‘Is she alright?’ demanded Lisa.
Her mother replied, ‘I hope so. I couldn’t find a doctor to take a look at her.’
‘She’s coughing a lot. She’s always in and out of the house without so much as a scarf. She was bound to catch something.’ Lisa sounded worried. Natasha felt a momentary wave of affection for her sister. Lisa continued, ‘Is she going to die? I don’t want Natasha to die.’
‘She’s not going to die.’
‘Mama, it’s all my fault,’ Lisa sobbed.
The voices quietened. Why was it Lisa’s fault?
Natasha slept.
Next time she woke up, it was already dark. Someone was arguing in the kitchen. This time she couldn’t hear what was being said. Three distinct words reached her, however: Mark, Gestapo and arrest. Shouting was followed by the sound of a slammed door, then all was quiet again.
A little bit later, Nikolai came to see her. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
She thought about it. Her head was heavy as if filled with lead. Her stomach hurt. Without answering his question, she said, ‘Nikolai, have you seen Lisa?’
‘She went out a couple of hours ago. Why?’
‘Tell her to come and see me as soon as she’s back.’
Mother came in with a cup of tea and a piece of beetroot. There was no bread and no butter. The sight of food made Natasha sick. She pushed the plate away but took a sip of the tea. It was hot and burned her mouth.
When Nikolai left, she asked, ‘Mama, where is Lisa?’
‘Eat something,’ said Mother. ‘You haven’t eaten for two days.’
The room was cold but Natasha was sweating. She sat up and took off her jumper. ‘Where is Lisa?’ she repeated. Her eyes followed Mother as she flitted around the room, opening the curtains and straightening the pillows.
‘She went to stay with one of her friends for a while.’
‘What did Lisa do?’
‘Nothing, dear. Get some rest.’
‘Mama, I heard you. In the kitchen yesterday, what did she say?’ As hard as she tried, Natasha couldn’t catch her mother’s eye. She continued, ‘She said something about the Gestapo. Did she tell them about Mark? Is that what happened? Please stop moving and talk to me.’ Natasha watched as the last remnants of colour left her mother’s already pale face. ‘She did, didn’t she? What did she tell them?’ she whispered.
‘I don’t know what she’s told them. She wouldn’t say. All I know is that he was arrested.’
The room swayed in front of Natasha. She couldn’t think straight. What could Lisa possibly tell the Gestapo to have Mark arrested? She didn’t know he was the one responsible for the murder in the park. Or did she?
‘How could she, Mama? How could she?’ Natasha’s voice was barely a whisper.
Mother sat next to Natasha. ‘I know what she did was wrong but I’m sure she had your best interests at heart.’
‘My best interests?’
‘She didn’t want you to make a mistake. And she thought going to Hungary was a mistake. She was trying to do the right thing. She misjudged the situation, that’s all.’
‘Misjudged the situation? She has no idea – she wouldn’t know the right thing if it slapped her in the face.’ Natasha rose on the bed and then let herself fall again. She had no energy for confrontations. ‘Mama, please, tell me it’s not true. Tell me he left without me, tell me he went back to Hungary. Tell me he no longer loves me. I don’t care, as long as he’s safe.’
Softly Mother stroked her head, whispering, ‘Shh, shh.’
‘I can’t bear the thought of him dying. Not now. Not when he was so close to safety.’
‘We don’t know what happened, dear. He could still be alive. He might’ve been arrested and at this very moment he’s thinking about you and trying to figure out a way to come back to you.’
Natasha tried to imagine her Mark’s face. His alive, smiling face. She couldn’t. No longer able to control herself, she shook and sobbed. ‘It’s my fault. If he’d never met me, he would have been in Hungary by now. He would have been alive.’ She was convulsing in Mother’s arms.
‘It’s not your fault, darling. He loves you very much and he knew the risk he was taking. Don’t blame yourself. It is not your fault.’
‘You’re right. It’s not my fault. It’s Lisa’s. Don’t let her anywhere near me. If I ever see her again, I’ll kill her.’ She shook. ‘Mama, I wish I was with him when it happened. I wish we were captured in the truck together. I can’t bear the thought of him alone and afraid. I wish I was there with him. I would rather it was me dead and not him.’
‘Please, don’t say that. Whatever happened, he knew how much you love him.’ Mother held Natasha tightly, refusing to let go. ‘Please, have something to eat. You need your strength.’
‘Don’t you see, Mama? Nothing matters anymore. Nothing at all.’
Natasha could no longer stand the pity on her mother’s face. She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. When Mother left, Natasha prayed for the oblivion of the last couple of days but sleep wouldn’t come.
She’d thought the day her grandmother died was the most painful day of her life. Yet, even then, in her grief and despair, she still had hope. She believed in so many things. She believed the Red Army would return and defeat the Germans. She believed the war would be over, as suddenly and unexpectedly as it had begun. She believed that one day she would be happy with the man she loved. Now, as she watched the fabric of her life split open, she knew that her faith was forever gone.
Blinded by tears, she tried to remember the last time she saw Mark. Was there any indication, was there a sign that it was the end? Did it feel different, more intense, somehow final? She groaned in pain. The last time she saw him, in their last moments together, as he held her in his arms, he had told her how much he loved her and although she’d wanted to, she didn’t have the strength to say it back. She didn’t have the courage to open her eyes and look into his loving face. Now, as she clasped her sheets and struggled not to scream, she wished with all her heart that the last time she and Mark had been together, she had told him how much she loved him. She wanted to go back in time and force her mouth open, force her eyes open so that his face would be forever etched in her mind.
Natasha could no longer breathe. She was suffocating. She stumbled outside, down the stairs and onto the freezing street. It was deserted. The cold instantly numbed her bare skin. She fell on the snow. There were no tears left. Instead, she wailed like a wounded animal. She clenched her stomach and screamed until her voice was hoarse and she could scream no more. As if in a frenzy, she repeated his name. ‘I love you, Mark,’ she whispered. ‘I love you so much. Come back! Please, come back.’
She was the city of Kiev, ravaged by fires, decimated by mortars, broken by war. It was as if an explosion had raged through her torn and twisted heart, leaving nothing in its place but an empty shell.
An elderly neighbour tried to help her up, but Natasha struggled against him like she was possessed. Finally, the old man left her alone and went to fetch Mother and Nikolai. Together they dragged Natasha upstairs. From her bed, she could hear their voices, careful whispers that reached her through the haze of her grief.
Finally, she slept.
*
It was quiet in the cafeteria but for the ticking of the clock, but for Natasha’s heavy heartbeat. ‘Mark, remember when we walked in the park together for the first time?’ she asked, her eyes twinkling in the dark.
‘How could I ever forget?’
‘I wanted to kiss you so much that day. It was all I could think about.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
She imagined them in the park together. Imagined them on a bench next to each other, their legs touching, their hands touching. ‘I was too shy.’
‘Why were you shy?’ He clasped her in his arms and she groaned.
‘I was shy because I couldn’t believe that someone like you could be interested in someone lik
e me.’
He looked transfixed by her. ‘Well, believe it, because you are all I can think about.’
‘Do you know when I first knew I loved you?’
‘Tell me.’
‘The day Olga was taken away. You were the only person I wanted to be with on that terrible day.’
‘That’s when I knew I would do anything for you. I wanted to move mountains for you, dry rivers for you just to see you smile.’
She kissed his face, kissed his hair, light butterfly kisses that tickled and soothed.
‘I will never forget the autumn day when I first met you,’ he whispered.
Kissing his lips, she said, ‘I will never forget the day when I found my true love.’
Part II - The Everlasting Hope
Chapter 14 – Rays of Sunshine
September–October 1942
On the day Natasha became a mother, there was a storm in Kiev. After two weeks of the autumn sun shining summer bright (Indian summer, Mother called it), thunder bellowed and rain pounded. Natasha didn’t notice any of it. She was blessedly, peacefully asleep, her arms around her swollen belly, her legs up on a cushion. Being almost nine months’ pregnant, sleep was the only thing she could do effortlessly and well.
As if through a haze she heard her brother’s voice. Reluctantly she opened her eyes and saw Nikolai perched on the couch next to her. In his hands he held a pair of knitting needles and a ball of yarn, still attached to a half-finished creation she had been working on before she fell asleep. ‘What is this supposed to be? A hat?’ he asked, waving it in front of Natasha’s unfocused eyes.
With great difficulty she sat up. ‘A sock, silly.’ She reached out to wrestle the yarn from her brother, but he evaded her, moving to the opposite side of the couch with a grin and a chuckle. She could tell he was taunting her and considered going after him but the effort! If she got any bigger, she might need a forklift to help her up.
For a second or two Nikolai scrutinised the sock she’d spent the last two nights slaving over. Finally, he said, ‘It’s a bit big.’
‘That’s alright,’ she replied defensively. ‘The baby will grow into it.’
‘A baby elephant would have to grow into it. Love the colour, though. What is it, washed-out pink?’
‘That was all I could get at the market,’ said Natasha.
‘Does it mean I’m having a niece?’
‘Of course you are. What did you think?’
‘I was hoping for a nephew.’
Natasha sat up and stretched. ‘Well, you were hoping wrong. It’s a girl.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I can feel it.’
‘Boys are much more fun. You can teach him how to play football. Take him to play hockey in winter. Do you know any girls who play football?’
Olga played football, thought Natasha. She played football better than any boy. But she couldn’t say that to her smiling, teasing, exasperating brother.
Nikolai pinched her. ‘Thought so. Boys are so much better than girls.’
Not looking up, Natasha said, ‘According to Mama, all baby boys do is pee in your face and cry. Girls are so much more refined.’
Nikolai scrunched up his face in mock distress. ‘Did I really do that? I must apologise to Mama for my unrefined behaviour.’
‘Come here, you unrefined one. Why don’t you help me make some socks?’
Red-faced and laughing, Nikolai said, ‘Me, knit? Are you serious?’ And he rushed off in the direction of the kitchen.
Natasha could follow him to get something to eat, to find a book to read, to talk to her mother. Or she could go back to sleep, and by the time she woke up, it would be evening and another day would have gone by. As time went by, she found it harder and harder to go about her daily tasks. Natasha was so slow, it took her twice as long to get dressed, to cook what little food they had, to make it across the road to pick up their ration of unpalatable bread. She hoped it was the pregnancy but suspected it was more than that. She was as thin as a rail, and only her round stomach protruded. Despite her family’s best efforts, she wasn’t getting enough food.
And yet, she was one of the lucky ones.
Almost a year after the Nazis had entered Ukraine, no one could even begin to estimate with any degree of accuracy the exact number of dead and dying in Kiev. On every corner, on every street there were children, men and women of all ages, but mostly the elderly, their hands outstretched, their mouths entreating, their faces red with embarrassment. In their new wartime lives they were reduced to begging, and yet their hardships hadn’t erased from their memories their old, happier lives. Lives in which they were respected teachers, doctors or factory workers. Their need didn’t make their predicament any easier or less humiliating. There were more people begging than those who could give them anything, if only a tiny morsel. Nazis, arrogant, haughty, disdainful, arm in arm with beautiful Ukrainian women, stepped out of the ‘Germans Only’ restaurants, contented after a hearty meal, and sauntered past the poor and the destitute, without a glance and without a thought. They didn’t notice them like they didn’t notice the cars that whizzed by or the trees that were turning gold. Soviet people, on the other hand, noticed everything and lowered their heads, lowered their gaze in shame because they had nothing to give. Because they, too, were only one step away from walking the streets with their hands outstretched.
Often there would be a knock outside, and Natasha would open the door to a withered, exhausted, wounded man, aged beyond his years, who was returning from one of the prison camps. He wouldn’t even have to say anything, she saw it in his eyes. The hunger, the pain, the desperation, she saw it all. She would sigh and lower her head in shame because she had nothing to give. And through it all, she thought of her father. She thought of her brother and prayed that, wherever they were, someone would give them a piece of bread that they needed to survive.
She thought of Mark.
More Hungarian troops had been sent to Ukraine in the early summer of 1942. The first time Natasha had seen a soldier in a familiar brown uniform, her heart had stood still and she had paused in the middle of the street, mouth open, hands shaking. She’d dashed across the road as fast as her condition allowed, hoping to catch up with the tall figure. She didn’t breathe once in all the time it took her to reach him, to grab him by the arm, to peer into his face. It wasn’t Mark. The shock was so severe, she sank onto the pavement and sobbed. Seeing a crying pregnant girl on the ground in front of him, the soldier didn’t know what to do. He helped Natasha to her feet and walked her home, saying something in a language she didn’t understand.
The second time she had seen a group of Hungarian soldiers, she knew Mark wouldn’t be among them. Still, she’d run after them, to look at them, to hear them talk, to ask questions. Although they spoke no Russian, she repeated Mark’s name and the name of his regiment, hoping for a reaction, for a recognition. But she got nothing. Not only did they not know what happened to the regiment, from their confused faces she could tell that they had never even heard of it, having just arrived in Ukraine. Soon she stopped asking and only followed them with her sad, anguished eyes.
And through it all, transportation to Germany hung over their heads like the sword of Damocles. No one was safe. Women mutilated themselves to avoid being taken but it was in vain. The Nazis didn’t care. Meagre possessions on their backs, the condemned boarded trains that were to carry them to their unknown destinies, trains with slogans that read: ‘Ukraine gives her best sons and daughters to wonderful Germany in gratitude for the liberation from the clutches of the Bolsheviks.’ Who came up with this propaganda? wondered Natasha. Whoever it was, they were unlikely to ever ride on one of these trains.
The Nazis seized children as young as twelve. Boys and girls were wrestled from their mothers’ arms on the street and snatched in the middle of the night from their beds as their families screamed for mercy. Train after train of crying children was sent across Europe to German factories to
replace workers who were then free to kill the children’s fathers on the Eastern Front. Sobs filled the rail stations, the streets, the city, all of Ukraine as mothers said goodbye to their little ones never to see them again, while passers-by watched with pity and fear. On every face Natasha read the same question: am I next?
There was a quiet knock on the front door. Natasha moved her body slightly so that she could see the corridor. Even this small movement took most of her energy. She breathed heavily, watching as Yuri opened the door to his friend Gregory, and the two of them disappeared in the kitchen, closing the door behind them.
Natasha got comfortable, preparing for another nap. But Gregory didn’t stay long. Before she had a chance to close her eyes, he was gone, and Yuri appeared in the living room, carrying a large pile of documents.
‘What are those?’ asked Natasha.
‘They are the passports of all those who were killed at Kirillovskaya Hospital this week,’ replied Yuri, placing the documents on the table.
‘All these people were killed at the hospital?’ Natasha shuddered, hugging her stomach. There were at least two dozen passports on the table. ‘What are you doing with their documents?’
‘We use them to smuggle Jewish people out of Ukraine.’
‘There are Jewish people still left in Kiev?’
‘Some. Not many.’
There were dark circles under his eyes and streaks of grey in his hair. Natasha touched his hand. ‘Yuri, please, be careful. I keep hearing horrible stories about what happens to the partisans who are caught.’
Without looking up, Yuri sifted through the documents. Natasha peered over his shoulder. She couldn’t believe how young some of the people killed at Kirillovskaya had been, how open their smiles, how full of hope. After a minute of silence he said, ‘I know what we do is risky. But it’s worth it.’ He looked at her and his eyes grew warm. ‘Don’t worry. You know why most partisans get caught? Because they’re denounced by the same people they’re trying to help. Nine people out of ten will sell you for a piece of bread. The trick is not to confide in anyone.’
The Story of Us Page 23
