only movement was from the snow itself. When Yona turned to look at Aleksander again, his eyes were already on her. “Is it wrong that I love the first snowfall so much?” she asked.
“Wrong?”
“The snow brings with it great peril. To welcome it feels strange in a way. It only means that life will become more complicated.”
She wasn’t sure he understood what she was saying until he reached for her hand. Neither of them had gloves, and so their fingers were freezing, but there was an instant warmth as they intertwined. “Perhaps the most complicated things are also the most beautiful,” Aleksander said softly, and when she turned to look at him again, she found that she couldn’t look away for a long time. When they finally turned their eyes to the magic of the sky again, it felt as if, for a moment, the world was at peace.
Later, when the others awoke and emerged into a world painted white, Yona felt an unexpected wave of warmth wash over her. To see the surprise, the joy, on the faces of the others was enchanting all on its own. The girls ran around in the clearing, laughing and trying to catch snow on their tongues, while Daniel simply stared at the heavens with his eyes wide and unblinking. Oscher and Bina held each other and swayed, and even Rosalia looked skyward with tears in her eyes.
But the snow would eventually force the group inside their bunkers for long periods of time, and so, as they all said good night that night and walked back to their zemliankas, the silence that descended felt heavy and dark, even if the world around them was turning the color of hope and peace.
Aleksander, Leib, Miriam, Bina, Oscher, Luba, and Sulia were sharing one of the larger shelters, while Moshe, Leon, Rosalia, Ruth, and the children shared the other. Yona had her own, the smallest and most basic of all, which she had built entirely by herself while the others had rested. It had worked out that way without discussion—a division similar to how they had sheltered each night when they had only temporary huts—and Yona had been glad that no one had tried to bunk with her. Being with a group after a lifetime of being alone was still unsettling and strange, and she needed those dark nights of solitude in order to breathe.
She had just drifted off on the night of the first snowfall when she heard a tap-tap-tap on her small zemlianka’s door. She sat straight up, her eyes wide as she searched the darkness. Then, just as she was reaching for the knife she always kept beside her as she slept, she heard a soft voice from outside. “Yona? Yona, are you awake?”
In an instant, she went from frightened to confused. “Aleksander?” she asked.
“May I come in?”
Without answering, she rose from her reed bed and crawled across the tiny room to move the wooden beam securing the door. The other zemliankas had been designed with taller ceilings to make them feel more like aboveground homes, but Yona liked the feeling of being burrowed into the earth, safe from the world above. She needed only enough room for her bed, her small collection of belongings, and her stove for warmth.
As soon as she pulled the door open, the wind whipped through her small room, a burst of snowflakes entering in a gust. The fire in the corner stove flickered, sending shadows dancing across Aleksander’s face. He was squatting by her door, his face red with cold. Instinctively, Yona searched the darkness behind him, but he was alone. “Quickly, come in,” she said, and she moved aside so he could slide past her, then she pulled the door closed behind him, shutting the winter out.
This was the first time Aleksander had been here, had shared her space. He looked around for a few seconds, and she had to resist the urge to smile; the ceiling was only a meter and a half from the wooden floor, and his body was curved like a question mark to fit inside. “Would you like to sit?” she asked, and he nodded gratefully, settling in the only available place, on the edge of her reed bed. She hesitated before sitting beside him. “Is everything all right, Aleksander? Is anyone hurt?”
“No, no, everything’s fine,” he said hastily. He removed his cap and kneaded it between his hands. She realized suddenly that he looked nervous. “Your zemlianka. It’s nice, Yona.”
She laughed, but worry fluttered in her chest like an uncertain butterfly. “You came in the middle of the night to tell me that?”
When he turned to her, the firelight illuminating his features, his expression was serious, his face just inches from hers. “No. I—I came to thank you.”
“To thank me?”
“For all of this. For everything you’ve done for us. For staying. I know you mentioned leaving once we were all right on our own. But now, I hope—I hope you won’t go.”
His words were punctuated by an eerie howl from outside, the wind rushing through a hollow of trees. The storm was picking up. She tried a smile. “I’m certainly not going anywhere in this weather, Aleksander.”
He squeezed the cap in his hands a few more times and then looked at her again. He seemed to be searching her face, his gaze falling first on her eyes and then traveling to her mouth. “I didn’t mean tonight. I meant… ever. I hope you will stay with us, Yona. What I mean to say is, I hope you will stay with me.”
She didn’t expect him to move forward then, to touch his lips to hers, but when he did, it felt just as she knew it was supposed to, though she had never been kissed before. She tensed for a second, surprised, and then she exhaled, her breath meeting his as she leaned in and closed her eyes.
His mouth was tentative at first, but when he felt her respond, Aleksander put a hand on the back of her head, pulling her gently to him, and as his tongue parted her lips, she could feel the vibration of the low groan that came from the center of his chest. She could feel him everywhere in her body, though it was only his lips and his hand touching her. Her skin tingled and warmth flooded through her. When he pulled away, instinctively she reached for him, already wanting him back.
She opened her eyes, breathless, and found him staring at her, searching her face. “Is this all right, Yona? I didn’t know—”
She couldn’t find words, so she pressed her lips to his, frantically, desperately, cutting him off. He hesitated only a second before drawing her to him, onto his lap, her legs spread over him. He groaned again, and she could feel it in her own chest as he put his hands under her hips and pulled her more firmly against him, kissing her more hungrily now. With his left hand still cradling her, he reached under her shirt with his right hand, and they both gasped as his cold fingers skimmed against one of her nipples, sending a shiver through her body.
“Still all right?” he murmured into her mouth.
“Mm-hmm.” It was all she could manage, but instead of kissing her again, he paused and looked at her.
“Have you ever done this before?”
She was breathing hard, and she wondered if her pupils were as dilated as his were. She stared at him for a few seconds before whispering, “Aleksander, I never knew a man before you.”
“We don’t have to—”
“I know,” she murmured, again cutting him off. “Don’t stop.”
He hesitated for only a second more before bringing his mouth to hers, moving both hands back to her hips. And then his hands were under her shirt, and he was pulling it off, then removing his own, so that in the cold chill of her tiny zemlianka, they both burned hot against each other, skin to skin.
There were no words left to say as he moved on top of her, slowly touching her everywhere, making her feel things she had never known before, guiding her hands across his body, so unfamiliar, and finally, pushing himself inside her. Whe
n she cried out, he paused, suspended above her, and whispered, “Should I stop?”
“No,” she replied immediately, pulling him back and closing her eyes as she let the sensations wash over her.
When it was over, they lay on their backs in the cold, her head on his chest, his arm cradling her. She listened to his heartbeat and felt her own pulse race in the same rhythm. She closed her eyes and breathed him in, wondering what this all meant. She had read enough in the science texts Jerusza had given her to understand the biology of what had happened between them, but no one had warned her about the way her heart would feel like it could burst, how her body would feel both full and empty at the same time, how as soon as the silence set in, her mind would race to fill it with questions and fears.
But then Aleksander kissed the top of her head and murmured, “Yona, I think I love you,” and the voices of doubt in her head finally went silent.
She buried her face in his chest. There would be time for wondering later. For now, all that mattered was this. “I think I love you, too, Aleksander.” Did she? Was that what this feeling was? She smiled into his skin, astonished that the words were hers to say. “I love you, too.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
No one in the camp seemed surprised to see Aleksander emerging from Yona’s shelter the next morning, and Rosalia even put a hand on Yona’s arm as they headed out to lay traps for animals. “I’m glad for you,” the fiery-haired woman said, smiling slightly. “You deserve to find happiness. Both of you do.”
“Is that what this is? Happiness?” In the light of day, Yona felt a strange blend of elation and fear. There was much to be lost by opening one’s heart, and she had never understood that until last night, when the doors to hers had been flung wide. Now she felt naked, exposed, like she’d awoken in a den of sleeping bears without a weapon, without a plan. Yona felt foolish as she glanced at Rosalia. “Perhaps it meant nothing to him.”
“Only a fool would break a heart in such close quarters. If Aleksander came to you, it is because he wants to be with you and hopes you feel the same.”
Yona absorbed this in silence. “I think I do,” she said at last.
“We’ve all lost so much. When we find happiness, especially where we didn’t expect to, we must hold it close with all our might, don’t you think?” There was a sadness to Rosalia’s voice as she squeezed Yona’s hands and added, “Please, don’t worry.”
But Yona was worried, and she couldn’t stop herself. She was glad she had collected Queen Anne’s lace and smartweed along with her other medicinal supplies, but she hadn’t imagined she’d be the one needing them. She knew the herbs weren’t foolproof, and that concerned her. A pregnancy in the midst of the dark wood could be deadly to both the mother and child, and with people hunting them, the innocent cry of a newborn could betray the whole group. Quite simply, Yona could not become pregnant, and she vowed that she would be more careful in the future—if there was a future for her and Aleksander.
After that first night, without a word of conversation about it, Aleksander moved into Yona’s shelter, and every night, he slept with his arms wrapped tightly around her, as if even in sleep, he was terrified of letting her go. He continued to take a turn patrolling the grounds every third night, trading off with Leib and Rosalia, and when his side of the reed bed was empty, Yona felt a strange blend of freedom and loneliness. She still wasn’t accustomed to sharing her life, even after a few months with the group, so having room to breathe was restorative. But she missed him when he was gone and often had trouble falling asleep, because when she closed her eyes, she imagined all the terrible fates that could befall him in the dark. It was the first time in her life she had cared for someone enough to worry about such a loss; she had always known that Jerusza would take care of herself. But now she understood that love left one vulnerable. It was a feeling she didn’t like.
At the start of a frigid December, their bellies empty after a frustrating day of hunting, Aleksander whispered a reminder that Hanukkah would begin the next evening. They were lying beside each other in the dark, and she was grateful that he couldn’t see the unexpected tears that had sprung to her eyes. She knew well the story of the miracle of the ritual oil that the Maccabees had burned for eight days, but she had never known much of a celebration. Jerusza had always carved a menorah, and they’d dutifully lit candles, but they had done it quickly and quietly, and Jerusza had skipped the nights when she had other things to do. She thought for a moment of the longing she’d felt on a cold Friday night in 1931, watching from outside a window as a family celebrated the first night of the Festival of Lights. The practice of dullards, Jerusza had called it, but Yona had longed for the magic she saw reflected in the candlelit faces through the windowpane. Was it possible that she would finally learn one of the traditions she’d yearned for?
“My mother used to make latkes and sufganiyot. You know what those are? Doughnuts stuffed with jelly,” Aleksander whispered in the darkness, oblivious to her tears. Yona could hear the smile in his voice, but also the sadness, the mourning for things lost. “We would light the menorah each night, and we’d sing ‘Ma’oz Tzur.’ ”
Yona knew the song from the books she’d read, and from Jerusza reciting it aloud in an emotionless monotone. It had been the closest the old woman had ever come to acknowledging a celebration. “Ma’oz Tzur Yeshu’ati, lekha na’eh leshabe’akh,” Yona murmured now.
Aleksander smiled and finished the verse for her in Hebrew, his deep voice coating the words in a haunting melody she’d never heard. “My refuge, my rock of salvation! ’Tis pleasant to sing your praises,” he sang. “Let our house of prayer be restored. And there we will offer you our thanks. When you will have slaughtered the barking foe. Then we will celebrate with song and psalm the altar’s dedication.”
Yona closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest. “That was beautiful.” She could hear his heart thudding more quickly than usual. “You must miss your family very much.”
He was silent for a moment, his breath heavy and warm, and Yona felt a tear slide from her right eye, onto the rough fabric of his shirt. If he noticed, he gave no indication. “They stole everything, Yona. Everything. How can that ever be forgiven? How can I carry anything but hate in my heart for the people who hate me, who hate my people enough to murder us all?”
The coldness in his voice made her shiver. “Maybe you can’t,” she said after a while. “Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe we can’t rid ourselves of the things that torture us. Perhaps all we can do is move through them the best we can.”
“I don’t know how to stop it,” he murmured. “This anger.” He paused. “Sometimes I hate myself for surviving. And what do I do with that hate?”
The pain in his voice made her heart ache. There was nothing she could say to change the way he felt. Sometimes words could move mountains, and sometimes they could mean nothing at all. “There’s a reason you’re still here, I think, Aleksander,” she said much later when she had finally found the words that felt right. “You have survived because God is using you to help save others.”
But Aleksander was already asleep, his breath hitching as the shadows continued to eat away at his soul.
The next day, while snow drifted down and Aleksander went with Leib to check on some of the snare traps they’d set a half day’s walk from the encampment, Yona came aboveground with her axe, chopped a large chunk of frozen deadwood, and brought it back into her small zemlianka. She hadn’t whittled since she was a girl, desperate for company even if it came from imaginary creatures, but it came back to her in a flood. She could almost feel Jerusza’s hands wrapped around hers as she pulled out her knife and began to slowly, expertly shave away strips of wood, slicing with the grain. Next she made smaller cuts, slicing the knife gently toward her own heart until the basic shape was hewn, and then she smoothed the wood and refined it for the next few hours until she was satisfied with the result. While she waited for Aleksander to return, she went to the
group’s larder, which was inside the largest zemlianka, and pulled out nine candles she had made that fall from nettle rope and gathered beeswax. Typically, the group saved the candles to usher in the Sabbath each Friday night, but there were enough to spare.
Back in her own zemlianka, Yona waited until Aleksander stepped through the door in a flurry of afternoon snow. She held up the object that had been a hunk of wood just hours before, and he stared at it, and then her, in disbelief. “You made a menorah?” he asked.
“I know it’s not the most important of the Jewish holidays,” she said. “But it means light in the darkness. The hope of a miracle. Deliverance from death. I thought that might mean something to everyone tonight.”
Aleksander nodded slowly, and without removing his coat, he crossed to her, examining the fluid wooden lines, the spaces for eight candles all in a row, the elevated holder in the center for the shamash, the helper candle.
He looked up, his eyes round with awe. “Yona, it’s perfect. I—I don’t know how to thank you.”
Fifteen minutes later, as the sun crept toward the horizon, the whole group gathered in the largest zemlianka, the one Moshe, Leon, Rosalia, Ruth, and the children shared. Yona was glad that they’d made the shelters larger than they needed, large enough to move around in; it made it possible to gather as a group, though there was little room to spare.
“Look what Yona has made,” Aleksander said, holding up the menorah for all of them to see. There were a few gasps among the group, and nervously, Yona pulled the candles from her pocket and placed them into the holders. “Light in the darkness,” Aleksander said, locking eyes with Yona. “The hope of a miracle.”
Several among the group murmured words of astonished gratitude, and then the sounds faded to a hush as Leon, the oldest among them, stepped forward to light the shamash in the stove, then used the shamash to light the first candle. Moshe recited the menorah blessing, honoring God for his commandments and for the miracles for their forefathers, for granting them life and sustaining them. But somehow, even as Yona gazed around at the bowed heads, the somber expressions of the other adults, her loneliness lingered, and so, too, did the sadness. It was hard to imagine a miracle here, when they’d all lost so much, when their very survival seemed more like a fluke than a part of God’s plan.
The Forest of Vanishing Stars Page 12
