The Story of Us

by Lana Kortchik

  ‘Nothing. Kiev has survived its fair share of invasions in the past. It’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘Kiev, maybe. But what about us?’

  Grandfather didn’t reply.

  ‘Oh Dedushka,’ she whispered, squinting in the dark and noticing how frail he suddenly looked. She squeezed in on the couch next to him, putting her arms around him. ‘We’ll be fine. You’re right as always. Kiev is not going anywhere, and neither are we. Not without a fight.’

  Chapter 3 – The Soldier

  September 1941

  In the morning, Grandmother’s forehead felt even warmer than the day before.

  ‘Are you okay, Babushka? How are you feeling?’ Natasha whispered when Grandmother opened her eyes.

  ‘I’m fine, child. I’ll be good as new tomorrow. Don’t you fret,’ said Grandmother, but her voice was so weak, Natasha could barely hear her.

  Trying not to cry, Natasha rushed downstairs to fetch a bucket of water from the pump, in her haste spilling at least half by the time she made it back upstairs. She boiled the kettle, soaked some barley in hot water and cooked a porridge, without milk and without butter but with some salt she retrieved from their hiding place in the garden. Grandmother’s eyes were dull and her lips moved listlessly as she ate. She only nodded when Natasha said, ‘I’ll go to Olga’s and get the doctor, Babushka. He’s staying with them, remember?’ Kissing her grandmother, Natasha threw on her mother’s favourite jacket and left.

  Olga wasn’t at home and neither were her mother or grandfather. But the doctor was. Natasha begged him to check on her grandmother, and he promised to be there in an hour.

  On the way home Natasha couldn’t help but notice that the streets were much busier than the day before. Not only ubiquitous grey uniforms but Soviet citizens, too. A number of houses on Kreshchatyk sported yellow and blue flags. Natasha presumed they had been placed there by the Ukrainian nationalists. In all of her Soviet life she had never seen a Ukrainian flag being flown, and now not just one but a dozen sprang up on the tall buildings of central Kiev as if they belonged there. Next door to the former Children’s World, the largest toy store in Kiev, which now housed the gendarmerie, a large crowd gathered around what looked like a newspaper glued to the wall. People pointed, shouted and gesticulated. Intrigued, Natasha approached. It was the first edition of Ukrainian Word. Hoping for some news from the front, she skimmed through the first page and turned away in disgust. The nationalists were using the German invasion as an opportunity to advance their cause now that the Bolsheviks were gone. They were lauding the German aggressors as heroes of the new Ukraine, blond knights who had arrived just in time to save their Motherland.

  Wait till I tell Grandfather about this, thought Natasha. And then her gaze fell on a piece of paper next to the newspaper. In Russian and German, it read:

  ‘People of Kiev! A terrible crime has been committed. Anyone with information about the murder of an Oberleutnant in Taras Shevhenko Park on 20th September is required to come forward immediately. If you have seen or heard anything that leads to capture of the traitors responsible, you will receive a bag of flour and a bag of sugar. If the traitors are not apprehended, all of the Kievan population will be severely punished.’

  Natasha remained rooted to the spot, her face aghast. But then she noticed a man with a grey moustache stare at her for a second too long. What if he could see in her eyes that she was the one responsible? She forced her face into an indifferent smile, tried to stop her hands from trembling, and then turned around and walked away as fast as she could.

  When she reached Taras Shevchenko Boulevard, her hands shaking again and her forehead creased in worry, she thought she spotted a familiar face in the crowd. She paused in the middle of the street. Paused not consciously, not out of deliberate choice, but because her knees turned to jelly, making it impossible to walk. She could almost swear that the tall man she’d caught a glimpse of was the soldier from the park. She squinted, blinked, blocked the sun with the palm of her hand, and rose to her tiptoes to see better. A group of German officers walked by, shielding the man from view, and Natasha jumped up and down, trying to see behind them. She would have pushed them out of the way if she could. Praying that he was still there, she hurried around the German officers.

  Clearly, he’d had the same idea because as soon as she rounded the officers, Natasha bumped straight into him and almost fell. He caught her by the arm. Flustered, she looked up into his smiling face.

  Her heart racing, she wanted to apologise for knocking into him like that but for a moment couldn’t speak. She had forgotten how tall he was and how handsome. He was dressed in civilian clothes today. Of course, thought Natasha, it’s Sunday. If only she had known she would run into him! She would have worn her smartest dress and left her hair down, so that it framed her face attractively. She wished she had worn her mother’s high-heeled shoes instead of her drab, comfortable ones. She wished she had some lipstick on her pale, trembling lips. Anything to make her feel less shy around him.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ he said, and his eyes twinkled. They were the colour of chocolate, just like she remembered from their brief encounter the night before. They looked even darker now in the sun than they had in the light of his torch in her shady apartment. His hair was raven black and there was a tiny scar above his left eyebrow.

  His dark-eyed, dark-haired confidence made her even more nervous. Blinking, she looked down into her hands. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘I was just…’ He hesitated. ‘Actually, I was coming to see you. I wanted to see how your grandmother was.’ He watched Natasha intently. She adjusted her hair, cursing her plain ponytail, and raised her face to him. ‘So how is she?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s weak. Burning up. We are hoping she’ll get better but…’ She sighed.

  They were standing in the middle of the street, facing each other, while all around them pedestrians, cars and motorcycles whizzed past, and a bizarre cacophony of Russian and German mingled with honking horns and barking dogs. Natasha barely noticed any of it.

  ‘Can I walk you home?’ he asked, smiling into her timid face. Natasha felt her heart and lungs melt, and a warmth trickled down her body all the way to the soles of her feet.

  They walked down Taras Shevchenko Boulevard and along Tarasovskaya in silence. Every now and then, their arms touched. And every now and then, Natasha would raise her head and look up at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice. The silence between them felt tense but it didn’t feel awkward. Natasha knew she had to say something. Preferably something witty and humorous but at that point anything would do. Trouble was, Natasha couldn’t think of anything, witty or otherwise.

  Finally, she muttered, ‘I’m glad I bumped into you. I wanted to thank you…’ She paused. ‘For saving us.’

  ‘No thanks necessary,’ he replied. ‘I’m Mark, by the way. What’s your name?’

  ‘Natasha,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Natasha,’ he repeated.

  She liked the way he pronounced her name, drawing out every syllable and making them sound soft, melodious. Again, she wondered about his accent.

  He stretched his hand out and she shook it, her own hand barely half the size of his. She didn’t want him to let go and for a few seconds, he didn’t.

  ‘Mark. Are you…’ She paused. ‘Are you German?’ Holding her breath, she waited for his answer.

  ‘God, no. Hungarian. From Vacratot.’ Seeing the confused expression on her face, he added, ‘It’s a small village near Budapest.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about Hungary. Is it far?’

  ‘Not that far.’ He was looking straight at her, and Natasha felt her cheeks burn. She stared at the ground. Mark continued, ‘We share a border with Ukraine, as well as Romania, Croatia, Slovakia and Serbia.’

  ‘Sounds far,’ said Natasha. Other than her trip to Lvov last year, she had never been outside of Kiev. ‘Where did you learn to speak Russian so well?’
/>   ‘My parents are from Moscow. They left Russia during the Great War. Two of my brothers were born there.’

  ‘Two brothers? How many do you have?’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Any sisters?’

  Mark shook his head. ‘I’m the middle child, and I think by the time she’d had me, Mum was desperate for a little girl. She kept trying and trying. And now she’s stuck with seven boys. She calls us her football team.’

  ‘I have two brothers and a sister. We’re close, but Lisa can be very annoying. We’re fighting constantly.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘I used to fight with my brothers all the time. I really miss it now. Strange, isn’t it?’ Suddenly his smile was gone, only to come back a few seconds later wider than before.

  ‘Not that strange. You must miss home so much. Are your brothers soldiers like you?’

  ‘Four of them, yes. It was quite a tragedy for my mother, watching us leave one after another.’

  ‘Hungary, huh,’ said Natasha. ‘Aren’t you German allies?’ She remembered reading about it in the papers. Hungary had joined Hitler’s side in June, shortly after his attack on the Soviet Union. The country had a pro-German government but was reluctant to take part in the war. When the Hungarian town of Kassa was bombed, they blamed the Soviets for the bombing, finally allying with the Germans. Natasha’s grandfather was adamant that it was Hitler himself who had orchestrated the bombing to push Hungary into the war.

  ‘Reluctant allies,’ replied Mark, raising his head and appearing even taller. Something flashed through his eyes and for a second he looked sad. Transfixed, Natasha watched him.

  ‘And yet, here you are, in Ukraine, on Germany’s side. Fighting for Hitler.’

  ‘None of us had much choice. That’s another reason why this war is such a tragedy for my parents. They’re still very Russian at heart, despite the decades they have spent in Hungary.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Natasha. ‘My older brother Stanislav is fighting somewhere. Mama cries almost every day.’

  Mark said, ‘Hungary had no enthusiasm for the war. Yes, our political leaders made the decision to join the German side but no one felt any sympathy for this decision. Most of us were horrified by it. We thought it was a big mistake. No one I knew volunteered for this war.’

  ‘What happened when the war started?’

  ‘I was a member of the anti-fascist society at university, and we protested on the streets, encouraging soldiers to desert. In the end, it became too dangerous and we had to stop. And then my brothers and I were drafted. At first, my parents hid us in a barn on our farm. But we were discovered, my father was arrested, and before I knew it, I was on a jam-packed train headed for Lvov. And here I am, a sergeant in the Hungarian regiment, fighting against my beliefs.’

  How terrible, thought Natasha, touching his hand softly – wanting to touch his unsmiling face.

  ‘The country wasn’t prepared for war. We have no equipment, no machinery. Our mobile units are made up of bicycles. Our tanks are so fragile, they get stopped by pumpkin vines before they even make it to battle. But that’s not the issue. The issue is that we are unwilling participants in a capitalist war none of us can identify with. That we are dying for a principle we don’t believe in.’

  Natasha was so engrossed in what he was saying, she didn’t notice when they arrived at her door. They paused in the middle of the yard. Thankfully, it was deserted – she didn’t want the conversation to end.

  ‘We’re stationed at the library on Institutskaya Street,’ said Mark. ‘Do you know where that is?’

  Natasha nodded. ‘It’s a good library. With a great collection of the Russian classics.’

  ‘Which I’ve already discovered. When I’m not on duty, I read. I just started Lermontov’s Hero of Our Time.’

  ‘I love Lermontov. Even his prose reads like poetry. I’ve been rereading Tolstoy’s War and Peace.’ She glanced at a passing Nazi patrol. ‘Kind of ironic, really,’ she whispered. ‘My grandfather doesn’t approve of that book. He’s too pro-Napoleon to enjoy Tolstoy’s writing.’

  ‘Pro-Napoleon?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She smiled, imagining her grandfather in the fervour of one of his Napoleonic lectures. ‘He calls Napoleon a giant among pygmies. He says that…’ She tried to mimic her grandfather’s voice but failed, giggling. ‘If I remember correctly, his exact words were…’ She paused. ‘Ah yes, bigoted and corrupt Europe drowning in vices of the ancient regime was not ready for Napoleon’s progressive vision and far-sighted reforms. According to my grandfather, Napoleon was a genius who was at least a hundred years ahead of his times.’ Seeing the bemused expression on Mark’s face, she explained, ‘My grandfather is a history professor. One of the most respected in all of Ukraine.’ The familiar pride turned her voice a pitch higher. ‘I want to teach at university one day, too.’

  ‘What are you going to teach?’

  ‘Well, I was supposed to start my literature degree at the Taras Shevchenko University this month. If the Germans hadn’t…’ Suddenly she was too sad to continue. She changed the subject. ‘So what’s your favourite book?’

  He took her hand and smiled. Her heart beat faster and she no longer wanted to cry. ‘I can’t decide between The Count of Monte Cristo and The Three Musketeers.’

  ‘Dumas, really? I read the whole collection of his works when I helped out at the university library before the war.’

  Mark watched her, and she watched the ground under her feet. He asked, ‘Would it have been your first year at university? How old are you, Natasha?’

  Her face red, she whispered, ‘Nineteen.’ Raising her eyes to him, she tried to guess how old he was. He looked young, like Alexei, but unlike Alexei’s, his eyes seemed older, more serious, almost grown up. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Twenty-two.’ He smiled. ‘I have something for you.’ He rummaged in his rucksack and handed her an object made of glass and metal.

  She examined it. ‘Is— is it…’ she stammered. ‘You brought me a kerosene lamp?’ She blinked.

  ‘Now you’ll have enough light to read and look after your grandmother in the evenings.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she whispered, touched. There was a sudden tension between them, a tension she didn’t know how to break. The door to their building opened and a neighbour marched outside, glaring in their direction. Natasha was grateful that Mark wasn’t wearing his Hungarian uniform. She said, ‘Well, I’d better go. It’s getting late.’

  But she was reluctant to leave. She stepped from foot to foot and finally said, ‘Mark, I saw a notice near the gendarmerie. They are looking for those responsible for the murder in the park.’

  ‘Of course they are. That’s to be expected.’

  She looked around, making sure no one was there to overhear. ‘What if they find out it was us? I’m so afraid.’

  ‘Don’t be. No one saw us. There was no one around.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She tried to think of what happened that evening but couldn’t remember anything beyond her terror and Grandmother’s motionless body on the ground.

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘But what do they mean, the whole population of Kiev will pay for the murder?’

  ‘Threat and intimidation are their favourite techniques. That’s how they operate. Don’t worry. You are safe, as long as you don’t tell anyone you were in the park that day.’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone,’ she murmured. But she didn’t feel safe.

  He smiled nervously, clenching his rucksack. ‘If it’s okay, I’d like to see you again.’

  Her face brightened. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘How about if we meet at the same spot on Kreshchatyk tomorrow? Around eleven?’

  Natasha nodded, grinning despite her best efforts not to. She waved and walked towards her building. When she reached the front door, she turned around and found him still in the same spot, looking at her. ‘Mark,’ she called out. ‘Thanks again for helping us la
st night.’ Then she disappeared inside, running up one flight of stairs and pausing at the grimy communal window, so she could watch him cross the yard and disappear around the corner.

  *

  When Natasha returned home, she found the whole family gathered in the living room and Mother cooking in the kitchen. ‘Where have you been?’ asked Mother, and Natasha avoided her eyes when she told her about her visit to Olga and her conversation with the doctor.

  ‘I’m glad you’re back. Lunch is almost ready,’ said Mother, opening a can of fish and stirring something on the stove.

  ‘This looks like potato peel,’ said Natasha. ‘Fried potato peel.’ She picked one up, examined it, placed it in her mouth. It was crunchy and a little bitter. It would have been better with some butter but they didn’t have any.

  ‘I got half a kilo of potato peel at work,’ said Mother. Every day she had to report to school, even though there were no classes and no pupils. Mother and five other teachers spent their mornings reading, talking and playing cards at the empty school cafeteria. ‘I was lucky to get any. There wasn’t enough for everyone.’

  ‘They taste nice, Mama,’ Natasha said uncertainly.

  ‘We hardly have any food left. Almost no food left at all.’

  It was true. They didn’t have much to begin with, and now with seven mouths to feed, their supplies were dwindling. There were only a few cans of fish, a jar of pickled tomatoes, some flour, barley and carrots. ‘Don’t worry, Mama. We have enough for another week. We’ll figure something out.’

  ‘Maybe the Germans will start feeding us soon,’ said Mother.

  ‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ Grandfather muttered from behind his book.

  ‘You never know, they might,’ said Mother. ‘After all, they don’t want us to starve. They want us to work.’

  Father marched into the kitchen, followed by Lisa. In his hands he was holding an old book, which he placed on the kitchen table with a loud bang. He narrowed his eyes on Natasha and demanded, ‘What is this?’

  Natasha picked up the book. It was Tolstoy’s War and Peace, but not a copy she recognised. ‘I’ve never seen it before in my life. Where did it come from?’