‘You’re my sister and I worry about you. You know what I saw yesterday?’
‘What?’
‘Three women beaten by the Soviets because they were seen walking with the German officers. They left them bleeding in the middle of the road.’
‘Don’t worry, it won’t happen to me. People don’t hate Hungarians like they hate the Germans.’
‘I hope you’re right. But please, be careful.’
‘Don’t worry. I am.’
‘Oh yeah? That’s why I stumbled on the two of you kissing practically outside our windows? Lucky it was me and not Papa.’
Natasha knew Nikolai was right. Her father’s anger was like the burning Ukrainian capital. All the waters of the Dnieper would have been insufficient to put it out. ‘Thank you for being so understanding,’ she whispered.
‘So what are you planning to do?’ asked Nikolai. The scarf was wrapped around his neck like a purple python.
‘About what?’
‘About Mark.’
‘Why do I have to do anything?’
‘You don’t think about the future?’
‘What future, Nikolai? We are taking it one day at a time.’
Natasha wandered from room to room, whispering her goodbyes, making her peace with the place where she’d grown up, the place filled with so many happy memories. It wasn’t just a house, it was an old friend whom she had loved and cherished. Her heart was heavy. Would she ever come back here again? She felt as if she was leaving her old life behind forever.
What would the new life bring them?
She paused in her brothers’ room. Her grandmother’s jumper was still draped on the back of a chair. Natasha buried her face in its reassuring softness, envisioning her beloved grandmother’s face. What did Nikolai say? Jasmine and valerian. Through her tears Natasha smiled.
Dozens of trophies lined the shelves next to Stanislav’s bed. He was a keen boxer, and Natasha would often watch him, clenching her own fists as he clenched his in the ring, fighting a nervous sensation in the pit of her stomach that would transform into triumph or despair, depending on the outcome of that particular match. She wished she could take at least one of the trophies with her, but there was no space in her little bag.
There were two unoccupied rooms at the Kolenovas’ apartment. Lisa, Natasha and Nikolai took Olga’s bedroom, while Mother, Father and Grandfather shared the living room. After being confined to the small kitchen for so long, Natasha felt as if they were royalty living in a palace. Before going to bed, Lisa and Natasha went through Olga’s old photo albums. They looked at photos of Olga and Natasha riding bicycles, chasing each other in the park, rowing and swimming in the river. Natasha rubbed the pictures with her finger, stroking Olga’s smiling face. How could she live without her best friend for the rest of her life, when she couldn’t imagine living without her for a week?
‘Do you think she’s still alive?’ asked Lisa.
Natasha thought of Mark’s friend, killed for trying to protect an innocent girl. She thought of the two of them rushing to Olga’s apartment only to find her gone. I don’t think so, she almost said. But then she saw the heartbreak in her sister’s eyes and whispered, ‘Of course she is. As soon as the war is over, she’ll come back. Her mama, too.’ Lisa smiled, visibly relieved, and Natasha thought, Here it is, another lie on my conscience. But even though she hated deceiving her sister, she knew it was what Lisa needed to hear. To face everything the future had in store for her, she needed Natasha’s lie, so she could have hope.
‘Lisa, look. It’s you as Cinderella,’ Natasha exclaimed, pointing at one of the photographs.
Lisa peered at the picture in the light of a candle. ‘When was it? Second, third year of school?’
‘I think so. We were eight and nine.’
Lisa grinned. ‘Just look at my gown. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful? I remember having to fight every other girl at school for the role.’
‘They didn’t stand a chance. You were the most beautiful Cinderella. Everybody said so.’
Natasha closed the old album, putting it back in the drawer. She blew out the candle.
Lisa whispered, ‘I still feel like my heart’s been ripped out. Will it ever get better?’
Natasha suspected Lisa wasn’t talking about Olga anymore. ‘It will. With time, it will.’
‘You’re always in and out of the house. Where do you go?’
‘Nowhere. To the market, mostly.’
‘You are being careful, aren’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I saw out of the window this morning? A young girl, still a teenager, heavily pregnant. Germans were leading her somewhere. She couldn’t walk very fast, so they pushed her. They pushed her and pushed her until she fell. They got angry and hit her in the face with a rifle. Then just left her bleeding in the snow. No one dared help her up.’
The sisters fell quiet. Natasha could hear the wind howl outside. It sounded like a frightened animal. She shivered and pulled the blanket over herself. Finally, Lisa whispered, ‘I’m scared, Natasha.’
Natasha was struggling to stay awake. Her eyelids were heavy, her eyes hurt. She kissed Lisa’s cheek. ‘What are you scared of?’
‘Dying. Would you believe it? I never really thought about it before. But now it’s all I can think about.’
‘I know what you mean.’ It was another lie. It had never even occurred to Natasha. She was scared, too, but not for herself. ‘I’m sorry about Alexei. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I know,’ whispered Lisa.
From her sister’s regular breathing, Natasha knew Lisa was asleep. She covered Lisa with a blanket, brushing a loose strand of hair away. She wished she could sleep as easily. But how could she, when only a few days ago her friend Olga was in this bed, unaware that her time was almost up. She’d had hopes and dreams, and an image in her head of what she wanted her future to be, and now none of it mattered anymore, because Olga was gone. One minute she was here, laughing and hugging Natasha, sharing confidences and telling her to hope. The next, she was gone.
Natasha closed her eyes and felt for Olga. Was she still out there, waiting for a better time so she could see Natasha again? Trembling, Natasha called out to her in the dark. Olga, can you hear me? Are you still here? Since we were three years old, hardly a day went by when I didn’t speak to you. And here I am, still speaking to you, still telling you about my fears and my heartache, but in reply I hear nothing but silence. Please, come back, so I don’t feel so alone. In her best friend’s bed, clasping Olga’s favourite teddy bear, Natasha cried for her best friend and prayed for a miracle that would change their lives for the better, because she didn’t think they could possibly get any worse.
Chapter 8 – The Snow and the Illusions
November 1941
November came in a flurry of last autumn leaves and wet snow. Natasha thought of balmy summer evenings with longing as she put on layer upon layer of clothes and battled the wind, and endured the snow. She covered her face with a scarf and pulled her hat over her ears but still, the wind seeped through and the snow singed her skin.
And winter hadn’t even started.
Ilinskaya Street, where the family had moved, was situated in Podol, one of the oldest suburbs of Kiev that lay on the right bank of the mighty Dnieper. Podol was the very spot where Kiev had begun, many centuries ago. In ancient times it was home to merchants and traders. Hundreds of years later, not much had changed: Podol had retained its rowdy beauty and exuberance. Until now.
‘Did you know Podol burnt down in 1811? Most of it was destroyed,’ Grandfather told Natasha one grim November afternoon.
‘I didn’t know that.’ Natasha was looking out the window at the empty square where, as a child, she had often played with Olga and her dog Mishka.
‘Yes, before Kreshchatyk as we know it today even existed. Back in those days, Podol was the administrative and cultural centre of Kiev. It was Kiev.’
‘Why did it burn, Dedushka?’
Grandfather’s shoulders stooped. ‘I guess for the same reason Kiev is burning now.’
The Smirnovs had been lucky to find a place to live. After a month of relentless fires, many people were homeless. Having her own bed to sleep in and a room to share with her siblings, being able to walk from room to room without fear – what a relief! Natasha would have rejoiced if it wasn’t for the bleak news from the front. According to the Ukrainian Word, Simferopol and Kerch had been taken by the Germans. Orel, Belgorod, and Kharkov were in Hitler’s hands. Although bombed every day, Moscow and Leningrad were still fighting for survival. Kiev was still burning, and executions at Babi Yar continued, even though the river of condemned had gradually dwindled to a creek. Not because the Germans relented, no. Because there was hardly anyone left to execute.
Olga’s grandfather Mikhail was a retired railroad engineer. In his spare time, he was a keen historian and ancient coin collector. The Germans had confiscated his extensive collection on the first day of the occupation, but Mikhail kept photographs of every coin and entertained the Smirnov children for hours, telling them the history and funny anecdotes behind each item.
Natasha was pleased to see an occasional smile on Grandfather’s face as he engaged in lively historical debates with Mikhail. Their favourite topic was Napoleon. Tirelessly the two of them dissected the Napoleonic period under the microscope of their historical knowledge, examined it from the vantage point of hindsight and drew their – often conflicting – conclusions. Natasha held her breath, listening eagerly, unlike Lisa, who would roll her eyes and stick her tongue out, whispering ‘Boring’ to Natasha.
‘Napoleon was nothing like Hitler,’ Grandfather would argue. ‘Did you know that in fifteen years in power he didn’t initiate a single war? He was always fighting defensively. He is judged for having been militarily superior to his opponents, that’s all.’
To which Mikhail would reply, ‘What about his Egyptian campaign? Did he fight defensively then?’
‘Napoleon was not in command then. The Directory was. In 1798 he was a mere general.’
On and on it went. Did Napoleon have the right to proclaim himself Emperor? What was he thinking when he embarked on his disastrous Russian campaign? Was his return from Elba an unprecedented triumph or a dire mistake? And was he a despicable dictator or a progressive force in history? No detail was spared, no stone unturned. Every reform, campaign and move was analysed. Although Grandfather was a professor with many decades of experience, he had found a worthy opponent in Mikhail.
Mikhail was what Natasha’s grandfather called a perpetual optimist. But occasionally, when he thought no one was looking, Natasha would find him hunched over the kitchen table, an old photo of Olga as a five-year-old in front of him.
And he wasn’t the only one. One morning, Natasha found Nikolai at Olga’s desk, absentmindedly going through her bookshelves. Her textbooks, her school notepads, her music sheets. Her favourite books, toys, records. When he looked up and saw Natasha watching him, he said, ‘She taught me how to ride a bicycle, you know.’
‘She did?’
He nodded. ‘Right here, in the park outside. I was six and kept falling off and grazing my knees. I’d cry, and she’d tell me not to be a baby. Get up and try again, she’d say. And I would.’
‘That sounds just like her.’
‘And when I finally got the hang of it, she told me I could have her old bike because every boy needs one growing up.’
‘I remember that bike. It was rusty and old.’
‘But it was all mine.’ He looked out the window with a faraway expression on his face, as if he could see his six-year-old self racing a rusty old bike through the park. ‘Do you think we’ll see her again?’
It was the same question Natasha had been asking herself since Olga left, the question that filled her heart with pain and longing. ‘Of course,’ she whispered. But by the expression on Nikolai’s face, she knew he wasn’t convinced.
The apartment on Ilinskaya was filled with ghosts. Everywhere she turned, Natasha saw Olga’s heartbreaking face. There she was, on her bed, reading aloud from a tome of Pushkin’s poems to Natasha and Lisa. And if Natasha looked out the window, Olga was there, building a snowman. In the kitchen, she would ask Natasha if she wanted a cup of tea, and Natasha would shake her head, but Olga would pour her one anyway. And every time Natasha would reach out to touch her, Olga would be gone like an early morning dream. But Natasha would still be there, lost and alone, with her soul in pieces.
There was a piano in the living room, and every day Natasha would beg her mother to play. At first Mother refused, saying she was too exhausted. On the first day of November her school had finally reopened to pupils. Hardly anyone had sent their children to school, however. Parents didn’t want to take the risk. They preferred to have their little ones nearby where they could keep an eye on them. The school had no heat and no water. There were no textbooks, no teaching plans and no class journals, only Mother’s experience and heart.
And yet, Natasha didn’t think exhaustion was the reason Mother didn’t want to play the piano. The spark was gone from her eyes, and her shoulders were stooped with worry. She was an old woman at fifty. Natasha thought music would cheer her up, would cheer all of them up. And so she didn’t give up – every evening she would ask her mother to play, until one day Mother finally relented, and the apartment filled with familiar chords of Tchaikovsky and Mozart, Beethoven and Bach. The whole family gathered around the piano, their heads moving in time to music, hands clapping and feet tapping. Tears were in Grandfather’s eyes, and Natasha couldn’t help but cry herself, so many happy childhood memories were conjured by the sounds that escaped from under her mother’s skilful fingers. Even Father was smiling, and Natasha hadn’t seen him smile since before the war had started.
It was 5th November and Father’s birthday. The family gathered in the kitchen, but no one was in the mood to celebrate, least of all Father himself. Mother’s piano fell quiet for the evening, and Father perched on a chair, drinking tea and reading his newspaper. Every few minutes he would swear quietly, cursing the paper’s pro-Hitler tone and anti-Bolshevik propaganda. ‘Kerch and Sevastopol are bombed,’ he muttered.
‘By the Nazis?’ asked Mother.
‘Who do you think?’
Waltzing into the kitchen, Lisa said, ‘Natasha, can you make me a cup of tea?’
‘But they said two days ago that Kerch and Sevastopol were in German hands. You read it to me yourself. Remember?’ said Mother.
Nikolai said, ‘Lisa, don’t you know how the teapot works?’
‘Yes, Lisa, why can’t you pour your own tea?’ muttered Natasha. Lisa frowned. Sighing, Natasha reached for a cup. ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’ Pouring the tea, she added, ‘Papa, if they already took these cities, why are they still bombing them? It doesn’t make sense.’
Lisa took the tea from Natasha, and without thanking her sister, sat down next to Mother. ‘I heard the Germans no longer take prisoners but shoot everyone on sight. Does the paper mention anything about that?’
Father said, ‘They don’t know what they’re saying. Every word is a lie. Just look at this. It says here the Red Army is destroyed. And yet here they say Moscow is resisting. How can Moscow resist if the Red Army is destroyed?’ He pushed the newspaper away with disgust. It slid off the table and landed on the floor. Natasha picked it up. Every day she read the paper with trepidation, her heart stopping every time another Russian city was ceded to the Germans, another piece of Russian land was lost, possibly forever. But she still read every word, hoping for a titbit of good news, something to lift her spirits. To find good tidings, she had to read between the lines of extensive Nazi propaganda. The newspaper said that Leningrad was starving and was about to give in to Hitler. It was good news. Leningrad still held.
‘This tea is cold,’ grumbled Lisa. Everyone ignored her.
‘Feodosiya was taken,’
whispered Natasha.
Nikolai said, ‘Don’t worry. They won’t hold it for long. The Red Army will retake it soon enough.’
‘I thought the Red Army was destroyed?’
‘Only in the papers,’ said Nikolai, winking.
Natasha wished she shared her brother’s confidence. The truth was that with every newspaper, with every bleak report from the front, with every lost town and every burnt village, her faith dwindled.
*
Early the next morning, Natasha hurried to Kreshchatyk to meet Mark, who was on city patrol. Trams were running again, but it was mostly the Germans who used them. They rode the trams for free and occupied the front of the rusty carriages. The Soviets were allowed to ride at the back but had to pay for their tickets. Natasha heard rumours about shootings on carriages and dead bodies thrown out of the doors. Dead Soviet bodies.
She didn’t want any trouble. She walked.
The Soviet statues of Lenin and Stalin had been pulled down only to be replaced by German monuments of military figures, people with moustaches whom Natasha didn’t recognise. Only the statue of Vladimir the Great, the city’s protector, the oldest monument in Kiev, still stood on the Vladimirovskii Hill, the very spot where Prince Vladimir baptised Kievan Rus one sweltering July ten centuries ago. The sight of Saint Vladimir holding his shiny cross in blessing made Natasha feel less afraid as she made her way down the deserted riverbank.
Now that the city was occupied, Kreshchatyk had been given a German name: Eichhornstrasse, in honour of the German general who had entered Kiev during the Great War in 1918. Many buildings sported yellow-and-blue Ukrainian flags, as if the Nazis would ever allow an independent Ukraine. The streets were empty. The majority of the Germans had moved to Kharkov, and Kiev stood ghost-like and shrouded in eerie silence.
Natasha didn’t recognise the streets of her childhood. She didn’t recognise the burnt-out buildings, the blackened trees or the scorched earth. Occasional explosions were still heard, and fire was still a problem. Every day new notices appeared on the walls, threatening mass executions if the fires didn’t abate. You will pay for every burnt-down building, these notices seemed to shout from every street corner. As if Kiev hadn’t already paid with thousands of lives lost in the ravines of Babi Yar.
The Story of Us Page 13
