The Story of Us

by Lana Kortchik

  ‘You won’t need to hide if you have valid documents,’ said Yuri.

  ‘And I’ll be able to join the Red Army when they return. I can fight the Nazis. The war is far from over.’

  ‘You did this for us? For Mark and I?’

  Yuri nodded. ‘Dmitri Antonov was a partisan. I knew him well. His whole family was wiped out by the Germans. No one is left to contradict Mark if he decides to use this passport.’

  Natasha watched Yuri in silence. She wanted to thank him, wanted to say something, anything. If only she could get her voice back.

  Yuri continued, ‘We couldn’t save Dmitri but maybe his passport will save Mark.’

  ‘I can’t believe you would do this for us.’

  ‘You saved my life. I’ll never forget that,’ he said and his voice trembled. ‘The Red Army is about to enter Kiev. We don’t have long to wait.’

  Yuri turned and left the kitchen but Natasha caught up to him in the corridor. ‘Thank you so much. I can’t believe it. I thought you hated me, hated us.’

  ‘Of course I don’t hate you.’

  ‘The day Mark came back, you said you wished you’d never met me.’

  ‘Forget what I said. I was upset and didn’t mean it. Without you who knows where I’d be. But I have to leave. I can’t stay in this house. I hope you understand.’

  She wanted to touch his hand but couldn’t. It was as if an invisible wall separated Yuri from Natasha. She nodded. ‘I understand. Where will you go?’

  ‘I’ll stay with a friend for a while. If you ever need me, here is the address.’ He handed her a piece of paper. ‘Come and find me. We can sort everything out. The divorce…’

  Natasha’s throat was dry. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  He shrugged. ‘Fight the Nazis. Then find a nice girl.’ A sad smile, a sad glance between them. ‘Settle down. Have a family.’

  After he left, Natasha sat in the kitchen in silence until the candle burnt out, thinking about Mark leaving her again to join the Red Army and thinking about Yuri, who was one of those rare people in whom love and kindness were stronger than anger and jealousy.

  *

  It was the first day of November and the family were huddled together in the kitchen. There was no food, no candles left, no other hope but one – that the Red Army would reach them before it was too late. Nikolai was at his usual observation post by the window. Suddenly he cried, ‘Something is happening. They are blocking our road.’

  ‘They are what?’ whispered Natasha, joining Nikolai. A dozen Germans armed with machine guns were knocking on the doors of every house on the street. Only a few more houses separated them from the Smirnovs. It wouldn’t take them long to reach them.

  They heard gunshots and voices. Angry German shouts followed by desperate pleas in Russian. Mark ordered everyone to go down to the cellar. Just as Natasha reached the bottom of the ladder there was another knock on the door and more shouts. Natasha looked up. Nikolai was the only one left to go down. ‘Nikolai, hurry,’ she cried and her voice broke. Then she heard a terrible blow, followed by the sound of smashing wood. Loud voices filled the house. The trap door leading to the cellar shut with a loud bang. ‘Nikolai!’ Natasha whispered and she would have rushed back up if Mark hadn’t kept hold of her, urging her to be quiet.

  Mother struggled against Grandfather, who was holding her tight, whispering, ‘There’s nothing we can do. Nothing we can do.’

  Through the ceiling, they could hear harsh German shouts, then a softer voice – Nikolai’s. It sounded firm and steady. Natasha felt pride for her little brother. Nikolai didn’t sound afraid. He’s being so brave, she thought.

  And then, a gunshot sounded. It was loud, even through the layer of wood and stone. Natasha felt a shudder run through Mark’s body, felt her own body convulse in fear. Mother whimpered softly like an animal in pain. Another shot followed, and they heard loud footsteps that gradually faded away. Suddenly, there was silence.

  Cautiously she opened the trap door. All was quiet. The house seemed deserted. She could smell the gunfire, putrid, disturbing. She climbed outside, followed by the others.

  The trembling light of burning Kiev lit the room, and Natasha saw her little brother. He was on the floor, motionless. She whispered his name. As if through a wall she heard her mother’s screams. And then, a few seconds later, they stopped. Out of the corner of her eye Natasha saw Mother unconscious on the floor.

  Nikolai’s body was sprawled across the front door, as if guarding the entrance. Natasha wanted to run to him but couldn’t. Instead, she walked slowly, almost reluctantly. When she reached him, she slipped. She didn’t know how she found the strength to get up but when she did, her knees, her arms, her hands felt damp. She looked down and saw that she was covered in blood. She cried out in terror and rushed to Nikolai, shaking him, calling his name, listening for his breath, searching for his pulse and not finding it. He wasn’t breathing. His heart was still.

  ‘Why didn’t he come down to the cellar? If only he came with us…’

  ‘He didn’t have time. He couldn’t do it without betraying our hiding place,’ Grandfather said, his face bathed in tears.

  Mark pulled Natasha close. ‘He saved our lives,’ he said.

  Natasha blinked and forced herself to look. Through her tears she looked at Nikolai’s face, at his stiff arms, his wide-open eyes.

  Without a word, the Smirnovs held each other and cried. The night passed without any of them noticing and suddenly it was light again. How they spent the next day, Natasha couldn’t remember. Finally, when evening fell and they could no longer hear German voices, when the streets seemed to fall into a guarded, uneasy sleep, they carried Nikolai’s body outside and buried him in the garden. Mother was inconsolable and unable to speak. Grandfather tried to say something but his voice cracked and he broke down. Overhead, a Soviet plane flew past, and was it Natasha’s imagination or was its engine softer than usual, as if the plane, too, was mourning Nikolai?

  *

  Every morning, when Natasha opened her eyes, she expected to hear Nikolai’s laughter. Everywhere she turned, she expected to see his cheeky grin. But what she saw instead was his book abandoned on the kitchen table. And her heart would explode in agony.

  As the Smirnovs grieved, mortars roared and planes rumbled. The deafening noise never stopped, not at night, not during the day, not for anything. When night came, Natasha was too scared to sleep. She didn’t want to admit it even to herself but she was afraid that the minute she closed her eyes, something terrible would happen. She closed her eyes in the cellar and when she opened them, her brother was gone. And so she lay wide awake, watching the fires, thinking about her brother.

  One night, around midnight, Natasha thought she saw shadows outside. She sat up quietly, careful not to disturb Mark. Warily she made her way to the window and peered out. The shadows were gone. She could no longer see anything but the blazing streets. Nothing but fires, nothing but explosions. She was about to return when subdued voices reached her. She held her breath. Someone was murmuring outside their window, measured whispers in hushed tones. By the soft, melodious sounds she knew that the words were Russian. She waited. A minute later she noticed three silhouettes disappear around the corner.

  And even though she could hardly see them, Natasha could swear they were dressed in uniform.

  *

  The next morning, something felt different. It took Natasha a few moments to realise what it was and when she did, she jumped to her feet and ran to the kitchen. It was quiet! The noise of the past few days was gone. No more mortars, no more cannon, no more planes, no more explosions. The streets were deserted.

  ‘No sign of the fighting, Mama,’ she said.

  Mother didn’t reply, her eyes closed.

  Grandfather said, ‘No sign of the Red Army, either.’

  ‘I heard something last night. Someone was whispering under our windows.’

  ‘Well, that’s hardly unusual,’ said G
randfather.

  ‘They wore uniforms, Dedushka. And spoke Russian. Or maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was just wishful thinking.’

  But it wasn’t wishful thinking.

  Around noon the streets filled with people. Everyone congregated around a group of men in uniform and when these men approached, Natasha saw that their uniforms were light green and their caps were adorned with red stars.

  ‘Our army!’ she cried, pointing out the window. ‘Our soldiers!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ exclaimed Mark.

  Natasha was speechless and so, it seemed, was everybody else. They watched the soldiers for a moment, then rushed outside. Only Mother remained in the house, her eyes staring, Nikolai’s pillow clasped in her arms.

  Outside, there was chaos. But it was happy chaos. Natasha could hardly believe her eyes. Red Army trucks drove past. Tanks, mortars and katyushas followed. Soldiers smiled and waved at Natasha, at Grandfather, at Mark. The Kievans approached the soldiers, hugging and thanking them with tears in their eyes. They talked loudly, all at once. They interrupted one another. The streets that for the past few weeks had been petrified into uneasy silence were now deafening. Natasha stopped the soldiers, hugged and kissed them. ‘Do you know my brother?’ she asked every single one. ‘Have you seen him?’ In her hand was a picture of Stanislav.

  ‘Don’t worry, Comrade,’ the soldiers replied, laughing. ‘Your brother is liberating someone from the Germans as we speak. He has a job to do. When that job’s done, he’ll come back.’

  Only when they returned home did Natasha realise that she’d run outside in just one shoe. She invited the soldiers in, to have lunch, to talk, to wash. Because the family had nothing left, it was the soldiers who shared their food with the Smirnovs. Their usually quiet kitchen filled with loud voices and laughter. It filled with the smells of a lifetime ago – fried meat, potatoes, eggs. White bread was on the table, the likes of which the Smirnovs hadn’t tasted in years. The soldiers reached for the twins, picking them up, holding them close, kissing them, talking of their own children back home. Grandfather hugged them all and repeated, ‘Is it over? Is it all over?’ The soldiers smiled and without saying a word tucked into their meat and their bread and their potatoes.

  *

  After the soldiers had left and Natasha had cleared the dishes, the family decided to return to Podol. At first Mother refused to be separated from the place where her younger son was buried. She cried and clung to the damp soil as if tearing herself away would break her heart all over again.

  ‘Come on, Mama,’ said Natasha. ‘We have to go home. What if Papa comes back?’

  That was enough to convince her mother. Sniffling, she followed them through the streets of Kiev. When they saw the house on Ilinskaya where they had spent most of the occupation, their hearts sank. The building had been completely destroyed by fire. Mother made a move to climb the burnt-out stairs, to search what was left of their apartment, but Natasha stopped her. It was too dangerous. The building could crumble and collapse at any moment. Mother cried, clinging to Natasha and not taking her eyes off the place they had called home for two years. ‘What about Mikhail?’ she asked. It took all of Natasha’s strength to lead her away.

  To Natasha’s surprise, their building on Tarasovskaya was still standing. Slowly they walked up eight flights of familiar stairs. Mother tried to open the door but couldn’t. Mark took the key from her shaking hand and unlocked it. Inside, there was no furniture, no books, no personal belongings apart from an old mattress that had been forgotten on the living-room floor. As Natasha walked from one room of her childhood home to the other, she whispered a quiet prayer of gratitude. She never thought she would see the place where she grew up again and now, as she stood at the entrance to the bedroom she had once shared with her sister, for the first time since June 1941 she felt safe. It was more than coming home. It was like finding an old friend you thought you had lost forever.

  Mother cried, ‘Look at the state of this place. Where is our furniture? Our china? Our photographs? They took everything.’

  ‘Not everything, Mama.’ Natasha pointed at her parents’ wedding photograph on the wall. Through the war, through the occupation, through Germans in their apartment, it had survived. ‘Don’t be upset, Mama. We are home.’

  ‘I just thought… I was expecting to see…’ Mother fell quiet. Her eyes were on the photograph.

  ‘Oh, Mama,’ whispered Natasha. ‘Papa will come back. Now that the Germans are gone, he’ll come back.’ She rocked her mother gently, all the while struggling not to cry. I have cried so much already, she thought. I cried when the war started and when Grandmother died and when Olga and Alexei were taken away from us. I cried when Papa was arrested and when Mark disappeared and when Lisa betrayed me. I cried for each and every one of them, and for Nikolai. But I’m not going to cry now when we are finally home. Not now when we are safe.

  They had a feast for dinner, thanks to the generosity of the Soviet soldiers. White bread and eggs and milk and even some chocolate. How Nikolai would enjoy this, thought Natasha, chewing her food. It was while they were finishing the last bits of chocolate that Zina and Timofei Kuzenko knocked on their door. Accompanied by Mother’s tears and exclamations, they made their way to the kitchen. The Kuzenkos had spent most of the occupation north of Kiev in Kurenevka. Thin and grey-haired, Zina talked and talked. Mother held Zina and sobbed, telling her all about Father, Lisa and Nikolai. Timofei didn’t talk and didn’t cry. He was grimmer than ever.

  Even though it was long past midnight, Zina and Timofei didn’t look like they were ever going to leave. Nor did Mother look like she wanted them to. But Natasha was tired. She said her goodbyes and got ready for bed. Mark and Natasha had a room to themselves. The twins were asleep in Mother’s bedroom. For the first time since Mark’s return, Mark and Natasha could be alone together properly.

  Mark was already waiting for her. ‘I’ve been thinking about this moment for two years. To touch you again, kiss you again,’ he whispered. ‘You can’t imagine what it means.’

  ‘I can,’ she said, touching and kissing him back. ‘I know.’

  She let him undress her. One after another, he removed the straps off her shoulders. The nightie fell to the floor, leaving her completely naked in front of him. He traced her lips with his fingers, then kissed her deeply. She moaned softly, self-consciously, looking around, checking that the door was firmly shut.

  ‘Don’t worry. No one can hear us,’ he said. It took him under five seconds to undress. ‘Military training,’ he explained, sinking to the floor and pulling her to him. He’s not shy being naked around me, she thought. And I don’t blame him. How beautiful he is.

  Her body, never touched by another man, was his. Her heart was his, too – a heart that had never loved another man. And he knew it.

  They couldn’t wait another moment. They had no patience for preludes, no time to waste. They had already waited too long. She wanted to close her eyes but couldn’t. ‘I love you,’ she whispered.

  As they held each other in the dark and as he repeated how much he loved her, she thought of the first time she had seen him. The first time they’d kissed. The first time they’d made love. She thought of all their firsts as he clasped her in his arms, tighter and tighter, more and more desperate. She was light-headed, short of breath, falling into an unknown abyss and yet knowing that she was not going to die. This feeling of happiness, not touched by doubt, was so extraordinary, so overwhelming and so unfamiliar that she trembled in his arms.

  And then she realised. Today was a first, too. Today was the first time they could be together and not be afraid.

  *

  It was raining heavily and the bedroom was dark. Serene and undisturbed, Natasha slept like she hadn’t slept in years. Now that Kiev was free, now that the Nazis were gone, she could finally sleep without fear.

  When she awoke, it was long past noon. It took a few seconds to remember where she was. Her heart beating fast, she t
ouched the wall of her bedroom, stroking the tattered wallpaper, the wallpaper of her childhood.

  Her heart skipped when she saw the empty bookshelves that still remained in the far corner of the room. She could almost see her brother Nikolai as he had smiled wickedly and whispered, ‘I hid it,’ while her frantic sister had searched these bookshelves for her missing diary.

  The doorbell rang. Natasha hoped that whoever it was would go away, so she could go back to sleep. But the bell was insistent. She sat up.

  Reluctantly she got up, stretched and walked down their long corridor. Yawning, she opened the door. The man standing outside had his back to her, as if he was about to walk away. He wore a Red Army uniform. His hair was long and unkempt.

  But the curve of his neck, the back of his head was instantly familiar.

  The man turned around and suddenly she was being lifted, squeezed, held and kissed. It was perfect timing because her knees had buckled under her. ‘Stanislav,’ she whispered. And louder, ‘Stanislav.’ Laughing, messing up his hair, she repeated his name again and again as if she couldn’t believe that her older brother was home.

  Her arms around his neck, she held him as tight as she could. ‘Careful, you’re going to strangle me.’ Stanislav laughed, twirling her around like he used to when she was a child.

  ‘Oh God,’ was all Natasha could manage. Stanislav was thin, there were dark circles under his eyes but he looked at Natasha as if he never wanted to take his eyes off her again.

  ‘Look at you,’ she whispered. ‘So unshaven. You look like a pirate.’ She didn’t think he could hear her over the noise of her beating heart. ‘Stanislav,’ she murmured. ‘It’s you. It’s really you.’

  ‘It is, it is,’ he exclaimed, twirling, kissing, laughing. ‘It’s been so long, I’m surprised you recognised me.’

  When he let go of her, she kissed his cheek and ran to the kitchen, shouting, ‘Mama, Dedushka, you won’t believe who’s here.’

  Mother was holding a plate in her hands. Natasha knew that the plate was Mother’s favourite. Hidden away in the furthest corner of their cupboard, it had miraculously survived the occupation. When Stanislav strolled through the kitchen door, tall, handsome and smiling, the plate fell to the floor and broke into a dozen little shreds. Mother didn’t even notice. She rushed to her son, knocking into him, holding him close. Grandfather leapt up, embracing his grandson. For a few minutes nothing was heard but sobs, unconnected words, and broken sentences.