The Story of Us

by Lana Kortchik

  Chapter 17 – A World Aflutter

  April – September 1943

  Even though she was now a married woman, Natasha had never felt more alone. Her family adored Yuri and expected Natasha to feel the same. Sensing something wasn’t quite right, Nikolai, Grandfather and even Mikhail watched Natasha and Yuri’s every move.

  In April, Yuri and a group of other partisans blew up a rail bridge, disrupting one of the most important communication routes for the Germans and stopping a train transporting Ukrainian workers to German factories. Two hundred souls, mostly women and children, escaped before the German authorities realised what had happened. The family celebrated the news at dinner. Grandfather and Mikhail slapped Yuri on the shoulder, while Nikolai questioned him incessantly, eager to hear every little detail about the operation. After dinner, when Yuri was alone with Natasha, he held her gently, pressing his lips to hers. When she didn’t return his kiss, he didn’t pressure her further, nor did he show his disappointment.

  In May, when the total mobilisation of fit and able workers to Germany was announced, Yuri helped Nikolai register for farm work. Nikolai came home every night exhausted, but the job meant he was exempt from transportation to Germany. He was safe, for now. Mother cried and hugged Yuri. ‘Thank God for your husband, Natasha,’ she repeated. ‘We are so lucky to have him. You are so lucky to have him.’

  On the night of 8th May, the family was woken by explosions. Petrified, they rushed to the window to watch the commotion outside that was reminiscent of the beginning of the war. Scared and confused, they questioned one another, wondering what was going on. And then they saw the Soviet planes, not just one but a dozen of them.

  ‘Why are they bombing us?’ cried Natasha.

  ‘Not us, silly. They are here to liberate us,’ said Yuri, putting his arm around her.

  As bombs whistled and mortars roared in retaliation, deafening in their fury, Natasha cried on Yuri’s shoulder. Were they tears of fear or of happiness? She couldn’t tell. A blast blew out the glass in the living-room window; Kiev was once more engulfed in fire and it was no longer dark. This time the fires were destined to force the oppressors from their streets forever. They were no longer fires of despair but those of hope. Hope that grew stronger with every Soviet plane, every bomb, every explosion. Eerie shadows danced on the walls, and Natasha could see the flames reflected in Yuri’s face. Sensing her gaze on him, he pressed her close and his fingers traced the bare skin under her blouse. As if scalded by boiling water, she moved away from him.

  When she looked up at him, she saw something in his face close off against her.

  The Soviet planes were back again the next night and the night after, but Yuri no longer put his arm around Natasha to comfort her. They were once again two strangers living under the same roof, polite in front of others, not acknowledging each other in private.

  Through June, July and August there was only one thought that occupied everyone: where was the Red Army? Was it on its way to liberate them, to bring them relief, to restore order and dignity to their existence, to wipe away the shadows of occupation? And if so, how long would it take? And through it all, Natasha busied herself with her children to the exclusion of everything and everybody else. She withdrew from Yuri, from her family, from herself.

  At the end of July, the newspaper finally printed something to lift their spirits. The Fascist party in Italy had been disbanded. Mussolini had been arrested. Italy was no longer at war.

  Shortly, more good news followed.

  Orel was liberated.

  Poltava was liberated.

  Kharkov was liberated.

  It was no longer wishful thinking but a fact. The Nazis were retreating. Naturally, the German-controlled newspaper didn’t call it a retreat. It called it a strategic withdrawal. And yet, everybody saw it for what it really was. There was no longer any need to read between the lines. When Natasha told her family about Kharkov, Mother exclaimed, ‘I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it. Tell me one more time. I want to hear it again!’

  ‘It’s true, Mama. Kharkov is Soviet. Kiev could be next!’

  ‘Not long now,’ said Grandfather, his eyes raised to the ceiling as if in prayer.

  Finally, in the middle of September, a miracle happened.

  Natasha was knitting in her room, her two babies fast asleep next to her, when she heard agitated voices. She hurried to the kitchen to find her exhilarated mother pointing at something out the window. All Mother managed when she saw Natasha was an excited: ‘Look!’ Seeing the bewildered expression on Mother’s face, Natasha, Nikolai, Grandfather, Mikhail and Yuri hurried to join her. Outside, a large procession was making its way past their building. Wide-eyed, the family looked on as truck after truck drove past, loaded with cannon and mortar, paintings and furniture, books and food. They saw German cars, German motorcycles, and German soldiers, all in a hurry, all leaving.

  ‘Where did they find a truckful of skis?’ asked Mother, pointing at one of the vehicles.

  ‘I guess they won’t be spending winter here, then,’ joked Nikolai.

  ‘Are they… leaving?’ whispered Natasha. The thought seemed preposterous, so deeply entrenched in her mind was the idea of the German presence on the streets of Kiev. And yet, here they were, right in front of her in the timid September sun, marching away from the city. She fought a sudden impulse to shout in excitement and jump up and down on the spot.

  ‘I never thought I’d live to see the day,’ said Grandfather, taking his glasses off, wiping them and replacing them on the tip of his nose. He stared at the procession downstairs, shaking his head.

  Mother waved her fist at a German truck that was fast disappearing around the corner. ‘Look how much they’ve stolen. All those paintings, they’re from the gallery. All those carpets and furniture.’

  ‘I bet they robbed every apartment in Kiev,’ said Natasha.

  ‘To make the most of their stay in Ukraine, they’re taking as much as they can carry,’ said Nikolai. ‘Isn’t it ironic? It’s the 19th of September. Exactly two years since the Germans have entered Kiev.’

  They fell quiet, gazing at the endless procession outside. It wasn’t just the anniversary of the occupation for Natasha. Tomorrow was the anniversary of her first meeting with Mark. She realised she had lived longer without Mark, longing for him and aching for him, than she had lived with him. Then why was the memory of him as fresh in her heart as ever? Whoever said time healed everything had clearly never been in love.

  ‘I hope with all my heart it’s the last anniversary we see,’ said Grandfather.

  ‘Two years of these animals in our city. Who would have thought?’ Mother opened the window. The din of traffic filled the kitchen. ‘That’s right, keep walking, get out of here. Good riddance!’ she shouted.

  Several soldiers looked up. The Smirnovs drew back. Thankfully, the Nazis didn’t stop.

  They spent all day, and the day after that, and the one after, watching the retreating Germans. Truck after truck, tank after tank, motorcycle unit after motorcycle unit; the hated Nazis were leaving the Ukrainian capital. For days they marched and still there was no end to them. Nikolai elbowed Natasha to get her attention. ‘Did you know there were so many of them in Kiev?’

  After two years of wreaking havoc and destruction, they were finally leaving. But despite the columns of men and vehicles, despite horns blaring and the officers shouting as if pursued, it didn’t feel real. Natasha tried to remember strolling through the streets of Kiev and not feeling afraid, and not feeling hunted. But all she could think of was the hunger, the bleak exhaustion, and her own helplessness. And yet, there was no mistaking it. They were leaving. When she had thought of this moment at the start of the occupation, she had imagined nothing but tears of joy and elation. Then why did she feel so empty inside? As she watched the dust kicked up by the hated boots as they walked away from her, her joy was tainted with sadness. Even if they were liberated tomorrow, it wouldn’t bring Natash
a’s loved ones back. It wouldn’t bring Mark back.

  *

  Babi Yar was in flames, an oppressing, terrifying sight. Villages behind the Dnieper were burning. The outskirts of Kiev were burning. Natasha sat at the kitchen window, attempting to knit but unable to take her eyes off the fires, when she heard a distinctive sound of a plane. When it appeared, her heart leaped for joy at the sight of red stars on its fuselage. It was unusual for a Soviet plane to appear in the middle of the day when it was easy for the German mortars to hit it. And yet, there it was in bright daylight, making its way through the autumn sky. Natasha wanted to run outside and salute the Soviet pilot, welcoming him to Kiev, but from past experience she knew that the plane was here to bomb the city.

  Nervously she waited for the familiar whistling sound that preceded an explosion. But no bombs came. Instead, the plane released what looked like tiny white snowflakes that slowly drifted downwards. As the plane disappeared in the direction of the river, Natasha realised that they were not snowflakes but sheets of paper.

  Placing her knitting on the table, Natasha shouted to Mother to look after the children and rushed outside. She didn’t pause to put her shoes or jacket on. Barefoot, in nothing but a thin blouse, she almost ran the two blocks to the place where she thought the pieces of paper had landed, barely noticing the cold pavement that was scraping her feet until they bled or the rain that instantly soaked her clothes. As she reached the riverbank, she saw dozens of leaflets blowing in the wind. Her hands shaking, she picked one up. ‘People of Kiev,’ it said in Russian. ‘We are here to liberate you from the Nazis. Under no circumstances leave the city. Soon Kiev will be ours. Until then, stay where you are and wait.’

  Natasha stood in the rain, again and again reading the leaflet that promised a Soviet victory. Her hair was wet, and water was running down her face, but she didn’t care. When she saw the words from the Soviet government —the first communication they had received from the outside world since the German occupation — she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time. She felt hope.

  Placing the precious piece of paper in her pocket, she bent down to collect the other leaflets. They all carried the same message. Dozens of people were rushing towards her. Handing the leaflets out to everyone she met along the way, she hurried home.

  The family was gathered in the living room. After everybody read the message, Mother took the leaflet, straightened it and wiped the mud from it as best she could. From the look on her face Natasha was expecting her to kiss the piece of paper. Finally, Mother folded it and hid it in her apron.

  Grandfather said, ‘The Soviets must be very close. The Nazis have left Kanev.’

  ‘How far is Kanev, Dedushka?’ asked Nikolai.

  ‘A hundred and thirty kilometres,’ replied Grandfather, pointing south-east.

  ‘A hundred and thirty kilometres,’ repeated Natasha. ‘Our army could be here in only a few hours.’

  ‘Not quite as quickly as that.’ Grandfather smiled. ‘The majority of the Germans are still here. It could take weeks, if not months. We should be prepared.’

  Despite her grandfather’s words, Natasha spent the rest of the day hoping to catch a glimpse of the Red Army as it entered Kiev. But all she saw from her spot by the kitchen window were endless Nazi convoys leaving her city.

  *

  A few days later, Natasha awoke to a familiar but almost forgotten smell. She opened her eyes and sat up in bed. For a few seconds she remained still, wondering if she was dreaming. She jumped out of bed, checked to make sure the babies were still sleeping and rushed to the kitchen. ‘Mama, you’re making blinis!’ she exclaimed. ‘Where did you get the flour? The oil?’

  Her mother was by the stove, stirring, mixing, pouring. ‘Yuri brought some home this morning,’ she said. ‘That man is made of gold, pure gold.’ She smiled and pointed at the apple she was grating. ‘Not just blinis, Natasha! Apple blinis.’

  ‘Apple blinis, how wonderful!’

  ‘And you have Yuri to thank for that,’ Mother reminded her.

  Natasha watched as Mother flipped a blini and two minutes later placed it on a plate, filling its golden insides with a spoonful of grated apple. Natasha brought her face close to the plate and inhaled. She could almost picture her grandmother’s smile as she made blinis for Natasha, Stanislav, Lisa and Nikolai when they were little. Grandmother would make them first thing in the morning, so the children could wake up to the delightful treat. Just like today. ‘Can I try some?’ She shook a little, looking at the stack of blinis and not quite believing her eyes.

  ‘Help yourself,’ said Mother.

  Natasha broke off a tiny bit and chewed slowly. ‘Incredible,’ she whispered, savouring the taste in her mouth. ‘Just like Babushka used to make.’

  ‘It’s her recipe,’ said Mother, smiling.

  In under a minute, Natasha had finished the whole blini and was looking at the frying pan for more. The next one was just beginning to brown. When it was ready, Mother didn’t put it on the plate but placed it straight into Natasha’s eager hands.

  Through a mouthful of blini, Natasha said, ‘Once, when I was about twelve, Babushka tried to teach me, Lisa and Nikolai how to make them.’

  ‘And? How did they turn out?’

  ‘Terrible! What a mess we made. Nikolai started throwing batter at Lisa, and she chased him around the kitchen with a fork.’

  Mother laughed. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

  ‘Babushka never offered to teach us again. But she never stopped making them.’

  Nikolai entered the kitchen, his eyes wide at the sight of blinis. Natasha could understand his amazement. She was amazed himself. It still felt like a beautiful dream. It was as if they’d woken up that morning not in Nazi-occupied Kiev but in the city of their childhood. Thank God for Yuri, thought Natasha.

  Nikolai grabbed the blini from Natasha’s hands and, before she had a chance to complain, shoved it in his mouth. He closed his eyes happily, golden flecks of batter on his lips. ‘Bliss,’ he said with his mouth full.

  ‘Hey, that was mine!’ Natasha cried.

  Nikolai swallowed and said, ‘I saw Larisa take her first step just now.’

  ‘Larisa is awake?’ cried Natasha, rushing to check on her babies. She returned a minute later and narrowed her eyes at Nikolai, who was now sat at the table, a blini in one hand, a slice of apple in the other. There was an expression of pure veneration on his face. Natasha thought any minute he would cover his blini in kisses. ‘They are both asleep. Was that just a ploy to get rid of me and eat all the blinis?’

  ‘Did you hear her, Mother? Did you hear her accuse her loving brother of such terrible things?’

  Nikolai slid off his chair and crept closer to the pan. His timing was perfect: the next blini was almost ready. Mother, however, shook her head and rapped his knuckles with the spatula. ‘No more snacking,’ she said, ‘and I mean both of you! We’re going to eat at the table together like civilised people.’

  ‘Civilised people don’t hit each other with spatulas,’ Nikolai protested, but obediently stepped back from the pan.

  Nikolai and Natasha washed their hands and sat back at the table, impatiently glancing at the pile of apple blinis that was accumulating on the plate next to Mother. Finally, Mother turned the stove off and called everybody for breakfast. Just as they were about to eat, however, they heard angry German voices outside. Natasha’s fork froze on the way to her mouth. The Smirnovs looked at one another. ‘What’s happening?’ whispered Nikolai.

  His words were followed by a loud knock.

  When a shaking Natasha opened the door, she breathed a sigh of relief. Instead of the Nazi officers she expected to see, it was one of their neighbours, an elderly man who had a small apartment on the first floor. He looked unkempt, as if he had just gotten out of bed. His hair was untidy, his shirt undone. ‘Good morning, Petr Alexeevich,’ said Natasha. ‘Would you like to join us for breakfast? Mama made blinis.’

 
She expected to see astonishment and excitement on the neighbour’s face, but he didn’t seem to hear her. Without returning her greeting or answering her question, he exclaimed, his hands twitching, ‘We have to leave. We were ordered to evacuate.’

  ‘Petr Alexeevich, what are you talking about? Evacuate?’

  ‘The Germans were here.’

  ‘Yes, we heard the voices. What did they want?’

  ‘We’re now inside the restricted zone. If we don’t move in two days, they’ll kill us.’

  ‘Restricted zone?’ asked Natasha, blinking fast.

  ‘Podol, Frunze, Kreshchatyk and Priorka. These areas are being evacuated for the protection of Kiev.’

  ‘Is the Red Army here already?’ asked Nikolai, suddenly appearing behind Natasha. He ran back to the kitchen, shouting, ‘Mama, the Red Army is here.’

  Natasha heard her mother gasp. She looked at the neighbour. ‘Where are we supposed to go?’ But Petr was already halfway up the stairs, eager to share his news with the others.

  In the kitchen, Mother asked Natasha, ‘Is it true? The Red Army, are they here?’

  Natasha glared at Nikolai. ‘No, Mama,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. But we have to leave.’

  By midday, it was official. There were notices in the newspaper and on every building, ordering the occupants of the newly established restricted zone to vacate their homes within two days. Engulfed in fire, the city was a sorry sight. The displaced and the desolate wandered in every direction, their worldly possessions on their backs. Lost, scared and exhausted, they had nowhere to go. Just like the Smirnovs.

  The family sat around the table, looking at one another. After a long silence, Mother said, ‘What are we going to do?’

  Yuri replied, ‘We have two days. I suggest we sit tight and not do anything until the last moment.’