Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  I don’t pray simply because I don’t know how. I imagine my mother would have taught me the proper way to approach the saints, but she isn’t here and somehow father’s prayers seem so futile and wasted. So I sit quietly on my knees with my eyes closed and dream of freedom—freedom from him.

  We step out into the still street, and I feel a chill run up my spine. The morning bustle is cut off today. No students file down the cobbled walkway, eager to get to school before the straggling crowd. Not that that means anything to me. But it’s unnerving to see the town so quiet. Walking out into these empty streets feels foolish and dangerous.

  As we step out of our flat onto the sidewalk, I look around slowly, waiting for the Nazi soldiers to come dashing out. Will they order us back inside? Will they harm us? Standing next to my father, I feel vulnerable. I know if danger arises he’ll save himself. I also know that he will do nothing for me out of a lifelong habit of simply not caring.

  We turn and quickly make our way down the road. When we reach the building that was once the church, I look up and shudder. The white walls frighten me. I don’t want to go in. It feels dangerous and ominous. I take a risk.

  “Papa, I’d like to stay out here and wait for you, please.” My voice is small, my words equal parts hope and terror.

  “No,” comes his gruff reply. “You’ll come in with me, and you’ll pray.”

  And that’s it. Arguing will do me no good, so I follow, shoulders slumped and heart beating quickly. We push open the heavy door and walk inside the dim room. It’s a large hall with expansive ceilings and narrow windows fitted down the sides, seven on each wall. The sunlight from outside looks gray and shadowed due to the dust and dirt that settled on the windows overnight. The walls are stark white, burying beneath them the paintings of the Mother Mary holding the infant Jesus. But I feel His mournful eyes, and I shiver.

  Suddenly, my father grabs my hand and pulls hard, bringing me to my knees. “Pray,” he growls. I close my eyes. Within minutes, empty-bottled Father is beseeching his patron saint, his body racked with the sobs of a man who doesn’t know the meaning of hope.

  As my father prays and sobs, I sit quietly. I want to pray, but to whom? And what can I pray? Perhaps I too have lost hope. I no longer see any possibility for a relationship with my father. At sixteen I’ve long outgrown the desire to see him changed. Too much time has passed. Too many bruises from his hands have faded.

  I jump when they come in—three of them, all with strong, icy blue eyes. They’re young, perhaps only a few years older than myself, but they look terrifying.

  Father stops praying and looks up. His sagging cheeks are wet and his small eyes hollow. He still clutches his empty bottle in his left hand, his right hand balled up under his chin. This is his prayer pose. Looking at him, I feel pity and loathing. He’s a small, balding man, and his life is built upon shame. In that moment, as the German soldiers approach, I know that my father is finished.

  One of the Nazis barks an order that sends me scrambling to my feet. Father stays on his knees looking warily at the three men. The oldest of the three approaches me. He reaches up and runs his fingers through my thick hair, a smile spreading across his face. I shiver, and this sends him into a fit of laughter.

  When he finally composes himself, the German gazes at me with such intensity that I’m momentarily hypnotized, his eyes so deep and blue I feel as if I am looking into the ocean that I’ve heard so much about. When he speaks, I snap back into the horror of this present reality. His words send his comrades into peals of laughter as his hand runs down my shoulder. One of the other men walks to my father and jerks him to his feet, knocking the vodka bottle to the floor. He laughs as it shatters. My breathing comes in short bursts as the Nazi before me runs the back of his hand across my lips. He’s talking to me, his honeyed words bitter to my ears.

  I glance at Papa who is now being held steady by the other two German soldiers. They’re taunting him, the sound of their language harsh and guttural. My father looks at the ground, and I know he has no fight. Empty-bottled Papa, steeped in self-pity, wouldn’t know how to fight. One of the men punches the side of his face, and I wince as his head snaps to the left.

  “You won’t fight them?” he hisses. I shake my head no. I don’t see any reason to fight the inevitable. Besides, what my father doesn’t understand is that he killed the fight in me long ago. I have nothing left.

  Laughing, they turn him around and drag him out of the building while I remain frozen. Looking back at me over his shoulder, my father utters the last words I will ever hear him say before the world goes dark and cold.

  “You are a whore. Just like your mother,” my father growls, spitting out the words like poison. The Germans roar with laughter. They kick open the front door and push him out into the street.

  My heart turns to stone as the door shuts with a loud click and the three men quickly surround me. For the first time my father has directly spoken to me of my mother. His words bounce through my head, spinning and tumbling like the icy winds of winter.

  “Whore. Like your mother.”

  This is the only description of my mother I have ever been given. I’m so absorbed in digesting what I heard that for a moment I don’t feel their hands on me. I snap to attention as the tallest of the three rips my shirt, pulling it from my now trembling body. I know what will happen next. I don’t know if I will survive.

  As they push me down and take their turns, I try to conjure up the picture I had created of my mother. I try to hear the song in her voice and see the rhythm of her movements. I try to remember her as I’ve seen her in my mind for so many years. But all I can see is black, and inside the swirling darkness I see His eyes. They bore through the walls and slowly change and morph into the eyes of my father. I feel the judgment like hot coals poured over my head.

  “Whore. Like your mother.”

  The verdict echoes and reverberates, bouncing back and forth through my frozen soul. I don’t feel the pain, don’t feel my nakedness or the cold. I don’t hear the strange men grunting in my ear, and I cannot taste their greedy mouths. But most of all, I can’t see my mother.

  She is gone.

  FREDERICK HERRMANN

  September 30, 1941

  He isn’t dead.

  As the sun sinks low over the trees, I watch. Every once in a while, a shadow dances across the scene before me, and I jump to my feet, my gun trained toward the pile.

  Looking up, I notice for the first time the colors that surround me. The leaves are changing, fading from vivid reds and yellows into a brown that signifies imminent winter.

  Death.

  When I pulled the trigger, my target was no longer there. It happened so quickly that it took me a minute to realize. My first instinct was to jump into the ditch, but the sight was so repulsive that I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I am a weak man, indeed.

  So now I wait. Many more were killed after him, and the mound piles high. I will keep watch for as long as it takes. He will crawl out, and I intend to meet him.

  At the sound of footsteps I whirl around, pulling my gun up sharply.

  “Lower your weapon, boy!” he barks.

  Quickly snapping to attention, I salute Standartenführer Blobel.

  “Heil Hitler!” I say, raising my arm rigidly. Blobel nods and returns the salute. I remain straight backed in front of the man who masterminded this day—the man who calls my father comrade.

  “Why are you still here?” he asks. His voice is thin, and the words rake through his lips with sharp precision. I don’t look directly at him but rather just above the brim of his hat.

  “I’m waiting, sir,” I answer evenly.

  “Waiting?”

  “Yes, sir.” I don’t know why I don’t say more, and neither does Blobel. I hear his annoyance.

  “What are you waiting for?” he asks, his teeth clenched. Blobel has little patience for anything but a straight and complete answer.

  “There’s someone do
wn there who is going to try to escape,” I reply. I realize how I sound: obsessive, impulsive, foolish. But for some reason I can’t stop myself. To do so feels like an unacceptable defeat.

  Blobel chuckles softly and pulls a cigarette out of his pocket. Striking a match, he draws in deeply from the thick Russian makhorka. The tobacco is strong, and the smoke drifts through the air, creating a fuzzy mirage before me.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Blobel says turning back to me, smoke flowing out of his nose in a long, steady stream. “There is no one alive down there.” I hear the satisfaction in his voice.

  “Go back to the bunkers, boy,” he says after drawing in another deep breath. “No one can survive this ditch.” He looks at me. I lower my eyes slowly to meet his for the first time. The serpent slowly flickers beneath the steel gray. It is momentarily mesmerizing.

  “No man escapes my ditch.”

  His words are marked with confidant finality. I watch Blobel stare into the mound. He’s like an artist studying his own painting. His eyes move slowly from left to right and then back again.

  “This is my work,” he says softly.

  “Sir,” I begin. My voice falters. I clear my throat. No weakness. “Sir, I know there’s a man still alive inside that pile. He fell before I shot.”

  Blobel stands silent for a moment, then turns his serpent eyes my way.

  “He can’t escape,” he says. “If he tries, the guards will shoot him.” Then he lets out a laugh—a low, rasping hiss of a laugh that moves up from his throat and across his lips, sending a chill down my back. The sun has now set, and the trees around us feel thick and tall and ominous.

  “This is my life’s work,” he says, his arm extended over the twisted bodies. “What do you think of my ditch? Isn’t it grand!”

  In that moment, my respect for Standartenführer Paul Blobel plummets. This is all a game to him, too. Disappointed, my shoulders slump. Blobel notices and stops laughing. He narrows his eyes.

  “Go back to the bunkers, boy,” he says, his laughter now tangled in the air around us. “No one can escape my ditch alive.”

  Sickened at his ridiculous and prideful repetition, I raise my arm in salute, then grab my gun and march toward the gate.

  “Herrmann!”

  I turn toward Blobel, who quickly fades into the blackness, the cool autumn air engulfing his small, thin frame.

  “This is my ditch.”

  I nod in his direction. He knows he’s lost me. He knows that he can’t measure up to or compete with the two men I esteem above all others. He knows that, no matter how hard he tries, he will never be as grand in my eyes as my father and the Great Führer.

  Glancing once more into the ditch, I think I see movement, and I stop.

  “Leave, boy,” he hisses behind me.

  Willing myself to turn, I slowly walk away more determined than ever to complete the task before me with excellence. My mission is not to defeat the Jews.

  My mission is to make my father proud, to be a part of history.

  LUDA MICHAELEVNA

  October 5, 1941

  I’m spinning and tumbling, the black night pressing down on me from all sides. I feel the weight of the darkness heavy on my chest, and I gasp for breath. As I suck the air in, it turns to smoke in my lungs, and that’s when I hear them.

  They’re laughing, the sounds floating up and around the black and covering me. I smell the sardines on their breath, and I realize that the weight I feel pressing me down is the weight of their bodies. They’re on top of me, breathing heavy, and I cannot move. I can’t breathe or see or escape as their hands move steadily, painfully. I open my mouth in a silent and terrified scream. Then I hear the whisper. It starts low, a haunting rasp that plays in a loop and steadily grows louder over the maniacal laughter.

  “Whore. Like your mother. Whore. Like your mother. Whore.”

  I sit up with a gasp and throw the thin blanket from me. Leaping to my feet, I flail at the still air in the room and turn around, disoriented. It takes a moment for me to remember that I’m no longer there. I’m with Katya. I look down at the floor where she sleeps and draw in a ragged breath.

  With trembling arms, I lower myself back to my bed and squeeze my eyes tight in an effort to forget the smells and sounds of that terrible day.

  I haven’t returned home since the incident. The moment my father walked out, leaving me to be devoured by the hungry beasts, I knew I would never again see him. My entire life had been spent trying to care for and preserve the only connection I had to my mother. Though I had little hope of knowing who she really was, I always had my dream. But with just four little words, my father destroyed the dream. And I can’t seem to bring her back.

  After the Nazi soldiers finished with me, I waited for death. It only seemed like the natural next step after having endured such horrific abuse. Instead, they threw my clothes at me and pulled me to my feet. As they stood back and watched, I slowly dressed myself, my back bruised and bleeding from the repeated movement on the rough wooden floor. Having them watch and laugh as I dressed was more humiliating than what had already occurred.

  The Nazis did not kill me as I expected but simply pointed to the door and ordered me to go. I saw how they looked at me. Their stares hardened from callous laughter to disdain, hatred, and utter contempt. I don’t remember much after I left the building of horror. I remember sunshine and warmth, complete contrasts to how I felt inside. I slowly made my way down the sidewalk, staying as close to the buildings as I could. I felt exposed, bare, and terribly guilty in the bright sunlight.

  I managed to stumble to Katya’s flat. When her grandmother opened the door, she yelped and called out for Alexei Yurevich, who came running and caught me just as I passed out.

  They told me later that I slept for two days, frequently waking up in screaming fits before settling back into fitful, feverish slumber. When I finally awoke, it was Oleg who sat by my side.

  “Privyet, Luda,” he said softly, as my eyes focused. He smiled and placed a cool cloth on my forehead. “It’s nice to see your eyes.”

  Even now, as I think of the tenderness in his voice and the genuine concern in his eyes, I find myself filled with gratitude. In the five days since I woke, Katya’s family has given me the blessed gift of space. They’ve asked very few questions, and I am grateful. They haven’t asked me to explain what happened, nor have they tried to contact my father. And I’ve said little in return.

  How do I tell someone what happened that day? How do I explain the sounds I heard and the pain I felt? How do I communicate the shame and the despair that has settled upon my soul? I wish I could describe the darkness. I wish I could release the pressure that constricts my heart and keeps me enslaved to the floor of that drafty building.

  I wish.

  I get up from my cot in the corner of the flat and numbly make my way to the kitchen. I haven’t eaten in days, and suddenly I feel famished. Entering the small eating room, I find Katya’s grandmother and Alexei sitting at the table, silently drinking their chai.

  “Sit, Luda,” Baba Mysa says. I’m not sure why Katya calls her grandmother Baba Mysa, but somehow it fits her. Mysa, meaning “little fly,” is endearing and sweet when paired with the tender lady who sits before me. She’s a small woman with a stout frame, but her face doesn’t bear the hardened marks of many Soviet grandmothers. Her eyes are still soft, and the lines around her mouth reveal years of laughter. I’m drawn to her, pulled in by the peace that seems to ebb and flow freely about her spirit.

  “Would you like some chai?” Alexei asks. For the first time I notice how much he resembles his mother.

  “Yes, please,” I answer. My voice no longer sounds like my own. It’s hollow. The Nazi’s robbed every piece of me.

  Baba Mysa hands me a steaming tin cup, and I wrap my hands around it. She sits down beside me, staring intently into my face. Feeling my cheeks flush, I break her gaze, shifting my eyes to the steaming tea.

  “Look at me, Luda,” B
aba Mysa says. I look up and immediately feel hot tears prick the corners of my eyes. I have yet to cry, but as Baba Mysa penetrates my soul with her stare, I fear the time is coming when I’ll begin and be unable to stop.

  “Are you ready to talk?” she asks.

  “Mama,” Alexei says, his voice laced with concern. “Don’t push her.”

  Baba Mysa dismisses her son with a wave of her hand and looks deeper into my eyes. This time I look back, and it’s then that I realize she knows. She knows what they did to me. She understands my pain.

  “Whore. Like your mother.”

  “Are you ready to talk?” she asks again, gentler this time.

  I take a sip of my chai, the hot liquid burning my tongue and throat and bringing a welcome relief. Knowing that Baba Mysa waits for an answer, I take a halting breath and nod slowly.

  “Good,” she says. “You tell me as much as you want. When you’re ready to stop, we will stop talking.”

  “Luda, you don’t have to tell us anything if you don’t really want to,” Alexei says, leaning close. I smile gratefully at the man whom I have often wished was my father instead of the pathetic waste of a man I was cursed with.

  “Thank you, Alexei Yurevich,” I whisper.

  “Please. Just call me Alexei,” he says with a smile. “Do you want me to leave while you talk with Mama?”

  I think for a moment before answering. The humiliation of what I’m about to admit would be no less so if he left the room, and having him near makes me feel safe. “No,” I answer. “Please stay.”

  Both Alexei and Baba Mysa sit back and wait for me to begin. I suck in a deep breath and haltingly relive the moments of a day that I will never escape. At some point—I don’t know when—Oleg and Katya slip into the room, drawn by the sound of my heartache. When I reach the part of the story where my father leaves me, Alexei shoves his chair back with such force that it tips backward and hits the concrete wall. His faced is rigid, and his eyes flash with fury.