The Story of Us

by Lana Kortchik

  ‘It wasn’t my fault, Lisa,’ said Natasha, unable to take the heartbreak in Lisa’s eyes.

  ‘Wasn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t. I’m sorry I couldn’t save Alexei. I wish I knew who killed the officer.’ As the lie slipped off her tongue, Natasha looked away, so afraid was she that Lisa would read the truth in her eyes. ‘You can’t punish me forever.’ When Lisa didn’t reply, she added, ‘Look what else I have for you. Some chocolate.’ It was the chocolate Mark had given her the last time she saw him. The dull ache inside her chest intensified.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ Lisa asked suspiciously.

  ‘From Olga,’ replied Natasha, without thinking twice. She was becoming more and more accustomed to lying.

  ‘Where did Olga get it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask.’

  ‘I’m not hungry. I just want to be alone.’

  Natasha placed the dress and the chocolate on the chair next to Lisa and went to clear the dishes. When she returned, Lisa was gone, but the dress and the chocolate remained. Natasha picked up the dress and threw it inside the wardrobe. Like any sisters, Lisa and Natasha had often argued in the past. Sometimes, they had arguments that resulted in the two of them not talking to each other for a few days. But this empty chasm between them was new, and Natasha didn’t know how to breach it.

  *

  In the last week of September, Mother came home from work with a handful of ration cards. ‘At last. They’ve decided to feed us.’

  The family gathered in the kitchen. ‘Two hundred grams of bread a week? Five hundred chestnuts? Are they serious?’ grumbled Father.

  ‘What are they trying to do, starve us?’ exclaimed Natasha.

  ‘I guess it’s easier than just shooting everybody,’ said Mother, who since their visit to the clairvoyant no longer spent her evenings crying over the picture of Stanislav.

  ‘I’d pay to see the Nazis live on two hundred grams of bread a week,’ said Nikolai.

  ‘They just want to force us to Germany for work,’ muttered Natasha. She kept hearing rumours about forced mobilisation to the Reich, but as yet there was no sign of it.

  At five the next morning, a bleary-eyed Natasha and her disgruntled father queued up for their food. ‘The earlier the better,’ said Father. ‘Who knows how much bread is available.’

  They waited in line for five hours. Just like in Soviet times, the queue spilled out of the shop and all the way down the street. But the people in this queue were different. There were no shouts, no raised voices, no fighting. Scared and subdued, the Soviets waited in silence for the tiny morsel of bread that the Nazis had decided to spare them.

  Natasha wished her mother had accompanied them to the store. Father barely uttered a word until, finally, at ten o’clock they received their bread. Father was right to go to the store early. There were no chestnuts left and as soon as they were served, the store closed. Everyone in the queue behind them left empty-handed. And yet, no one dared to argue. Father hurried Natasha home, hugging the bread close to his chest, as if afraid someone would jump out from behind a tree and wrestle it from him.

  When Natasha was a child, she had loved going to the store, choosing her bread and then carrying it back, still warm and smelling like nothing else in this world. Nikolai, Lisa and Natasha would take turns biting the chunks off the golden crust as they walked home until, to the fury of their father, nothing remained but the white insides. She missed that bread. What she now saw in front of her was nothing like that. Clay-like, odourless and heavy, it crumbled and fell apart under the knife.

  ‘What’s the matter with this bread?’ asked Nikolai, poking it with a fork.

  ‘It must be made from reserve flour,’ said Mother.

  ‘What’s reserve flour?’

  ‘Millet, barley, lupine and chestnut.’

  ‘That’s why it tastes so bitter,’ said Natasha.

  ‘It’s not bread, it’s brick. I’m not eating brick,’ said Mother, putting her portion back on the plate.

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Lisa, swallowing her own bread and reaching for Mother’s.

  ‘Here, Lisa, have some of mine,’ said Natasha. Lisa ignored her.

  The family were having their tea when a thin German soldier appeared in the kitchen. His face was freckled, his hair red, his feet outsized and his eyes downcast. His cap was in his hands. He couldn’t have been older than eighteen. Natasha recognised him as one of the soldiers staying with them. Mother, Natasha and Grandfather stared at him in silence. Lisa was taking slow and thoughtful sips of her tea. It was so quiet, Natasha could hear a mosquito buzzing.

  At first, the soldier said nothing but looked around the room, examining each of the Smirnovs with great attention. Finally, his gaze stopped on Lisa and he smiled. Then he took one giant step towards an empty chair and sat down, placing his cap on the table but not letting go of it. He continued to twist it, as if battling with nerves.

  Mother stood tall in front of the soldier. ‘What are you doing here? What do you want from us?’ He shook his head to indicate he didn’t speak any Russian. It didn’t seem to deter Mother, however. ‘You can’t just waltz in here. This is our home. You’re not welcome. Don’t they teach you manners at school?’ She turned to the rest of the family. ‘Why do I even bother? All they know is how to kill innocent people.’

  ‘It’s their house now, Zoya,’ said Grandfather.

  ‘It will never be their house. They can stay here but soon—’ Mother didn’t finish her sentence but shook a fist in the German’s direction. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice. He was looking at Lisa, who, having finished her tea, was staring at a spot on the wall.

  ‘What are you waiting for? Go back where you’ve come from,’ Mother demanded.

  This time the soldier looked straight at Mother and, to everyone’s surprise, started crying. His shoulders shook as he buried his face in the palms of his hands and muttered something incoherent in German.

  Mother was taken aback but only for a minute. Invigorated by the effect her words produced on the young boy wearing a German uniform, she continued, her voice even louder, ‘Yes, cry, you filthy Nazi. Soon all of you will be crying. Who invited you to this country? Look at the misery you’ve brought, look how many people you’ve killed. Where is my eldest son? Where is my mother?’

  The soldier stopped crying. He smiled at Mother and said something.

  ‘He says his name is Kurt,’ explained Natasha. ‘That’s the only thing I understood.’

  The German reached into his pocket and showed them a picture that was turning yellow around the edges. In the photograph, a young couple held hands and smiled at one another. ‘It must be his parents,’ said Natasha. ‘This photo looks quite old.’

  ‘He must miss them. Look how sad he is,’ said Grandfather.

  ‘He is sad? No one’s invited him here.’ Mother threw a look of disdain in the soldier’s direction.

  ‘Come on, Mama. Be reasonable.’

  ‘Natasha, ask him what he wants from us,’ said Mother.

  The soldier kissed the photograph before putting it away. Through it all he never stopped talking.

  Grandfather said, ‘Gosh, he can talk. Just listen to him. And I thought Nikolai talked a lot.’

  Another photograph appeared in Kurt’s hands, this time of a young and beautiful girl in a wedding dress.

  ‘I think he’s saying that he has a wife back home,’ said Natasha.

  ‘How long is he planning to sit here? It’s late, I must go to work.’ Mother’s eyes remained on the soldier, and her face was still guarded, but her voice was no longer angry. ‘No manners,’ she muttered under her breath.

  ‘I don’t know, Mama. He looks lonely.’ Even though the soldier was German, Natasha wasn’t afraid of him. There was something helpless in the way he looked at them with his big, sad eyes, the way he talked in his boyish voice. Natasha handed him a piece of German-issue bread. ‘Here, try some.’


  Kurt brought the bread close to his face and inhaled, then tore off a tiny piece and placed it in his mouth. A few seconds later he said in broken Russian, ‘Bad bread. Terrible bread.’ To the amusement of the family, he handed the remainder of the bread to Natasha and shook his head. Then he said something to her, sensing she was the only one who could understand him.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ demanded Mother.

  ‘I don’t know, Mama. He speaks too fast.’

  The German repeated his speech, slowly this time, drawing out every word, pointing first at himself and then at the Smirnovs. This time Natasha was able to grasp the gist of what he was saying. ‘He thinks we’re a wonderful family. We remind him of his family back in Germany, whom he misses very much. Being here makes him feel like home. He thinks he’s lucky to be staying with us.’

  Kurt looked like a little boy, happy and excited. Even Mother seemed touched. Her face relaxed into something resembling a smile. The soldier saluted the family and left, but returned a moment later, handing Natasha a jar of jam.

  When he was finally gone, Natasha said, ‘Mama, look! Strawberry jam.’

  Mother said with a sigh, ‘He’s a mere boy, younger than our Stanislav.’

  Grandfather nodded. ‘What a waste this war is, what a shame, for our people as well as most Germans.’

  When Nikolai returned from the library and heard about the encounter, he demanded his share of jam from Natasha.

  ‘You’re too late, we ate it already,’ said Natasha, hiding the jar behind her back.

  ‘No, you didn’t. I know you too well. You wouldn’t leave your poor brother to die from hunger.’ He pulled Natasha’s hair with one hand, while with the other reached for the jam.

  In the evening, everyone had a small piece of bread with some jam. Everyone, that is, except Mother, who refused to touch anything that had come from the Nazis, and Lisa, who didn’t seem interested. Natasha waited for the delicious sweetness to fill her mouth and relished it on her tongue. She didn’t want the taste to end.

  Chapter 6 – The River of Death

  September 1941

  The next evening, Natasha hurried to Kreshchatyk. Every day, she would try to exchange her books for something to eat, but she hadn’t been successful. The villagers asked for gold and valuables, sometimes warm clothes and furniture, but they were not interested in books. A couple of days ago Olga had received a dozen potatoes for her brand new fur coat. ‘What will you wear in winter?’ Natasha had asked.

  Olga had shrugged. ‘Who knows where we’ll be in winter. But we need to eat now.’

  Kreshchatyk was cordoned off, and no one was allowed to pass. A strong wind was blowing, and the fire that had been consuming Kiev for the last few days was spreading fast, its golden glare reflected in every window. Proreznaya and the corner of Pushkinskaya were ablaze. An explosion startled Natasha, and she backed away, turning her back to the fire. But even with her back turned, she could still see a dark cloud hanging over Kiev. A dark cloud that seemed to swallow the entire city whole. There was nothing left, not even a glimmer of hope.

  Every bench was occupied, and the Soviets huddled together in small groups, their possessions by their feet. Some of them still wore their pyjamas, as if the fire had surprised them in the middle of the night. Natasha suspected these poor people had slept right here, on the benches. Curfew was no longer observed now that the Kievans had nowhere to go.

  On Lva Tolstogo a large procession ambled past Natasha in the direction of the river, reciting prayers and hymns in monotone voices with dull faces, icons and crosses raised high above their heads. It was as if two decades of Communism with its enforced atheism and a ban on religion had never existed. Faced with a crisis, people turned their eyes to God as if He was their only hope.

  Unable to get through to the centre of town, Natasha turned back. When she was around the corner from home, she noticed a blue piece of paper glued to a wall of a tall building. She didn’t think much of it at first, so many notices appeared from the Nazis almost every day, but when she read it, a chill ran through her. The Jewish population of Kiev was ordered to appear on the corner of Melnykova and Dokterivska Streets, at a place called Babi Yar near the Lukyanovskoe cemetery, bringing their valuables and a change of clothes. They had three days. Failure to do so was punishable by death. Natasha wished she could run to Podol and warn Olga, but it was after curfew and not safe out.

  *

  Natasha was still in bed when she heard a soft knock on the door. It couldn’t be the Germans, she thought. The Nazis didn’t bother knocking but walked straight in. When they did knock, they did it loudly and persistently. The sound outside was more like a mouse scratching. Natasha opened the door to a flustered Olga.

  ‘Olga, I’m so glad to see you. I was just about to come and find you.’ She didn’t know how to bring up the notice on the door, but then she saw a blue piece of paper in Olga’s hand. She motioned her friend inside and closed the door behind her.

  ‘Can’t stay long. My mama’s waiting for me at home.’ Olga’s face was no longer covered in grey smudges, but her hair was messy, and so were her clothes. Her eyes were round, panic-filled.

  Natasha hugged her friend. ‘Is your mama making anything nice for dinner?’ Olga’s mother was the best cook Natasha knew. ‘Maybe some of her signature blinis or pelmeni? If she is, I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Blinis, I wish,’ said Olga, and the two of them smiled sadly. ‘How is Lisa? Still upset?’

  Natasha nodded. ‘Heartbroken.’

  ‘I can imagine. Not talking?’

  ‘Oh, she’s talking all right. Just not to me.’

  ‘Not to me, either. I tried to speak to her yesterday.’

  ‘I didn’t know you came by yesterday.’

  ‘You were out. Where were you, by the way? Your mother said you’re hardly ever home.’

  ‘Oh, here and there. Nowhere. Keep your shoes on,’ said Natasha as Olga tried to take her boots off. ‘It’s cold. Come and try some of our German-issue bread.’

  ‘It’s alright. You can keep it. I already had mine.’

  ‘What? All two hundred grams? It was supposed to last you two weeks.’

  The girls chuckled, and then Olga sighed. ‘How I wish we’d evacuated in summer. We’d be safe now and…’ She looked away without finishing her sentence.

  ‘God knows we tried.’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Olga. ‘We did try. When we couldn’t get on the train, you know what I thought?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That maybe we’re meant to stay here. Maybe it’s a good thing. Leaving seemed so final. Like we were willingly giving up our Kiev to the Nazis. I almost felt relieved. But I’m not so sure anymore.’

  Natasha peered into her friend’s face. ‘Olga, are you alright? Is it the order from the Nazis? I saw it yesterday.’

  Without a word Olga handed the piece of paper to Natasha. It was crumbled as if a nervous, trembling hand had clutched it too tight. Natasha unfolded it. ‘Too dark to read. Let’s go to the kitchen.’

  In the kitchen, behind the wooden door that separated the Smirnovs from the Nazis, Natasha looked at the same notice she’d seen the day before. ‘Olga, you can’t go,’ she said. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘What choice do we have? Mama thinks they’ll send us to Germany for work. That’s why they ordered everyone to bring a change of clothes. But I don’t know what to believe.’

  ‘Lukyanovskoe is near a train station. Maybe they will send you to Germany,’ said Natasha. It was in line with the rumours she had heard. Yet, something was bothering her. Something wasn’t quite right, like a book that was out of place on her otherwise perfect bookshelf.

  Grandfather said, ‘You mustn’t go, young lady. We are talking about at least a hundred thousand people. There aren’t enough trains to transport you all. You’ll be going to your death.’

  Natasha shuddered.

  Father said, ‘Why would they kill so many people? It’s not in
their best interest.’ He turned to Olga, who looked sick with fear. ‘They’ll probably exchange you for German POWs.’

  ‘The Nazis have been building concentration camps and segregating Jewish people for years,’ said Grandfather.

  ‘Concentration camps?’ exclaimed Olga, her face pale.

  ‘What goes on inside them, no one knows. And it’s best not to find out, don’t you think?’

  ‘We’ll find a way to hide you…’ Natasha gazed at the door that was too thin to block the loud German songs seeping in from the living room. She trembled. There was only one person who could help them. Mark. If only she hadn’t pushed him away.

  ‘If we don’t go, they’ll shoot us. And it’s not just me, it’s Mama. She would never disobey an official order.’

  ‘What about your grandfather?’

  ‘My grandfather isn’t Jewish. He wanted to come with us but we convinced him not to. He’s sick and too old to travel. He can stay home and wait for us to come back.’ Olga contemplated Natasha’s pale face. ‘Don’t worry. It will be alright. Whatever happens, it can’t be as bad as this life. Worst-case scenario, they’ll send us to Germany. So what if they do? There, at least, they’ll feed us and we’ll have jobs.’ She tried to sound cheerful, but her voice cracked.

  ‘That’s not the worst-case scenario,’ muttered Natasha.

  Olga went home to help her mother pack, leaving the blue piece of paper crushed on the kitchen floor. It rolled into a corner and remained there, drawing Natasha’s gaze. As hard as she tried, she could think of nothing else.

  *

  As fast as she could, Natasha ran to Institutskaya Street. She didn’t know how long she sat on the bench opposite the building that had once been a library but now served as barracks for the Hungarian garrison. Soldiers walked in and out, none of them Mark. Finally, when she was almost ready to give up and go home, she thought she saw the familiar tall silhouette. Calling his name, her heart in her throat, she hurried across the road.

  He heard her and stopped abruptly. In the middle of the street flooded with German uniforms, the two of them stared at each other in silence. He looked like he hadn’t slept well the night before. His eyes were dark, his face thinner than she remembered. Finally, he said, ‘Natasha, what are you doing here?’