Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  “I told you not to come, Ivan,” Josef whispers next to me. Klara and Polina clutch hands, tears streaming down their faces.

  “I’m sorry,” is all I manage. But I can’t surrender just yet. I look desperately for a way out, though I still don’t know what I’m trying to escape.

  As we walk, much more slowly now, I notice the images around me. The sun shines brightly today. It’s the kind of beautiful day that would have been filled with the delighted sounds of children laughing in the streets—a day Tanya and I would have enjoyed. I think of all the walks we took together, her hand firmly pressed inside mine. It wasn’t enough time with my love. I’ve failed her. I promised I would return, but my foolishness now leaves her abandoned. What have I done?

  Up ahead, the sounds of panic rise. Screams, cries, shots. I look up to see the Germans swarming the crowd now. They dare someone to try to run, but no one does. The front of the line is far ahead, but I can make out a crowd of people throwing their possessions into a pile. The cries course down the line, sweeping over and above me—a tidal wave of grief and despair.

  Polina looks up, and her eyes hollow before me. There is nothing left to do but wait for the worms.

  “Schnell!” The German soldiers bark their orders, finishing every order with a sharp command to hurry.

  The boy who ushered me into line stays close as we slowly pace forward. “I don’t trust you, Untermensch,” he hisses. Eyes trained forward and chin up, my heart races with the knowledge that I’m headed toward my fate.

  Josef, Klara, and Polina walk in a tight huddle in front of me. “I’m sorry, my darlings,” Josef says, his words staccato bursts of grief. Klara stands at his side, clutching his hand, her knuckles white and the thin blue line of her vein running up her wrist and disappearing beneath her thick coat.

  Polina walks on the other side of her mother, her eyes dim. The light faded from her face several weeks ago, leaving her nothing more than a shell. She turns her head slowly, looks up at me, and I shudder. It’s the same look I saw in Sergei’s eyes in my dream.

  Death.

  I jump as a scream pierces the air. “What are they doing, Josef?” Klara breathes softly. Her voice, like a glass bell, rises just above the throng.

  “They’re going to kill us, my darling,” Josef answers bluntly. I glance sideways at the German standing next to me. His gun lowers slightly as he looks intently toward the front of the line. He sees me look and gives a formal nod.

  “See you soon, Untermensch,” he says.

  He leaves us and walks swiftly to the front of the line while I’m left, heart torn. Tanya, Anna, and Maria wait at home. They wait for me. The tea in their cups is cooled, and their shoulders stiff. They’re watching the door that I won’t open.

  As the line moves slowly forward, we pass through wired gates that funnel us into pairs, like the cattle farmed across the road from my childhood home. My father’s voice rings loud and sharp in my head.

  “Don’t trust anyone and don’t be a fool. You make your living and you keep your mouth shut. Don’t worry about someone else’s suffering—it will only bring suffering upon you.”

  On and on my father ranted every evening while the rest of us quietly pretended to listen. Mama knit scarf after scarf amid father’s rants. She never questioned his thinking, never doubted or disrespected him verbally. But her silence spoke volumes, especially to me—the boy most like her. I once asked her, when I was very small, why she let Papa yell foolishness every night.

  “You’re father isn’t a fool, Ivanchik,” she answered gently. “He’s prideful and longs for nothing more than to feel that he’s in control. I just give him the space he needs to explore his heart.”

  To this day, I struggle to understand my mother’s allegiance to my father. Hard and cold, he revealed tenderness only to my brother, Misha. There are few regrets that haunt me as I approach these final moments, but without warning I am seized by one great sorrow: I abandoned my mother with a hateful, bitter man. Without the courtesy of a good-bye, I left her behind.

  “Are you okay, Ivan Kyrilovich?” a timid voice asks. Polina’s voice cuts through my heartache. Taking a deep breath, I nod.

  “I’m not ready to give up just yet,” I respond. Grabbing Polina’s hand, I feel a sudden urge to flee.

  “Listen to me, dorogaya,” I say, my eyes darting up toward the Germans laughing on either side of us. “Stay close to me and do not, under any circumstance, leave my side, understand?” Polina nods her head, eyes wide.

  “Josef, Klara,” I say quietly. “If the opportunity presents itself, I will take Polina and we’ll flee. Do I have your permission?” We all step forward as the line moves. It’s then that I hear the staccato bursts that drown out the beating of my heart. Soft cries turn to wails as we all finally know, without doubt, what fate awaits us.

  We are the cattle, and our slaughter is imminent.

  “You won’t succeed, but thank you for trying,” Josef answers. I yearn to look at his face, to read the thoughts etched into the lines around his eyes and mouth. Klara’s shoulders shake, and with her free hand, she reaches back to her daughter and clasps tight.

  “There’s still time, Josef,” I say, but my words are swallowed by a scream. We’re twenty paces back now, and the shots are louder. A woman at the front of the line is thrashing and pulling, her thick auburn hair moving back and forth in horrified rhythm. It is the elegant woman with the fur coat.

  The Germans on either side of me strain to see the altercation between the beauty and their comrade. I, too, stand high on my toes to watch. I need to see the weakness of my enemy—to study his response to challenge.

  A single shot pierces the air. I jump as she falls to the ground in a heap. The German who pulled the trigger thrusts his gun behind his back and kicks her twice, then pulls the coat out of her clenched hands and tosses it on a growing pile of clothing and suitcases. He nods at the other men, who each grab one of her arms and drag her lifeless body around a second gate that blocks the slaughter zone.

  As the Nazi who shot her strides back toward me, I see that it is the same boy who forced me into the line. He catches my eye, and I return his gaze evenly. I fight a shudder as I catch the heat.

  FREDERICK HERRMANN

  September 29, 1941

  I am not a killer.

  My mother and sister believe me to be such, but the truth is I am not. Killing isn’t sport, nor is it a game. My job in this country is clear and noble: to cleanse. The art and act of doing so take many forms, and ending one life to preserve another is not killing.

  It is saving.

  She wasn’t the first person I killed, but it was the first time I pulled the trigger at point-blank range. I wasn’t prepared for the shock of watching life leave a person’s face. In the split second before she fell, I saw it drain: pink to white, warm to cold, life to death.

  With her blood still on my cheek, I walk toward the back of the line, my knees shaking, and for the first time I feel fear. If I show any sign of weakness, my father will find out, and that alone is enough to bring on a sense of fear so strong I’m briefly stunned. A warrior groomed by the man who calls Hitler a friend cannot show weakness in the face of death.

  As I march toward the back, I meet his gaze, and I see it there in his eyes. Defiance. Courage.

  Marching swiftly to Blobel, I salute and stand at attention.

  “What is it?” he asks gruffly.

  “Permission to join the shooting squad,” I reply, never looking him directly in the eye. My father taught me that when you look directly at one who is greater than you, it automatically reveals rebellion. This is how I know the Untermensch plans to escape. He looked me in the eye.

  Blobel waves blithely and nods, releasing me to join the ranks of those who methodically shoot each Jew standing in line. For them this is sport. The man who has the greatest number of accurate shots between the eyes at the end of the day receives a pack of cigarettes from each member of the line.
>
  I have no interest in the triviality of these games. I’m here to do my job. As I pass the rebel, I stop and face him. He has a tight grasp on the hand of the young girl next to him, who holds the woman’s hand in front of her. They don’t look at me, but they feel me. That’s all I need. Walking briskly to the front of the line, I cross through the gates and hurry to the line of men waiting for the next crop of crying, shaking Jews to stand opposite the ditch.

  Taking stance at the end of the line, I shout to the gatekeeper. “Send one more through this time!”

  The gatekeeper nods his head apathetically and gestures outside the gate. Moments later, a group walks through, their stripped bodies shivering despite the unseasonably warm weather. They stand across the ditch, some wailing, others praying, many of their faces registering disbelief.

  I raise my gun and train it at the woman in front of me. Just before I pull the trigger, her face floats across my mind—the woman with the coat. The light of life turning dark before my eyes.

  Fire!

  Taking a deep breath, I remember the Führor’s words: “He’ll do great things.”

  Then I shoot.

  IVAN KYRILOVICH

  September 29, 1941

  “I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t do it.” Polina shakes now, her body quaking, electric shocks moving through her hand to mine. We’re paces from the front, and the time has come to remove our clothing and add all possessions to the pile.

  “Shh, Dochinka, shh.” Klara turns and pulls her daughter close, her thin hand smoothing Polina’s straight dark hair over her gaunt shoulders.

  “Klara, you need to say good-bye,” Josef murmurs. Mother and daughter cling to one another with such ferocity that my throat melts in heated spasms as I imagine my own wife parting this life with her children.

  I squint in the mid-morning sunshine, my chest heavy with memory and doubt. I long for the safety of my family.

  “Schnell!”

  We stand before the second gate, unable to see what’s on the other side but understanding that our imagination is likely not enough to prepare us. It’s time to make a move. I slowly pull off my shirt and try to block out Polina’s sobs next to me. She’s a fourteen-year-old girl being asked to strip in public. The shame of that act alone sends her into a fit of panic, and I speak without turning my eyes in her direction. I will spare her every bit of dignity possible.

  “Polina, this isn’t over yet,” I say as I remove my pants. “I have a plan. Keep your eyes forward and calm down.”

  “Listen closely,” I whisper. A German voice rises above the throng as he prepares the firing squad.

  “He’s going to give three consecutive commands in rhythm. Listen. There’s one, two, three, and fire.” Polina and I both wince as shots ring out in chorus just beyond the gate.

  “After the third command, wait one moment and then fall. Don’t wait for the fire. Fall into the ditch a split second before the guns go off.” Polina refuses to look in my direction. I wonder if she’s heard me at all.

  “Polina, if you understand, squeeze my hand one time, please.”

  Reaching over slowly, Polina grasps my hand and gives one firm squeeze. The plan is set. “Josef, Klara, you do the same. Fall into the ditch before they shoot,” I hiss just as the gate opens, a terrifying metal-on-metal screech sending a wave of nausea through me.

  “Nyet,” Josef whispers in return. Klara’s shoulders slump. “If we all fall at once, they’ll get suspicious.”

  “Papa,” Polina whimpers.

  “I love you, Dochinka,” Josef says, turning his head toward his daughter. I see the tears coursing down his cheeks.

  “Take care of my girl,” Josef says just before stepping through the gate.

  Entering the killing zone is more horrifying than I imagined. Marching in a single-file line, our dignity stripped bare, we slowly wind our way up the small incline to the top of the death ditch.

  I try not to look at them, the men and women below, their limbs all tangled in a mass of grief and horror. But the image is too great, so my eyes slowly lower, and when I finally see, my lungs constrict.

  The bodies—all intertwined and twisted, thin arms and legs woven in and out in a pattern of heartache—they are the worms I see in my dream.

  The sounds around me separate from one another. I hear every movement: the crunch of dying grass beneath trembling feet; the quiet sobs of those resigned to fate; my own hollow breathing as I fight suffocation; Klara whispering her daughter’s name over and over like a lifeline.

  “Polina. Polina. Polina.”

  I hear the click of German guns as many of them reload, the clanking sound of metal entering chambers. The easygoing banter of the soldiers across the ditch, as if today were just another day at a menial job. All of the sounds reverberate through my mind.

  It isn’t just the sounds that magnify. I’m keenly aware of everything. The way the sunlight dapples through the trees, casting brilliant shapes and shadows across the open fields. The warmth of this Baba Leta day on my exposed flesh, fighting against the inner chill that leaves me raw.

  I watch a black bird drift through the sky, his wings spread in freedom, gliding through the air without fear. He doesn’t flap his wings, nor does he fight the current of the breeze. He catches it and rises suddenly, suspended for a brief moment before leaning to the side and riding the wind to a nearby branch.

  All of these things pass through me in an instant, and then it’s over. A German command brings the soldiers forward, their dusty caps set high on their foreheads. It is then that I see him.

  He walks briskly down the line to the man stationed across from me. It’s the steely eyed killer who pushed me into line, the same boy who killed the woman in the fur coat. Leaning forward, he whispers in his comrade’s ear. The soldier glances in my direction, shrugs his shoulders, and steps back, letting the boy with fire in his eyes take his place. I feel the heat, and in my final moments grow emblazoned.

  Looking back at him from across the killing ditch, I stare straight into his eyes, feeling a surge of hatred that surprises me.

  Ready!

  The first command rings out, bursting through the air with a measure of indifference.

  Set!

  “Get ready, Polina,” I whisper as the Germans raise their guns. Though we’re separated by a ditch, I look directly into the barrel before me. It’s black and cavernous and threatens to swallow me whole. I taste metal, and my ears ring as I await the final command.

  Aim!

  I wait a beat, then yelp, “Now!” I grab Polina’s hand and crumple just as the shots burst through the air. We tumble forward onto the heap, and I throw my arm over the trembling girl protectively.

  “Don’t cry. Don’t move,” I whisper. Polina bites her lip, willing herself to go limp, and together we lie still among the dead.

  I glance at Polina and see her eyes wide and glassy. She doesn’t blink, her mouth fixed in horror, and my heart sinks.

  “Polina?” I breathe as quietly as I can, not allowing myself to move.

  Her eyes flick my direction quickly, then close as hot tears pour off her nose. Lying on top of me is her father, a river of life flowing out of the wound between his eyes.

  I, too, close my eyes and wait, the open-mouthed corpses burying my sorrow, swallowed by the worms.

  PART TWO

  THE

  DARKNESS

  LUDA MICHAELEVNA

  September 29, 1941

  Vinnitsya, Ukraine

  “Get up!”

  I awake with a jolt, Papa’s booted foot pressed hard into my rib cage. Pushing myself to a sitting position, I squint in the early morning light. “What?”

  “Get up and get dressed. We’re going to pray.”

  He spins on his heel and marches out of the room, a nearly consumed bottle of vodka clutched tightly in his hands. I dress quickly, then rush to the front door where Papa waits impatiently.

  “Should we be going out, Papa?” I ask,
stepping quickly past him. I’ve seen them walking below my window. Germans. Boys with cropped blond hair and crisp uniforms marching the cobbled walkways of my childhood. They’re here, and my father wants to go to the church and pray. Despite his ever-present anger at God, my father still feels it necessary to pray in the church at least once a week—if it could be called a church.

  The Soviets took possession of the building some time ago and turned it into a public recreational facility. They painted the walls white, and pictures of Lenin and Stalin hang proudly. Rather than praying to the saints and to Mary, young people were trained in this building in the order of the Red Army through the Komsomol and Pioneers. Each day, children in their Soviet uniforms lined the large room, once a place of prayer and reflection, and learned instead the ways of Lenin. With the Germans in control, I don’t know who we will encounter inside the building, but I fear it will not be the friendly faces of local children.

  As we approach the sterile building, I blink hard against the memory that haunts me. I close my eyes briefly and see His face peering from beneath the cracked, white paint. It was years ago, a day when I begrudgingly followed Katya and Oleg to the building after school. They played ball in the cavernous hall while I looked on shyly. When the wayward ball was kicked a little too hard, it slammed into the wall, chipping off a large, circular piece of paint and revealing the face of the Christ child, a mural that had long ago been covered. The eyes looked straight into my soul, and I felt the heat of being known. We were quickly ushered from the building that day, and the next time we returned, the missing paint had been refreshed.

  But I cannot forget the image, and my heart quickens at the thought of once again standing beneath those eyes.

  Everyone I know respects the changes to this old building and treats it as nothing more than another Soviet facility, but not my father. He goes early, when the building is stale and quiet, and he prays. He prays for solace, he prays for death, he prays to be free—free from me.