Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  “Fiction is a vehicle for growing in empathy for and understanding of this world. The magic of fiction is its ability to draw in the reader, to coax him or her to put on the shoes of the characters and go for a walk in those shoes. In Like a River from Its Course, Kelli Stuart worked this magic. The terror of the novel is its glimpse into the potential for human evil. The beauty is the way in which people can be instruments of grace and mercy in the darkest of circumstances. Raw, vulnerable, horrifying, beautiful, and true, this novel is a mirror for us to gaze into, to see our potential for good or ill. It nudges us to choose the path of love for those in need, regardless of what it may cost. This is a novel I will not soon forget.”

  —SUSIE FINKBEINER, author of A Cup of Dust: A Novel of the Dust Bowl

  “A carefully researched, compassionately written journey into Ukraine at the height of World War II. Stuart brings her story vividly to life with warm, believable characters and vivid writing.”

  —ANNE BOGEL, modernmrsdarcy.com

  “A chilling and lyrical treatise to faith in a time of tragedy, Like a River from Its Course is brimming with luscious imagery and characters who entrench themselves in your heart. Stuart weaves the travails of Kiev with the unfailing hope of Luda, Ivan, and Maria. Deft research, expert prose, and heart-clenching moments combine in a resplendent historical reading experience. This isn’t just a historical fiction debut—this is a well-crafted piece of art.”

  —RACHEL McMILLAN, author of The Bachelor Girl’s Guide to Murder

  Like a River from Its Course

  © 2016 by Kelli Stuart

  Published by Kregel Publications, a division of Kregel, Inc., 2450 Oak Industrial Dr. NE, Grand Rapids, MI 49505.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews.

  Distribution of digital editions of this book in any format via the Internet or any other means without the publisher’s written permission or by license agreement is a violation of copyright law and is subject to substantial fines and penalties. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights by purchasing only authorized editions.

  Aside from certain historical facts and public figures, the persons and events portrayed in this work are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-8254-4414-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 / 5 4 3 2 1

  To the brave men and women of Ukraine

  who fought for freedom in the

  Great Patriotic War of 1941–45.

  This book is for you.

  This cruel age has deflected me,

  like a river from its course.

  Strayed from its familiar shores,

  my changeling life has flowed

  into a sister channel.

  ANNA AKHMATOVA

  LENINGRAD, 1941

  On August 23, 1939, Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union surprised the world by signing the German-Soviet Nonaggression Pact, in which the two countries agreed to take no military action against one another for the next ten years.

  On June 22, 1941, Adolf Hitler violated that pact, launching Operation Barbarossa, a well-coordinated invasion of the Soviet Union.

  This is where our story begins.

  PART ONE

  THE

  BEGINNING

  MARIA “MASHA” IVANOVNA

  June 22, 1941

  Kiev, Ukraine

  “Papa! Papa!”

  The screams lift from my chest, but I don’t feel them escape. As the flat flashes and shakes, I turn circles. I know I’m home, but I don’t know just where I am. I can’t cry, can’t walk, can’t find my family. I can only scream, and again I cry out, the sound pulled involuntarily from my soul.

  “Maria!”

  I gasp as strong arms wrap around me, pulling me to the floor.

  “We’re here, Dochka,” my father cries. “Follow me.”

  He flips to his hands and knees, and I grab on to one of his ankles behind him, shuffling along the floor to the hallway where my mother, sister Anna, and brother Sergei huddle close. They are three who look like one, intertwined in such a way that I can’t tell where one begins and the other ends. I join the heap, my father lying over all of us.

  For the first hour, I’m sure that we’re moments from meeting the saints. I pray to Saint Maria to bring me quickly to her with little pain. I fear pain.

  As I pray for an easy transition into the afterlife, my father speaks soothingly in my ear. “You’re fine, my daughter,” he whispers, a balm to my terror. “We’re going to be fine.”

  I don’t believe him. I want to, but I can’t. So as the sky flashes, I continue to whisper my litany mostly because I can’t stop. Truthfully, I know very little about this act of prayer. I know some saints are useful to the protection of our souls. Outside of this basic fact, however, I know nothing of the spirit world.

  But tonight as the earth spins and booms, I allow my soul to reach out to the unknown with hope that protection waits in my faithfulness.

  As the rumbling fades into the distance, we remain piled on the floor, terror and fatigue anchoring us tight. Sergei is the first to extract himself, and he sits up slowly, rubbing his hands through his short, coarse hair. Anna and Mama remain hugged together, their cheeks streaked with tears, both sleeping soundly. I envy their slumber.

  When Anna sleeps she looks like a younger, more delicate version of our mother. At sixteen, Anna is two years older than me, but in maturity I believe she’s a lifetime ahead. She’s kind and thoughtful, brave and helpful. I am none of those things. I can be, of course, and I do want to be. But I have to work very hard at being that kind of girl, whereas Anna was born with the ability to love. Grace runs through her veins, spite through mine.

  Mama, like Anna, is small and gentle. Her light brown hair is long and soft, though she rarely wears it down. Every day Mama twists it into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck. It seems a shame to hide such glorious hair, but with it pulled back, her perfect features are much more visible. Mama’s eyes are a warm brown and reveal the depths of her very being. Mama can never hide how she feels. Her eyes dance with laughter and swim with sorrow, and when she’s angry, I’m certain I’ve seen lightning flash straight through them.

  “Masha,” Father whispers. I look up to see Sergei standing and stretching alongside him. “We’re going to have chai, would you like some?”

  I nod and stand up slowly, my legs and back stiff. Sergei grabs my elbow and pulls me into the crook of his arm. He smiles at me, then kisses my forehead. Looking up at my older brother, I get the frightening sense that I’m telling him good-bye. He’ll be eighteen in two weeks, and we’re at war. A fresh lump develops in my throat and tears prick the corners of my eyes.

  “Shh, Masha,” Sergei whispers. He knows my thoughts.

  Together we walk into the small kitchen where Papa already has the kettle on the stove. He lights a match and puts it inside the firebox, then leans back against the wall. The kitchen in our flat is very small. The three of us can barely fit in it together. In fact, we rarely ever enter this room since Mama long ago declared it her domain and ordered us out under threat of starvation.

  Papa sits quietly, his arms crossed over his narrow chest. He’s a thin man, my papa, but very tall. Sergei and I stand side by side as we wait for the kettle to sing. We don’t speak. I don’t know why Papa and Sergei remain mute, but I simply don’t have words. Every time I open my mouth, t
he words disappear on my tongue like the puffs of smoke from Papa’s pipes. So I sit, my shoulder pressed to Sergei, my eyes shifting nervously across Papa’s worn face.

  “We’ll wait a few hours to make sure the bombing has stopped,” he finally says. His voice bubbles with the heat of one who’s been falsely accused. “Then you and I will go out and survey the damage,” he says to Sergei. The kettle shakes slightly and lets out its mournful whistle. I don’t remember ever hearing it wail like that. It brings a fresh batch of tears to my eyes, and I wonder if I’ll even be able to swallow over the lump in my throat.

  “Is it safe to go out, Papa?” I ask.

  Papa pauses and looks at me softly. The tenderness in his bright green eyes dissolves the lump and warms me from the inside. My papa, whom I favor much more than Mama, has always been my confidant, his strength carrying me through the pain of youth. For years I endured the dreadful taunts of my schoolmates. They laughed at my broad, stocky appearance, and I laughed with them because I refused to cry.

  I can be strong like Papa.

  “I don’t know if it’s safe, Masha,” Papa says softly. “But we’ll go carefully.”

  I nod and take the steaming mug he hands me, wrapping my fingers around the searing metal. “Can I go with you?” I ask. I already know his answer, but I ask anyway. Papa’s lips spread out thin, and his thick brows gather over his eyes. “No, dorogaya,” he says firmly. “It may not be safe for Sergei and me. It’s definitely not safe for you.”

  And that’s it. I know not to ask again. My papa is a patient man, unless you ask twice. Nobody asks twice.

  Two hours later, Mama, Anna, and I stand in the doorway as Papa and Sergei walk out into the dimly lit hallway of our flat. It’s damp, and the air smells of gunpowder and fear. It’s oddly quiet as they shuffle down the narrow staircase. I can hear their shoes scrape against the ground, but nothing else. No happy laughter. No morning greetings. The streets bear no sounds of normalcy. The quiet of the morning screams, and I want to clamp my hands over my ears just to block it out.

  Mama closes the door and leans against it. Her eyes close, and her beautiful hair lies in cascades over her small frame. Anna and I watch, not daring to move.

  After a moment, Mama opens her eyes and forces a smile. “It’s time to clean up, girls,” she says quietly. She sounds calm, but I still see terror swimming in the black center of her eyes. She pulls her fingers through her hair and reaches in her pocket for a band to secure it in a knot.

  “Maria, I want you to make the beds and dust the furniture. Anna, you come with me to the kitchen to help prepare tonight’s soup.”

  Anna quickly mumbles, “Yes, Mama,” and heads to the kitchen. I, however, look at my mother in surprise. We’re cleaning? Today? For a moment I forget the attack and the bombs. All I can think is that today is our first day of summer break and we’re cleaning.

  Mama returns my gaze evenly. I see her willing me to challenge. I won’t win a challenge with Mama, and I know there’s little benefit in trying. The grief that she wears on her face swiftly brings back our new reality.

  We’re at war. Nothing will be the same again.

  IVAN KYRILOVICH

  June 23, 1941

  The memory of last night will forever haunt me. The whistle of Nazi bombs and the thunder as they found their targets move through my head, my heart, my soul. Intertwined with the noise is the screaming. Masha, turning and crying, confused and afraid. Tanya and Anna gripped in the corner, their cries mingling to form a low wail. In the midst of it all, I saw Sergei, my son. I watched him through the flashes and tremors. Between dark and light, he became a man.

  As the terror of night slipped into a balmy, dusty morning, I observed them all closely. Tanya and Anna wrapped in one another’s arms, their faces worn and strained. Masha tucked beneath Sergei’s arm, her head nodding and falling, stubbornness alone keeping her from succumbing to the sleep that so clearly longed to take her away.

  And the man Sergei, who sat with his back straight against the wall, his arm wrapped protectively around his sister. I saw him wrestling, an inward battle beating through his gray eyes. I knew the decision he made in those long, quiet hours.

  As we leave to survey our battered city, I notice that Sergei’s back is straighter and he stands a little taller. Cautiously striding into the still street, I turn and grab his broad shoulders. I feel the muscles round over the tops of his arms and for the first time notice the sinewy nature of his frame. My son has developed the taut muscles of a man without me even noticing. Surely this didn’t happen overnight.

  Looking straight into his eyes, I speak to him father to son, comrade to comrade. “You’ll wait until your birthday. When you’re eighteen, you may enlist.”

  My voice comes out gruff, almost harsh, and tears sting the corners of my eyes. Sergei’s chin lifts slightly, and he nods calmly. “Yes, Papa.”

  Not caring who might see us, I pull him into my arms and grip him with the passion that only a father can feel for his son. Sergei’s arms engulf me in return, and for a long while we hold one another. In that embrace I bid farewell to the boy I rocked, fed, played with, and taught for nearly eighteen years.

  We finally pull away and wipe our eyes, turning without words to walk up the narrow alley that leads to Shamrila Street, the road on which we’ve lived since Sergei was born. I glance back at the tiny window into our kitchen, the green frame dusty and worn. I remember the echoing sounds of my infant son’s cries so many years ago when I rounded the corner and stood beneath the window. I spent countless moments listening to Tanya sing softly into her firstborn’s ear, lulling him to sleep.

  Where has the time gone?

  Taking a deep breath, I turn away from the memories. “We’ll walk toward the Dnieper River,” I say. “Then we’ll make our way to Kreshadik Street.” It’s a long walk, and I’m not sure what kind of trouble we might run into, but I know that our best observations on the state of Kiev will come from these two vantage points.

  “Will we see Nazis?” Sergei asks. He says Nazi as though spitting out bitter seeds.

  “I don’t know, Sinok,” I say, burying my hands in my pockets. The morning is warm and wet, but I still feel chilled. As we round the corner, I look around cautiously.

  “I thought there would be more damage,” Sergei murmurs. “The bombs were so close.” I don’t respond, but I agree with him. The walls of our small flat rattled with such ferocity, I was certain they would crumble on top of us.

  “None of the bombs hit here,” I say after a pause. “But they hit close. We’ll see damage today, Seryosha.” I use his pet name to reassure him, and myself, that for now everything is okay.

  We walk quickly after that, and it isn’t long before we come upon the effects of last night’s surprise bombing. “Papa, look,” Sergei says, and the shock in his voice stops me in my tracks. I follow his pointing finger to the hill in the distance where the Pechersk Lavra stands proudly. But today, the golden domes of the ancient monastery don’t sparkle in the morning sun. Instead, black smoke unfurls from the hillside in mournful tendrils, and my heart sinks. I look away from the carnage on the hill and observe the wounded section of my city, known as Podil. People wander the streets, shocked eyes moving slowly over blackened holes in buildings. Once the trading and crafting center of Kiev, Podil has in recent decades deteriorated with many now living in poor, wretched conditions.

  “The Jewish live here,” I murmur. I feel Sergei’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at him. Instead, I simply take it all in—the damage, the shock, the sinking feeling that this is the beginning of something terrible.

  Streets lie in ruin, flats fallen to the ground. At the sound of an infant crying, Sergei and I run to help sift through the rubble. We hear the child but cannot see him, and after an hour of digging, the cries turn to whimpers. After two hours, the cries stop altogether.

  We continue to dig, Sergei and myself with two older women and a young boy. It’s useless, though, and at
some point we all just quit. The child is gone, and with no hysterical parents around desperately searching for him, we know he was probably better off passing from this world with his parents than being left without them. Buried by hatred is better than orphaned by it. I know this too well.

  Sergei and I slowly walk away, not even saying good-bye to the babushkas who had so desperately worked alongside us. There’s nothing to say—no words to soothe the shock. We walk for a long time, hands stuffed deep into pockets, hearts weighted down with all we’ve seen and all that’s changed.

  “Papa,” Sergei says as we approach Kreshadik Street, the center of our city.

  “Da, Sinok.”

  “I’m ready to fight for my country.” Sergei pauses, his breath halting with emotion. I stop walking and wait. “I’m ready to fight for my country,” he repeats after a moment, his eyes facing forward in a distant gaze. “And I know that it won’t be easy. But Papa …”

  I observe him closely, my throat closed tight, and take in the sight of the late afternoon sun highlighting his wiry hair and square jaw.

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for death,” he whispers.

  I look down the street to try to mask the intense pain that engulfs me from the inside. Was it really only a day ago that we dreamed of going to the dacha for our summer break, escaping to a country home of peace?

  “It’s not that I’m scared of … my own death,” Sergei continues. “But Papa, how do I handle watching others die? We just listened to a baby take his last breath. How do I keep moving forward when I have the sound of that child rolling through my head?”

  I don’t have an answer.

  FREDERICK HERRMANN

  June 24, 1941

  I always knew I would be a great man. I look no further than my father to see greatness. The face of a hero is framed by the accomplishments he realizes in front of all who watch. As a child, I watched everything my father did, copying every movement, every inflection, every swell and fall of his voice.