Grandfather was reading. For a minute she watched his kind face, wondering if she would ever see him again.
‘Why are you crying, my dear?’ Grandfather asked. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing, Dedushka. Everything is fine. I just feel so lost sometimes, that’s all.’ She sat on the bed next to him. ‘You know, when I was little, I wanted to be just like you when I grew up. You always seem to know what to do, no matter what. How do you do that?’
‘The trick is to always follow your heart, even if it’s the hardest choice you could possibly make. Only then will you have no regrets in life.’
‘I wish I could do that. I wish I was strong like you.’ Natasha studied her grandfather’s face. She wanted to memorise every little detail. ‘What are you reading, Dedushka?’
It was a textbook on military history from antiquity to modern times. ‘Knowledge of the past will arm us in the present,’ he said.
The textbook was at least eight hundred pages long. She looked at the table of contents. ‘See, there were other horrible wars in the past and people survived them. We’ll survive this one, too.’ Suddenly she felt like crying. ‘Napoleonic Wars. The Thirty Years’ War. Imagine a war that lasts that long. I could barely live through the last six months, let alone thirty years.’
‘As terrible as the Thirty Years’ War was, it was very different from what we are facing now. It wasn’t what’s known as total war.’
‘Dedushka, is the war with Germans…’ She stammered. ‘Total war?’
Grandfather nodded. ‘Just like the Great War before it, this is indeed total war.’
‘It won’t last thirty years? How can it?’
‘I doubt humanity could sustain thirty years of conflict on such a massive scale.’
‘That’s good to know.’ Natasha smiled sadly. ‘Soon it will all be over, and our lives will go back to normal.’ She took her grandfather’s hand. She couldn’t believe how small it was. ‘I love you, Dedushka.’
‘I love you too, granddaughter,’ he said. Natasha held him close and, making sure he didn’t notice, made a sign of cross over him. Please God, protect my dear grandfather until I can see him again.
In the corridor, Nikolai was already waiting to walk her to the spot where the truck would pick her up. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She thought she looked ridiculous in the oversized coat her mother had borrowed from one of her friends the day before. It didn’t matter. She needed to be warm.
They were running late. She pulled Nikolai by the sleeve. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘Wait, I can’t find my gloves.’
Her brother was stalling. She had never seen him look so sad. She put her arms around him. ‘I love you, Nikolai,’ she whispered.
Lisa poked her head around the corner, looked first at Natasha, then at Nikolai, chuckled and said, ‘Where are you two off to? And why are you dressed like a polar bear?’
Natasha hid her backpack behind her back, hoping Lisa wouldn’t notice.
‘Nowhere,’ said Nikolai, opening the door and prodding a reluctant Natasha who was desperate to hug her sister goodbye. More than anything she longed to confide in Lisa, but it was impossible. With a start, she realised her relationship with Mark was the first real secret she had ever kept from her sister. Hiding from Lisa that she was leaving, possibly for good, possibly to never see her again, made Natasha feel sick to her stomach and uncomfortable, as if a large fishbone was stuck in her throat.
Natasha’s legs turned to jelly and she lost her footing on the stairs. Leaning on Nikolai’s arm, she walked down. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll look after you.’
‘When did you become so grown up?’
‘June 1941.’
Most of the roads were unusable because of the sheer amount of snow that had piled up in the last few weeks. There was only one road at the back of their building that was still kept in working condition by the Germans, and that was where Mark was meeting her. A couple of German officers wandered past, warm woolly kerchiefs under their helmets, multiple scarfs wrapped around their necks. They fell through the snow and swore quietly in German. If she wasn’t so nervous, Natasha would have laughed at the sight of them.
She expected to see Mark’s truck waiting for her, but the street was deserted. Suddenly Natasha felt a dark sense of foreboding. She remembered waiting for Mark on the day she had lost her best friend, just like she was waiting for him now. She remembered the feeling of acute heartbreak and despair.
There was no one outside but their mother. She embraced Natasha, handing her a small bag. ‘I packed two boiled potatoes and some bread. You can have a snack in the car. There are some warm clothes here, too.’ Mother sobbed, hiding her face from the wind.
‘Mama, please don’t cry. It’s too cold to cry.’ But Natasha herself was crying.
Mother looked so small in the yellow light of a street lamp, so frail and afraid, her eyes so dull. Could Natasha kiss her cheek and turn her back on her, get into the truck, look back for a second and wave goodbye? Could she do all that and break her mother’s heart?
‘I’m glad I don’t have to worry about you anymore. You’ll be safe, fed, looked after,’ murmured Mother.
Natasha remembered Mark’s words. Your mother would put you on that truck herself if she had to, Mark had said to her. Only now, seeing the determination in her mother’s eyes, did she fully believe him.
Mother said, ‘I know letters don’t get through but write anyway. Anything could happen. After all, we did see a Soviet plane.’
‘I love you, Mama. Please, look after yourself. Say goodbye to Lisa and the others for me.’
They waited in silence. Wet snow seeped through Natasha’s boots. Cold wind seeped under her clothes. Layers and layers she wore, and still it wasn’t enough to stave off the winter. It wasn’t a Ukrainian winter anymore. By some inexplicable twist of fate, what they had in January 1942 was a brutal Siberian winter, the likes of which she had never experienced before. Shivering, Natasha rubbed her bare hands together. Mother took off her gloves. ‘Take them. You’ll need them on the road.’
‘Thank you, Mama,’ whispered Natasha, kissing her mother. Before she put the gloves on, she touched the photographs in her pocket. For a moment she wished she had a picture of Mark but then she almost laughed at herself. I will see him in a minute, she thought, I don’t need a photograph. ‘Mark asked me to marry him last night and I said yes.’ Natasha realised Mother was about to meet Mark for the very first time. Nervously she paced.
Mother pulled her close. ‘I’m so happy for you. It’s wonderful news. You know, when Vasili asked me to marry him, I was already three months’ pregnant with Stanislav. I was only seventeen. My father broke my mother’s favourite vase when he found out, he was so angry. He didn’t stop shouting for a week.’
‘Dedushka was shouting? I don’t believe you.’ Natasha had never heard her kind, quiet grandfather raise his voice.
‘He was frantic. But I was so in love, I didn’t care. I said I would leave with Vasili and live on the streets if I had to, as long as I was with him.’
‘Mama, I had no idea.’ It was hard to imagine her proper, restrained parents being young and in love.
‘It was your babushka, God rest her soul, who talked some sense into my father. “No grandchild of mine is going to be born on the streets,” she said.’
‘Oh Mama, I’ll miss you all so much.’
‘We’ll miss you, too. But it’s not farewell. We’ll see each other soon.’
Natasha stared into the distance until her eyes watered. Far distance, middle distance, and still no sign of him. ‘He should have been here by now,’ she muttered. Cars drove by, their headlights blinding, but none of them stopped. ‘What time is it?’
Nikolai glanced at his wrist and said, ‘It is now ten past five.’ Seeing their bemused faces, he added, ‘What? I took Yuri’s watch. I’m sure he won’t mind.’
Ten past five. Natasha’s heart sank. Mar
k was over an hour late.
Mother’s cold fingers squeezed Natasha’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, dear. Anything could’ve happened.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’
‘Anything,’ repeated Mother. ‘The truck could’ve broken down. Not surprising in this weather. The trip could’ve been delayed.’
Nikolai took his gloves off and rubbed his nose, which had turned red from the wind. ‘We should get back. It’s past the curfew.’
Natasha refused to move. ‘You go. I’ll wait. If he comes, I’ll run upstairs and get you.’
‘Mark knows where we live. I’m sure we’ll hear from him tonight or tomorrow,’ said Mother. ‘No point staying here in the cold.’
But Natasha was adamant. Mark had told her to wait outside, and that was exactly what she was going to do. The three of them stood and paced and talked in bright voices, trying to cheer each other up. The road remained empty. Mother hopped on the spot, trying to warm up. Natasha said, ‘Mama, you must be freezing without your gloves. Please, go home. I’ll walk to the barracks and see if I can find out anything. I won’t be long.’
Mother looked as if she was about to argue but then she saw Natasha’s distressed but resolute face. ‘We’ll go to the barracks together,’ she said.
Gingerly they walked down the icy slope. Natasha could almost make out the drab door of the building that served as barracks to the Hungarian regiment when she felt the treacherous ground slip from under her feet. Letting go of Nikolai’s arm, she collapsed, hurting her knee. The snow, the street lights, the naked trees, everything span and twirled in front of her. As if through a mist she heard her mother’s bewildered voice. And as if through a mist she felt her brother’s strong hands shaking her.
*
Natasha woke up late the next day to find her mother touching her forehead. Cautiously she opened her eyes. She felt groggy. First thing she said was, ‘Any news?’ Once again shutting her eyes, she recited a prayer in her head.
Mother placed a tray on the bed next to Natasha. ‘Here, have something to eat.’ On the tray, Natasha saw a slice of bread and a cup of tea. ‘Claudia from downstairs let me have a spoonful of butter. She insisted. Said you carried a note to a prisoner camp for her once. Where an old lady managed to get real butter, I have no idea.’
Natasha ate listlessly. She wasn’t hungry.
‘Are you feeling any better?’ asked Mother.
Taking two sips of tea, licking the butter off the bread, taking one bite and putting what was left back on the tray, Natasha said, ‘I must go to the barracks.’
‘Wait, finish your food first. You need to eat.’
‘I’m feeling a bit queasy, actually. I can’t eat this, it tastes like cardboard.’ Natasha held her breath, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass.
Instantly Mother looked concerned. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘I’m fine, Mama. Don’t worry.’
‘Did you say, queasy?’
‘Just a little bit.’
‘How long have you felt like that?’
‘A while. Not too long. A few days, maybe.’ There was realisation on her mother’s face, then concern. Natasha added, ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. Not enough food, that’s all.’ Mother was watching her in silence. ‘What?’ asked Natasha. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Could you be… you know?’
‘What?’
‘Pregnant.’ Mother mouthed the word soundlessly, looking around, making sure there was no one else in the room.
Natasha thought of the few times in the last week when she had been sick at work. She remembered feeling too nauseous to eat, every once in a while having to sit down to catch her breath. What if she was pregnant? What would Mark say? He wanted a child so much. He would be so happy. But so were Masha and her husband when she was expecting their youngest. All Natasha could think of as she lay in bed contemplating her uncertain future was Masha’s helpless tears in their kitchen on Tarasovskaya as she mourned her baby’s death. Natasha lowered her head. She couldn’t be pregnant right now. ‘I don’t think so, Mama,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so at all.’
When Mother left, Natasha forced herself out of bed. Where she found the strength to put her coat on, to put her hat on, to tie a scarf around her neck, to make her way down the stairs and into the bitter cold, she didn’t know. Her legs quivering, her heart quivering, she walked to Mark’s barracks through the nearly empty streets of Podol. The intense temperatures of the last few days had subsided. It was only minus fifteen. The Siberian winter was gone. The Ukrainian winter remained.
The door to Mark’s barracks was firmly shut. Natasha removed her gloves and pulled the handle, noticing that her hands were shaking. When the door wouldn’t budge, she slipped on the ice and fell. Swallowing her tears, she dusted herself off. Snow clung to her coat, and she could feel slush in her boots. None of it mattered. She used both her hands to pull at the door as hard as she could.
The door gave way.
Natasha didn’t have the courage to walk in. As she stood in the doorway to Mark’s barracks, she wished she had brought Nikolai with her. She listened for a sound, a sign of life. All was quiet. A few weeks ago, when it was still warm enough to go for walks, she had met Mark right here, on this spot. He gave her an orange. To this day she had no idea where he found an orange in the occupied Ukrainian capital but it appeared in his hands as if by magic, making her smile. That was what he’d always done. He had made her smile.
She had to go in. She needed to know what had happened to him.
Slowly, she strolled through what looked like a large dining hall, finally finding herself in a room with a couple dozen beds. The room was empty. There were no personal belongings, no indication that a regiment of young men had lived here only a day ago.
She wandered from bed to bed, wishing she knew which one was Mark’s. She felt strangely excited at being in the room where he had spent the last few months, where he’d slept and read and joked and breathed. It made her feel closer to him. After she completed a full circle around the room, Natasha leaned on the wall, wondering what to do next. It was obvious that the Hungarian garrison was gone, probably back to Hungary. There was no trace of Mark.
She was about to leave when out of the corner of her eye she noticed something under one of the beds. She crossed the room to have a better look. It was a rucksack and it looked familiar. It couldn’t be…
Even before she heaved it from under the bed, she knew it was Mark’s.
Slowly she unclenched her frozen fingers and opened the rucksack. It was full to the brim with Mark’s things. There were maps, papers, pens, and, to her delight, a letter to his mother. She had never seen his handwriting before. It was neat, round and a little childish. The letter wasn’t finished and only consisted of a couple of lines — a greeting to his family and a couple of sentences about the weather. Natasha kissed the words that were written by his hand, folded the letter and hid it in her pocket.
At the very bottom of Mark’s backpack, there was a jumper and a pair of socks. Natasha hugged the jumper close, hoping to catch a trace of Mark’s scent. Underneath, she found the Dumas book she had given Mark on the day the first snow fell in Kiev. She was about to put the book back in the rucksack when she noticed a piece of paper hidden between the pages. It was covered in small writing that was difficult to decipher. The writing was unmistakably Russian. Just as Natasha suspected, it was a letter from Mark’s mother. Eagerly she read every word. And when she finished reading, she rose to her feet and rushed to the dining hall, where she threw up in the sink. Then she returned to the room and read the letter for the second time. ‘I’m counting the days until your return,’ wrote Mark’s mother in her neat, grown-up handwriting. ‘And I’m not the only one. All Julia talks about is your wedding. Everything is ready. She even bought a dress at the local shop. Wait until you see it, she will look stunning in it. All we need is the date of your arrival, so we can let people know.’
/> Everything went dark. Natasha could no longer see the beds, the room, the broken window. Her legs couldn’t support her. They were no longer made of flesh and blood but of melting snow. With her eyes shut, she sat on the floor. She didn’t know how long she remained there, her face dry, her heart hurting. She had never felt more alone. If only Mark was here. He would know what to say to make everything alright. He would explain everything, and it would all make sense again. Her life would make sense again.
Or was she just lying to herself, like Mark had been lying to her all this time?
But through her doubts and through her fears, something was bothering her – Mark never went anywhere without his rucksack. If he returned to Hungary without her, if he deserted her in the Soviet Union so he could marry the unknown Julia who he had never even mentioned, why did he leave all his personal belongings here, in the abandoned barracks, under his old bed?
Natasha couldn’t remember how she made it back home. Once there, she collapsed on her bed and didn’t get up.
*
Natasha drifted in and out of consciousness. When she finally opened her eyes, it took a few seconds for the events of the previous day to come back to her. Instantly, she regretted waking up. If only she could sleep for a week, a month, a year, the war would be over and this thing she was feeling, this excruciating pain inside her would be over, too. The Dumas book and Mark’s letter to his mother were in bed next to her. She hid the letter under her pillow and thought of Mark. She desperately needed to lay her eyes on him once more. She needed to see him because she couldn’t bear this crushing agony alone.
Her chest was burning. She coughed.
Her lips were dry. All she could see out the window was snow falling in a wall of luminous white. She reached for the glass of water on her bedside table and took a couple of hasty sips. Muffled voices reached her from the living room. She had to make an effort to hear them.
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