Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  “Sit down, Alexei,” Baba Mysa commands as I falter. Perhaps I’ve said too much.

  “It’s okay,” I mumble. “You can stand. It’s a terrible story. I’m a terrible person.” Hot tears gather inside my heavy eyes.

  Alexei’s face softens, and he kneels down in front of me. He grabs my hands in his, engulfing me with strength. “It is a terrible story, Luda,” he says. “But you’re wrong. You are not the terrible person.”

  And in that moment, I break. The pain, the fear, the hurt, and the anger dissolve under the kindness of his stare. He’s concerned, and his concern is centered upon me. No one has ever been concerned for me before.

  Through racking sobs and heavy tears, I finish the story. I look up to see Katya wrapped up in her brother’s arms, sobbing. Oleg’s face is wet, and even the unbreakable Baba Mysa looks wounded.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry to burden you with this.”

  Baba Mysa jumps out of her chair and lunges toward me, pulling me up so quickly that the remaining chai in my mug splashes to the floor. I’m stunned by her reaction and flinch out of habit, my hands covering my head in defense.

  But I’m not prepared for what happens next.

  Grabbing my chin, Baba Mysa forces my face downward so that I am eye to eye with her. “Open your eyes, Luda,” she commands. I do and look straight into the slate blue depths before me. I see lightning flash there, a jagged line of anger mixed with fierce love.

  “You are safe now, do you understand?”

  I nod, her hand still firmly on my chin.

  “You’re safe, and you will be loved here. In this house we fight for each other, and we’re going to fight for you.”

  With that she drops my chin and brushes her hands together as if finalizing a deal. The room has grown quiet. I suspect that even Alexei, Katya, and Oleg have never seen Baba Mysa react with such passion.

  “Everybody go,” Baba Mysa barks, grabbing a small rag to clean up the tea on the floor. “Go and rest. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

  As I slowly walk out of the small room, Oleg grabs my hand and squeezes. “It’s not your fault, Luda. It is not your fault.”

  I look into his eyes, shocked by the emotion laced through his words, and I see it.

  Devotion.

  I nod, then slowly walk away, numb.

  MARIA IVANOVNA

  October 7, 1941

  My father is gone.

  We heard of the slaughter outside of town at Babi Yar. It’s impossible not to know what’s happening just outside our beloved city. Screams have filled the streets these horrible days, and they have yet to be silenced. I hear them even in my sleep.

  In the three nights since Papa left, my mama has wailed, her hot tears burning through the blankets that Anna and I pile on top of her in an effort to keep the violent tremors at bay. Mama with the deep-set eyes. She’s drowning in her sorrow, and I fear we’ll lose her, too.

  But tonight is the fourth night, and for the first time, the flat is silent. I sit on my cot, staring out the window, trying to wrap my mind around all that has changed. I don’t hear her approach, but I sense her presence, and when I look up, Mama stands over me. Her face, always so young and beautiful, is now pinched and drawn. Wrinkles have set in—deep lines etched in sorrow that pull the corners of her delicate mouth into a harsh arch. Her eyes are dim and gray.

  “Get up, Dochinka,” she commands. “It’s time to get to work.”

  I pull myself off the floor and let the book in my hand fall with a thud. I’ve held it for hours, hoping to read and escape the horrible feeling of despair that seems so willing to destroy us all, but I could never focus on the words. Quickly stuffing my thick, frizzy hair into a bun at the nape of my neck, I follow Mama into the kitchen. Anna stands at the stove, slowly stirring a simmering pot of broth. We have no vegetables or salt, and the soup is weak. It’s mainly hot water meant to fill our shriveled stomachs.

  “Your papa won’t return,” Mama says, her tone flat. Anna puts down her spoon and turns, eyes wide; Anna with the pretty face, always good and kind, now horrified and angry.

  “If we are going to survive a winter under occupation, girls, there are things we must do now. There’s no more time to be children.” Mama says this while looking straight into my eyes. “The time has come for both of you to work and to work hard. We’ll need to be smart with the rations we’re given, and we must get rid of everything we possibly can right away. Money is the most important thing now if we’re to eat at all this winter.”

  Mama turns and runs her hand over the woodstove that Papa bought her for the New Year holiday two years ago. He was so proud of his purchase, dancing as he installed it for her. “Your mama is a woman who deserves her own oven, girls. She’s a princess, and I am her prince.”

  I think wistfully of the joy we all felt that day as Mama lit up at the prospect of no longer having to cook her food over a communal fire in the building. My eyes snap back as Mama speaks again.

  “It’s a good thing your Papa bought us this oven when he did. We’re going to need it to stay warm now that he’s gone—”

  “No!”

  I jump at the sound of Anna’s voice and stare at my sister, stunned by her flashing eyes and bitter stare.

  “No. Papa is still alive,” she says, this time in a near whisper. Her quiet words wash over me and out of the room.

  “Anna,” Mama says, reaching for her older daughter’s hand, but Anna recoils. For a moment, the two lock eyes. I stand motionless, a spectator to the silent showdown. Normally, I would have automatically assumed Mama the winner, but something about Anna’s look stops me.

  It is belief. A true, deep, and wholehearted belief that bubbles from inside and radiates from her pores, and the longer I look at my sister’s face, the more I share her conviction.

  “No, Mama,” Anna says again, this time more gently.

  Mama draws herself up, smoothing her hair back behind her ears. She nods her head, a solitary tear spilling on her cheek.

  I turn away and fix my gaze at the small window set high on the wall above the kitchen stove, the one Mama used to keep open while she cooked. Papa felt it too dangerous to have windows open since the Germans invaded, so for months it has remained latched tight. Tonight, as I gaze at the black sky, I allow my mind to wander.

  Could Papa be out there somewhere?

  The last few days have turned cold, the final strains of Baba Leta fading into that awful stretch of winter that seems never ending. Night comes quicker and lasts longer, and it’s just a matter of time before the colors of spring can only be seen in vivid daydreams.

  As I lose myself in the black sky, I hear a hollow thud outside our flat. Anna and I freeze as Mama holds up her hand. We listen intently. A light knock skips across the wooden frame of the door and down into my chest.

  “Stay here,” Mama whispers. She slowly moves out of the kitchen to the front door.

  Standing with her mouth pressed to the crack, she asks quietly, “Kto tam?”

  I don’t hear the reply, but Mama screams and bats at the lock, pulling the door open wide. Anna and I rush out just as Papa falls into a heap at Mama’s feet.

  “Bozhe Moi. Ah, Bozhe Moi.” Over and over, Mama cries out to the God we rarely discuss. She pulls Papa’s head into her lap, her delicate hands running up and down his hollowed cheeks. I stare in horror at the man I know to be my father but hardly recognize. He is naked and covered in blood and dirt. I have never felt more frightened.

  Mama leans down and puts her cheek on his face, crying and wailing hysterically.

  “Help me, Masha!” Anna calls, but I’m frozen, paralyzed by the vision of my father so helpless and weak—my papa who always has the answers and the strength.

  Anna drags Papa inside and slams the door, locking it again quickly.

  “Masha! Help me. Now!” Anna’s voice jolts me out of my trance. I quickly race to the bedroom and grab the blankets off the bed, then return to my
father’s side. Covering him, I lean forward and touch his face. It’s cold and dry. His eyes are sunken, and his cheekbones protrude from his face at an ugly angle. He opens his eyes and looks at me for a brief moment.

  “Mashinka,” he whispers. His head falls to the side as he loses consciousness. I look up, first at Anna, then Mama. Their faces register the same thing I feel: shock, joy, bewilderment, and complete and utter terror. What has happened in the days since he left?

  IVAN KYRILOVICH

  October 8, 1941

  The memory haunts me. It moves from my head to my heart, and it leaves me cold. I cannot escape the sounds. I’m home now, but in my mind I’m still stuck in that ditch, in the forest of nightmares. How many times did I tell my children the stories of Baba Yaga, the witch of the forest who walks about waiting to capture lost children and eat them for lunch? How many times did I leave them tucked in their beds, eyes wide with terror at the shadows of the night? Perhaps Baba Yaga isn’t a myth after all. It seems she may be real, and I met her at the Babi Yar, the death ditch that I somehow survived.

  Closing my eyes, I replay it all again. The moment I fell, the sound of the gun, and the bodies. All of the bodies. I sink into the memory, back into the ditch.

  I felt them. The dead and the dying all pressed in a ditch, writhing and moaning. Not everyone died immediately. Some lingered in the pile of worms.

  One by one they fell on top of me, burying me from the sight of my enemy. The first to land was Josef, and soon after him a dark-haired child tumbled down the embankment. She landed with her nose inches from mine, and I watched as the life slowly drained from her face until her gaze was fixed and steady. I cradled her into death, ushering her from this life as her auburn hair grazed my cheek. And still the bodies fell.

  Next to me, Polina whimpered. Her body was fine—no bullet pierced her skin. But her spirit wallowed in the darkest place imaginable. “Mama,” she cried over and over. For hours on end, she clutched the hand of her dead mother and wept for her, and I wondered if I made the right choice in forcing her to survive.

  If the spirit is dead, can the body live on?

  When night finally fell and the sound of shots became only an echo in our minds, I slowly began to shift beneath the bodies. I felt heavy and weighted down, suffocated.

  “Polina,” I whispered. “Polya?” I waited for her to answer.

  “Da.” Her voice was flat, devoid of life.

  “It’s time to go.”

  “Da,” she answered.

  I moved again, slowly setting the child in my arms to the side. I kissed her soft cheek, this girl of no more than six. It was cold and smooth like a fine stone.

  “Good-bye, small angel,” I whispered. I moved from side to side, pushing the bodies away until I could finally see out from beneath them. For a brief moment I marveled at the sky above, the deep black dotted with a million stars. How big and giant is this world?

  “I’m ready,” Polina whispered. Very slowly we both shifted and moved until we’d broken from the prison of death.

  “We’ll have to find our way out of here,” I whispered. “They have a wide section of the forest fenced off. The gate is guarded, I’m sure.”

  Just then we heard the crack of a boot walking on the ridge above.

  “Lie down,” I hissed. Polina and I collapsed on top of the open mouthed corpses just before the solider strolled by. Frozen, we both waited until he passed out of sight.

  “We need to use extreme caution,” I whispered, and Polina nodded. There was no life to her movements. She merely complied with all I said.

  “Let’s go now before he comes back.”

  Slowly standing up I felt my muscles scream as they stretched and moved for the first time in many hours. I pointed to the opposite side of the ravine, and Polina and I moved over the bodies, pulling ourselves up the side of the death ditch. Polina glanced back once more at the place where her parents lie buried. She lifted her hand to her mouth then blew a soft kiss before turning and grabbing hold of a small root, pulling herself up over the edge.

  Once on the other side, Polina and I moved as quickly as we could without making a sound. The ground beneath our feet was cold and hard, evidence of the nearing winter. I looked to the right and saw several campfires lit about four hundred meters away.

  “This way,” I breathed, pointing in the opposite direction.

  We moved deeper into the wooded land, the trees closing in above us, blotting out the stars. I kept Polina directly in front of me so I could see her shadow.

  The fallen leaves and branches required us to slow our pace so that we walked more delicately. Periodically I checked back over my shoulder, the orange glow of the Nazi fires growing smaller—embers in the distance.

  I didn’t know where we were, and without benefit of light, it felt odd and unnerving to keep walking. I placed my hand on Polina’s bare shoulder. She stopped. Her body trembled, and I felt her shame and horror. We were naked and covered in the dried blood of our countrymen.

  “Polya,” I said, my voice low and soft. “Let’s walk a bit farther, then find a place to lie down for the night. We need to rest and stay warm. Tomorrow we’ll continue.”

  I knew that if we pushed back into the forest deep enough we were likely to run into a small village or dacha. I just needed to get my bearings in the light of day.

  What I didn’t know was what the next day would bring.

  “Papa?”

  I jump, my eyes snapping open. It takes me a moment to register the girl standing in front of me. I know her.

  “Are you alright?” Her eyes are concerned, but I also see fear. It’s my daughter. I remember now. I’m not in the woods anymore. I’m at home.

  I nod my head once, a very slight acknowledgment of her question, but not really an answer. Am I okay? I don’t know.

  I think I’m trapped.

  MARIA IVANOVNA

  October 12, 1941

  It’s been five days since Papa came home, and still the questions linger over us like a cloud. Though he’s physically in our presence, he’s not fully here, and I long to have him back. He’s vacant and silent, his eyes glassy. I sit by him all day long, just holding his hand. He won’t look at me and mumbles only short, staccato answers when a question is asked of him. Mostly though, he stares long and hard at the wall. He is locked somewhere that I cannot go.

  I have so many questions, so many things I want to know. What happened? Where are Josef and Klara and Polina? But I don’t say anything. Instead, I become Papa’s companion. For hours we sit, hand in hand. I fight the urge to speak, and he doesn’t offer any answers. The old papa would have been able to read my thoughts and would have known what to say, but this papa doesn’t seem to know I’m here.

  Anna walks in with a tray of bouillon and a steaming cup of chai. Mama’s chief mission in the days since Papa’s return has been to bring his health back through food using the sparse rations that we have. Anna sets the tray down and gives me an inquisitive look. She wants to know if Papa has spoken. I give a slight shake of my head, and she straightens up again.

  “Mama is making Vereniki, Papa. We know it’s your favorite.”

  Papa looks up at his oldest daughter and forces a slight smile. “Tell your mama I said thank you,” he whispers. Anna tosses me a wide-eyed glance. That’s the longest sentence Papa has spoken since his return.

  Anna hustles to the kitchen, and Papa picks up his spoon. I don’t think he’s hungry, but he eats anyway. For Mama. We sit in silence for a moment while he sips from his bowl.

  “It’s good,” he says finally. I look up, and my eyes fill with tears. My father has always been the rock, but today he looks small and sad and terrified.

  “Papa,” I say, then hesitate.

  “Yes, Dorogaya?”

  “Papa … are … are you okay?”

  It’s not what I want to ask, but I don’t have the courage yet to ask the other questions. Papa sighs and looks at the wall again. I worry that
I’ve upset him.

  For a long time we sit.

  “No,” he finally says.

  I nod with disappointment. I already knew the answer to that, and I kick myself for not asking a better question when I had the chance. He’s retreating again—I feel it.

  “She’s still alive,” he breathes. My eyes snap to his face. The color has drained away, and his mouth hangs open slightly. He looks so very old. It’s as if all youth left him overnight. His hair is gray around the temples, his eyes dull, and his entire body sags under the weight of a memory that he’ll never escape.

  “Who, Papa?” I whisper.

  “Polina,” he answers, shifting his gaze to my face. “Polina is still alive. And I …” Papa’s eyes fill with tears, and his chin trembles violently.

  “I left her there. Polina is alive, and I left her in the open for the wolves.”

  With that, Papa’s eyes close, and he faints. I catch him just before he hits the floor.

  LUDA MICHAELEVNA

  December 9, 1941

  I’ve known for several weeks now, and I know the time is coming when I won’t be able to hide it any longer. In the darkness I’m free to caress my abdomen, the pouch hardening and swelling just slightly. Though I’ve never had a woman to help explain life to me, I instinctively know when it’s growing inside. I wonder how much longer I can keep my secret before they know. And I wonder if at last they will be ashamed.

  When you grow up without love, accepting it becomes almost burdensome. I wait for the glass to shatter, like the vision of my mother. I anticipate the hot stares of judgment from Alexei and the fear in Katya’s eyes. I prepare for Baba Mysa’s reprimands, and I long for Oleg to quit looking at me with such tenderness. It could all crumble at any moment, and as I sense the life that moves inside, I fear that the time may soon come when their pity and love turn to condemnation.