The Story of Us

by Lana Kortchik

  ‘They killed two hundred innocent people? Why?’ On his face she saw disbelief, incomprehension and, finally, horror.

  ‘You tell me. You are one of them.’

  ‘I am not one of them.’ His shoulders stooped, as if her words were a weight pulling him down. ‘I’m so sorry, Natasha. I had no idea.’

  ‘What would you do if you knew? Would you come forward and tell them it was you?’

  ‘To save two hundred innocent lives? Yes, I would.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ She was shivering and couldn’t get warm. He shrugged and turned away from her. She added, ‘What we are doing is wrong and you know it.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Can’t you see? It’s the only thing that’s right.’

  ‘I know it’s wrong because I have to keep you a secret from everyone I love. I have to lie to everyone I know. When I walk down the street with you, I pray we don’t run into anyone who could recognise me.’

  ‘When the war is over, we won’t have to hide. This day will come, we just have to be patient.’

  Natasha prayed for the day when she could tell the whole world about her feelings for Mark, when she could bring him home and introduce him to her family. When she imagined this day, she felt the cold despair inside her melt a little. But then she remembered Olga’s words. ‘You are on their side, Mark. On Hitler’s side. You are a part of this horror. Don’t you feel responsible for what is happening?’

  ‘Every day of my life. But what choice do I have?’

  ‘There’s always a choice. They sent you here, to the Soviet Union, to fight against us. Yes, it wasn’t what you wanted for yourself. But you made a choice to go along with it. Because it was easier, because it was safer. I understand.’ She looked up into his face and her lips trembled. ‘But everywhere in the world, people risk their lives to defy Hitler. How can I be with someone who chose to support him?’

  He staggered away from her as if she had slapped him. So much hurt was in his face, so much shame, she regretted her words instantly. She wanted to hold him close and tell him how sorry she was. But instead, before her resolve weakened, she got up and walked away, her tears blinding her.

  *

  Despite all their prayers, Grandmother didn’t get better. Natasha ran to fetch the doctor, but all she found was a terrified Olga who hid in the wardrobe and didn’t come out until she heard Natasha’s voice. The German doctor was no longer staying with them. He had disappeared the day before, and no one knew what had become of him.

  On the way home, Natasha knocked on Petr Nikolaev’s door, her heart skipping in fear as she recalled the drunken Germans in his apartment. She didn’t expect to find the doctor and wasn’t surprised when there was no answer.

  As she cooked lunch, she tried not to think of Mark because thinking of him filled her with agony. She tried not to look at her sister, who hadn’t moved from her corner. Lisa’s eyes were closed and her body rocked to some sad, monotonous melody that only she could hear.

  ‘Babushka, I made some barley. Please, have some. You need your strength,’ Natasha begged, holding the small plate in her lap with hardly a handful of gluey flakes boiled in water, with no milk, no salt and no butter. ‘If you don’t eat, you won’t get better.’

  ‘Maybe it’s for the best.’ Grandmother’s voice was faint. It was barely a whisper.

  ‘Don’t say that, Babushka. You’ll be okay. Once the fever goes, you’ll be good as new.’ Natasha adjusted her pillows.

  ‘It’s better not to see what’s happening to Kiev. What’s happening to all of us.’

  ‘Please, Babushka! Don’t talk like that. We are all still here and we need you.’

  Grandmother groaned and lifted her head, swallowing a spoonful of barley. Chewing seemed to take the last energy out of her. She collapsed on the bed, breathing heavily.

  Now that summer was truly over, it got dark early. It was barely seven in the evening when the family gathered in the shadowy kitchen, Mark’s kerosene lamp illuminating the room, the walls, and their pallid faces. No one spoke. Grandfather held Grandmother’s hand, watching as she shuddered in her sleep.

  Gradually, one after another, they drifted off to sleep. Mother and Father stretched out on the floor, Lisa was in the corner, Nikolai and Grandfather slept in the two armchairs that the Germans let them take from her parents’ bedroom. Only Natasha remained by the little folding bed, afraid to close her eyes, afraid to miss what could be the last moments with her grandmother.

  In the eerie light, Grandmother’s face was still, her skin grey.

  ‘Babushka?’ Natasha whispered, shaking her grandmother’s hand that was cold and motionless. ‘Babushka!’

  ‘Yes, dear?’ said Grandmother softly.

  Relieved, Natasha asked, ‘Were you asleep? Does your shoulder hurt?’

  ‘Doesn’t hurt as bad as before.’

  ‘That’s good!’ cried Natasha. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ She moved a strand of grey hair that was covering Grandmother’s eyes.

  ‘Yes, dear, it’s good.’ Grandmother coughed heavily.

  Natasha watched the kerosene flame that was quivering on the shelf. ‘Remember the soldier who helped us?’ Grandmother shook her head. Natasha looked around to make sure everyone was sleeping. ‘He’s Hungarian. His name is Mark.’ Her voice was barely audible. She didn’t want Grandmother to notice her heartbreak. ‘I saw him again and thanked him for saving our lives.’

  ‘Bless you, child.’ Grandmother’s trembling hand touched Natasha’s face. ‘May God protect you and guide you for as long as you live. May He bring you all the happiness you deserve.’

  Natasha cried, silent tears that no one could see in the dark.

  ‘Babushka, remember when I was five and we went to pick raspberries in the forest? And I ran after a squirrel and got lost?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘On the way home I cried so much, you let me eat all the raspberries we picked. There was nothing left for the pie.’

  ‘Your papa wasn’t pleased.’ Grandmother’s wrinkled face relaxed into a sad smile.

  ‘I love you, Babushka.’

  ‘I love you too, child.’

  Natasha blinked her tears away. Her heart hurt.

  She struggled to stay awake but couldn’t. When the first rays of sun woke her up, she was still holding her grandmother’s still hand. She shook her grandmother, slightly at first and then more and more desperately. Grandmother didn’t stir. Her unblinking eyes stared through Natasha. Her body was stiff.

  ‘Babushka,’ Natasha whispered, no longer crying. She kissed her grandmother’s forehead, kissed her eyes closed, then woke the rest of the family. Tears rolled down Grandfather’s wizened face. Nikolai was sniffling in his armchair, and even Lisa got up and embraced Mother, who was sobbing uncontrollably. Father was mutely staring into space, his eyes red.

  ‘Alexei is dead, and now Babushka,’ whispered Nikolai. ‘Who will be next?’

  Chapter 5 – A City Ablaze

  September 1941

  The small house on the outskirts of Kiev smelled of incense and garlic. Natasha inhaled, trying not to sneeze. The curtains were tightly drawn, and a yellow candle was the only source of light, illuminating old books and parchments on the shelves, and dried herbs tied together with twine. Outside, there was a chicken coop without the chickens and a doghouse without the dog. Natasha suspected the pigsty she had noticed in the far corner of the garden was empty, too. The Nazis had requisitioned the birds and the animals, just like they had requisitioned all their food supplies.

  Natasha and her mother watched as a withered old woman in front of them chanted under her breath. Natasha didn’t believe in clairvoyants, but Mother had insisted they visit Marfa, who had accurately predicted Zina’s marriage. According to Zina, everything Marfa foretold had come to pass. And now here the two of them were, looking for answers no one else could give them.

  Natasha suspected Marfa wasn’t the one with the answers either.
/>   ‘What do you want to know?’ squawked Marfa, reaching for a rusty pot filled with green liquid.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Mother shuffled from foot to foot. ‘Just about my son… Stanislav. He left for the front in June. We want to know if he’s okay.’

  The woman hummed and mumbled, mumbled and hummed. Her voice was unexpectedly deep for someone so frail. She sprinkled some powder of an unknown origin in the pot and waited, her mouth moving in incantation. Natasha glanced at the door, pondering how long it would take to make her escape. Soon, the candle flickered and died, and Natasha could no longer see anything other than the woman’s creased face and crooked smile.

  Suddenly Marfa fell quiet. She whispered, ‘He was wounded.’ Natasha felt her mother’s hand grab hers tightly. ‘He’s better now. He is fighting. Pray, and he’ll come back to you. There’s great strength in prayer. When the Red Army comes back, so will your son.’ Mother’s grip relaxed.

  Feeling slightly braver, Natasha muttered, ‘I have a question.’ Both Marfa and her mother turned around. It took Natasha a few seconds to find the courage to say, ‘Will I ever get married?’

  The clairvoyant took Natasha’s hand, turning it over. Natasha wondered how Marfa could see in the dark. Clearly she couldn’t, because she grunted, released Natasha, and stumbled towards the table in search of matches. The candle burning bright once more, Marfa scrutinised Natasha’s hand. ‘Yes,’ Marfa murmured. ‘Your husband will be tall.’

  Tall! Natasha held her breath, while her heart pumped sadness through her veins. Over and over she replayed her last conversation with Mark. Why did she have to say such hurtful things to him when all he’d ever done was help and support her? She wished she could take every hurtful word back.

  ‘He’ll have blond hair and green eyes,’ continued Marfa.

  ‘Dark hair, you mean?’ exclaimed Natasha. Her mother raised an eyebrow. Natasha stared at the floor.

  Mother interrupted, ‘One more thing. Will we win the war over Germany?’

  ‘That, Comrade, even I can’t tell you.’

  Mother paid Marfa with their last can of meat. On the way home, she was almost cheerful. ‘Marfa’s never been wrong. If she says Stanislav is okay, he must be okay.’

  Natasha didn’t want to share her opinion of Marfa and her credibility with Mother. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Mother smile like this. Besides, she too wanted to believe her brother was safe.

  Mother practically ran home, eager to give the good news to the rest of the family. Natasha could barely keep up.

  It took them two hours to reach the centre of Kiev, and when they did, they found it more crowded than usual. It seemed to Natasha that people were not so much walking to get somewhere as walking away from something. The streets were swarming with Nazi uniforms, and in place of the usual confident smirks, there was panic on their faces. ‘What’s going on?’ asked Mother. Natasha didn’t know, so she didn’t reply. And that was when they heard the first explosion. People were shouting, German and Russian voices sounding equally desperate, equally afraid, but the shouts were soon lost in more explosions.

  Mother and daughter paused for a second, glancing at one another, and then increased their pace. The smell of fire – putrid, acrid, heavy – intensified as they got closer to the town centre. Finally, opposite the university they saw flames. The blaze coloured the sky red, rising above the buildings, embracing them like fiery snakes. The smoke made Natasha’s eyes sting. She coughed and gasped for breath. Mother directed her towards Taras Shevchenko Park, where Natasha was able to breathe freely again. But then she looked up and saw the spot where the Nazis had executed Alexei. Once again, her chest constricted as if the smoke was still filling her lungs.

  When they finally returned home, Natasha hesitated before walking through the door. She was no longer thinking about the fires, or Marfa and her predictions, so afraid was she of facing the Nazi officers who were living with them. The Nazis behaved as if the Smirnovs didn’t exist, like they were pieces of furniture that had come with the house. Only occasionally would they order one of them to fetch water from the pump or boil the kettle. Every time she heard German spoken in her home, every time she caught a glimpse of a Nazi officer coming out of the bathroom, Natasha would hold her breath in silent fear. This fear sat like an ice block inside her, thawing away a little when the Nazis went out during the day, but never truly going away.

  All was quiet in the apartment. The Germans were nowhere to be seen. Thank God.

  In the kitchen, Mother opened the curtains. Natasha could see a cloud of dark smoke rising above Kreshchatyk.

  ‘It’s the Nazis. They’re burning our Kiev. They are going to destroy the city and all of us with it,’ said Father at dinner that evening. Natasha didn’t think it qualified as dinner. All they had left was a handful of potato peel, three wilted carrots, and one tin of tomatoes. Divided among six people, it was nothing. Grandfather had had to pierce an extra hole in Natasha’s belt because her clothes were hanging on her like a tent. Father had no cigarettes left, and he was even more morose than ever. Being around her father at the best of times was like walking on thin ice. A careless word, a hasty gesture, a mere look and the ice could break. But these days things felt even more volatile.

  ‘Can’t be the Germans,’ said Nikolai. ‘I heard them earlier. Apparently something happened at the gendarmerie.’

  ‘What happened?’ Natasha wanted to know.

  ‘A bomb went off or something. Many Nazis died, some of them high-ranking officers.’

  ‘You heard them? I didn’t know you spoke German.’

  Nikolai shook his head. ‘I don’t. Lisa translated.’

  ‘Oh.’ Natasha looked at her sister, who was mutely staring out the window.

  ‘Could it be the partisans?’ asked Mother, pouring herself a cup of strong tea. They still had plenty of tea.

  ‘I hope so, Mama,’ said Natasha. There were no definite reports of any organised partisan activity, but the city was abuzz with hopeful rumours.

  ‘It’s the Bolsheviks. They mined all the important buildings in Kiev before they left. Just like 1812 when Moscow burnt in front of Napoleon and his troops,’ mumbled Grandfather. Ever since they had buried their grandmother, he almost never spoke, never moved from his chair and no longer read his books. He had always been slim but now he looked transparent. His clothes hung loosely on his withered frame and his eyes were dull.

  ‘Dedushka, you need to eat,’ whispered Natasha, placing her own potato peel on his plate and doing her best to ignore her rumbling stomach.

  Natasha suspected Grandfather was right. The fires were the parting gift for the Nazis from the Bolsheviks. Explosions continued through the night. The deafening sound would reach them first, and then the ground would shake. Night no longer existed. It was as bright as day outside, but the light was frightening and had an orange tinge to it. Curled up in bed, Natasha listened to Lisa’s breathing. It sounded heavy and laborious, as if Lisa was crying. Natasha hadn’t seen her sister cry since Grandmother died. All Lisa did was stare mutely into space, as if she no longer cared what was happening around her. Surely the tears were a good sign?

  ‘Lisa, are you awake?’ asked Natasha.

  Nothing from her sister.

  ‘How are we going to live without our babushka?’

  Still nothing.

  ‘Remember when we were six and seven, and Babushka took us to buy a puppy? She said every family needs one because a dog means unconditional love. And then she fought with Papa, who didn’t want a dog. I don’t know what she’d said to him, but he agreed to keep Mishka. And she was right. He was our best friend. Remember?’

  Lisa didn’t reply but lay still like a mouse, not moving and no longer crying.

  ‘I love you, Lisa. And I’m sorry,’ said Natasha.

  As Natasha looked out the window, it seemed to her as if all of Kiev, from Podol to Lavra, was in flames. She knew that for as long as she lived she would not forget t
he inferno that was destroying her beloved city. And for as long as she lived, she would not forget the helplessness she felt as she watched building after building collapse, as if they were made not from brick and mortar but paper.

  *

  Since she was a little girl, Natasha had loved sewing, loved the satisfaction of creating something new, the feeling of being just like her mother, so grown up as she pressed on the little pedal and watched the needle go clunk-clunk-clunk through the cotton of a half-finished dress or a shirt or a pair of trousers. The whirring noise of her mother’s sewing machine had never failed to bring her comfort, and even now, it drowned all the other noises in her head, except for Mark’s name and the insistent din of It wasn’t my fault.

  ‘Lisa, look what I’ve made for you,’ she said to her sister one afternoon. ‘A new dress.’

  Lisa didn’t look up. What was it she was reading? Natasha peered closer and recognised Lisa’s diary. The same diary her brother had hidden as a prank on the first day of the occupation. Why did it feel like a lifetime ago?

  ‘Oh Lisa, what are you doing? Why are you reading that? You’ll only upset yourself.’

  ‘Today is six months since Alexei asked me to marry him,’ said Lisa. She narrowed her accusing eyes on Natasha.

  ‘Why don’t you try this on?’ Natasha held out the dress she’d spent the last few nights making for Lisa.

  ‘I don’t want a new dress, Natasha.’

  ‘When have you ever said no to a new dress? Look at this fabric. It’s pure silk. I found it at the market. They wanted my golden earrings for it. The ones Mama gave me for my sixteenth birthday. But it was worth it. Just look at it.’

  ‘I don’t want a dress. I want Alexei back.’

  Natasha sat down on the floor next to Lisa, fighting an urge to hold her close. ‘Remember when Mama made us identical dresses? You refused to wear yours because you didn’t want people to think we were twins. Even at five you wanted to stand out. But all I wanted was for everyone to know we were sisters.’

  Nothing from Lisa, not even a shrug.