Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  I sit back slowly in my chair, my head spinning with these new details. “What happened next?” I ask. I feel like I’ve tapped into the vault of my past, and I need more.

  “Time passed, and I didn’t see your mother except in passing at school. She wouldn’t look at me, and she never initiated contact. I didn’t want to make life more difficult, so I quit pursuing her. But I could not stop looking. Every time she passed me in the halls or on the street, I had to stare. She was magnetic.

  “After about eight months, I noticed your mama walking on the arm of another man, and my heart was broken. I didn’t think I could possibly continue my own schooling when I realized that she had moved on from our relationship. Your mother had met your father.”

  Alexei pauses before continuing. “Just before we graduated school, the two of them were married.”

  “But why?” I ask. “Why him?”

  “I spent a year mourning the relationship, sure I would never love again,” Alexei says, continuing to talk as though he hadn’t heard me. “Then one day I ran into her in the market, and I just needed to speak to her. I needed to hear the sound of her voice once more. I needed closure.

  “Your mother motioned slowly for me to follow her into the alley behind the store, and for the first time in two years we spoke again.”

  “What did she say?” I interrupt, my heart racing.

  “She told me she still loved me and that she always would. Her father had forced her to marry Boris as a means to keep her from me. If you can believe me, your father was once a good man. He was misguided and pompous, but he did love your mother. She just didn’t love him in return.” Alexei drops his eyes. “She loved me,” he says quietly. He looks up, his eyes full of tears, and gives a gentle smile. “She kissed me good-bye that day, and we wouldn’t speak again for a long time.”

  “So, what happened next?” I ask.

  “I met my Ekaterina several months later. I never thought I’d love again after your mother, but I did love my wife. Soon after, she and I were expecting our first child. I heard news of your mother every once in a while. She taught in the local school, and on occasion I’d see her walking along the street, beautiful and serene. I still loved her, but I was content and happy with my wife.”

  “What happened to your wife, Alexei?” I ask, for the first time realizing that I don’t know anything about Katya’s mother.

  “She died the day after Katya was born,” Alexei answers softly. “There were complications. You and Katya are similar in many ways, you know,” he says with a soft smile. “I hope, for your sakes, you can repair your relationship because you will need one another.”

  “Did you know my mother had a child at the same time as Katya?” I ask. Alexei nods.

  “I had heard that she had a baby girl a couple of months before our daughter was born. I was happy for her. I knew she would be an excellent mother. Your mother had so much love to give.”

  “But …” The room spins as I try to process all this information. “What about my father? How did he treat her?” I can’t fathom that Alexei, the man I had spent so much time wishing was my father, had once been in love with my mother.

  Alexei sighs and pinches the top of his nose again. “Luda, I wish I could tell you more about their relationship, but I simply don’t know. From what I heard at the time and noticed, your father treated her well, but I think he knew. Your father knew her heart belonged to me long before he came along.”

  “How did she die?” I ask. This is the question I dread. I fear knowing details of my mother’s passing, yet I feel I must learn what happened in order to ever be able to function as a mother myself.

  “She got sick,” Alexei answered, his eyes welling up with tears. “She came to see me one day when you were about eighteen months old. You were a beautiful baby with big brown eyes and thin, wispy brown hair. Your mother clung to you that day.” He stopped, voice breaking. “It was like she thought she could live longer off of your youth and innocence.”

  Tears prick the corners of my eyes as I imagine my mother trying to draw life from me to her.

  “Your mama told me that she had just visited the doctor and the prognosis wasn’t good. There was something inside her stomach that was killing her.”

  I let the hot tears drip onto my cheeks. The image of my mother clinging to me rips through my heart white hot.

  “She asked me to make sure you were taken care of,” Alexei says softly, turning to look out the window.

  “Why you? What was wrong with my father?”

  Alexei sighs again. “She told me your father had grown bitter and jealous. He knew of her love for me and—Luda, your father had already been drinking for some time. Your mama told me he started drinking shortly after you were born.”

  Sitting back, I stare down at the bulge in my abdomen. I was the demon my father had been trying to escape. I was the one who sent him into the hell of his vodka.

  “Your mother died six months later.” Alexei bends his head forward, a soft sob escaping from his throat. I sit numbly for a moment before asking the other question pressing on my heart.

  “Where were my grandparents?” I ask. “Why was no one there to fill in the holes for me? Why weren’t you there?” I look at the top of Alexei’s head, imploring him to answer the questions that have plagued me my entire life.

  “Your mother’s parents died before you were born. It was very difficult for her. I think that’s why she finally felt the freedom to visit me again,” Alexei answers, sitting up and wiping his eyes slowly. “She was free from the fear of shaming her father.”

  “And my father’s parents?”

  “I don’t know much of them,” Alexei says. “I don’t know that they were ever very involved. I think when your mother died, Boris pushed everyone away.”

  “And you?” I ask. “Why didn’t you look after me? Why didn’t you protect me from him?”

  Alexei looks deep into my eyes, an ocean of grief and sorrow swimming in the abyss between us. “Your father hated me, Luda. In your mother’s final days, as she slipped in and out of consciousness, she asked for me, and it infuriated your father. He came to me the night she died and told me that if I ever came near you he would kill you. I couldn’t take the risk, so I stayed far away.”

  “But you made sure Katya and I became friends,” I say softly, and Alexei nods.

  “Yes. She was my connection to you.”

  Leaning back, I turn my face up to the ceiling and take in a long, deep breath. The pieces all begin to fall into place. “So my mother wasn’t a whore,” I say, less to him and more to myself. Every single image of my mother that I’d conjured up as a youth comes flooding back. Her laugh that sounded like a thousand bells. The sound of her voice singing softly over me. The way her hair swung loosely over her shoulders. Could these be real memories? Could it be that the very few moments I had with my mother had been stored inside of me all along?

  “I’m sorry, Luda,” Alexei says quietly, breaking the silence. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry that I failed you—and your mother.”

  I nod, then ask one last question that has been pressing against my heart like a vice. “What is my mother’s name?”

  Alexei’s eyes widen. “He never even spoke her name?” he whispers.

  I shake my head no. “He only spoke of her when he was drunk, and he always referred to her as ‘My darling.’ I’ve never heard my mother’s name.”

  “Marianna,” Alexei said, and a gentle smile spreads across his face. “Your mother’s name is Marianna.”

  I nod, my eyes filling up with tears. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you for giving my mother back to me.”

  Alexei reaches across the table and grasps my hand. “You’re just like your mother, Luda.”

  I nod slowly and allow a smile to form. The first genuine smile I’ve given in months. I look at my stomach and breathe in deep.

  For the first time in all my life, I feel peace.

 
Like your mother.

  FREDERICK HERRMANN

  January 18, 1942

  I can’t get her face out of my head. Every time I close my eyes, I see her red hair and wide, blue eyes. She tumbles out of the gas van over and over in my dreams, a loop of guilt and terror. And each time I look down at her grotesque death-face it morphs and changes into that of my sister.

  This morning, like every morning, I dress slowly, my muscles stiff and aching from a long night. I sit down hard on my cot and think of Talia, my wayward sister who left home long ago in protest of Father’s dealings. As a child, she had been my dearest friend and most faithful protector. As an adult, she betrayed our father and our country and became a hated enemy. The brazen redhead awakened the memories, and I’m stuck here now, weak, wishing my sister were near.

  I long to be a boy once more with my fingers in the dark earth, Talia standing nearby humming and dancing to the beat inside her heart. When we were young, my sister was full of whimsy and laughter. She could look once at Father and the rough exterior of his eyes would ripple and fade, leaving twinkles and grins meant only for her. With me he was always firm, always strong. But with Talia he spoke gently and tenderly. At any moment of the day, Talia could climb into his lap and command his full attention, where I had to stay clear of him to remain in his favor.

  Father reserved all of his gentleness and love for Talia. This is how I know he broke when she left.

  Leaning back, I replay the last moment I saw her. It was nearly four years ago, just as the plans and secret whispers were beginning to intensify. Talia, then nineteen years old, had been a student at the local university for several months, and with each passing day, she seemed to grow more independent and brazen in her thinking. She and Father began to argue about everything, most of all politics. Talia was an idealist, entirely shocked by our father’s concrete and steady beliefs. She had lived most of her life under the assumption that Father was a progressive, when in fact he was always quite conservative in his nationalism.

  I close my eyes and remember that terrible day when everything changed. I hear Talia’s voice, shrill and frantic as she stormed into the house, a crumpled piece of paper clutched tight in her fist. “Papa!” she yelled, and my heart goes cold even now.

  “Papa!” she cried out again, slamming the door shut behind her. I stepped out of my room, where I had been reading, to see her standing at the bottom of the stairs. Her chest heaved with fury, and she turned toward me, eyes flashing beneath her long, wavy red hair.

  “Did you know about this?” she asked, shaking her fist at me.

  “What?” I replied, blinking. I had never seen my sister express such passionate emotion.

  “This!” She threw the paper at my chest. I caught it, straightening it between my hands to read the words. It was a torn-out notice with bold words at the top:

  TOP-SECRET PLANS REVEALED OF GERMAN INVASION

  “What is this?” I whispered, handing it back to her with shaking hands.

  “These were being passed around the university today,” Talia responded with gritted teeth. “The article explains how Adolf Hitler, our father’s friend, is mobilizing a plan to attack Poland and the Soviet Union. Papa has to be a part of this, and I want to know why.”

  I was shocked at Talia’s anger. I couldn’t believe she found this so surprising. I had known of these plans and talks for many years. But then, I had always been good at making myself invisible. I knew much more than most people realized.

  “Papa!” Talia yelled again, her eyes wild. Moments later our father stepped out of his study, smelling of tobacco and bourbon.

  “My Talia,” he slurred, stumbling toward her. Talia shrunk back from his touch and held out the notice.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” she asked, her voice dripping with scorn and anger. “You’re part of this plan.”

  Father narrowed his eyes. “These are not things you need to be concerned with, Talia,” he said. As he spoke, Mother appeared in the doorway behind him. I could see her silent plea with Talia to not push him. I suspect I had the same look in my own eyes.

  “It does concern me, Papa. It concerns all of us. What kind of country do we live in that allows these actions to be taken? What kind of people are we that we’re willing to lie, sign false treaties and pacts, place our entire future in the hands of an insane man who cheated his way into power—”

  “Stop right there!” I jumped at my father’s roar and took a few steps back into the shadow of the doorway. It was always safer in the shadows.

  “You don’t know anything, Talia,” Father said, his words clipped. “You don’t need to speak about things you don’t understand.”

  “I do understand, Papa,” Talia yelled. “I understand that my father has paired himself with a lunatic who wants to invade other countries for no reason at all. It’s selfish and arrogant and it’s wrong, and I can’t believe you would be a part of it. I’m so disappointed, Papa.”

  That’s when he hit her. Talia stumbled back and landed in a heap on the floor. Mama gasped and took a step forward.

  “Stay out of it, Hilda!” Father bellowed. He grabbed Talia under the arm, jerking her to her feet. I heard Mama crying and begging Father to let her go. I peeked around the corner to see Father lean in close to Talia, who stood shaking, her nose bleeding profusely from the force of his blow.

  “If you don’t want to have anything to do with our country becoming the greatest nation in the world, then you can leave. Take nothing with you, and don’t plan on returning. Ever.”

  Talia looked at our father with a mixture of malice and betrayal. She threw her head back, then flung it forward again, spitting into Father’s eyes. Stunned, he let go of her, and she fell back. Steadying herself, Talia straightened up and looked him in the eye.

  “Good-bye,” she said softly. She turned and slowly walked out. Mama reached out to her as she passed only to have her hand slapped away by Father.

  “She’s a traitor,” he hissed, and I saw Talia’s shoulders slump. She opened the door and shut it calmly behind her.

  That was the last time I saw Talia. She didn’t look back as she left, and in that moment I felt abandoned. She was supposed to be on my side—on the right side. She left and never looked back. I want to hate her for it, but today I simply feel sad and alone. I miss my sister. I wonder what’s become of her.

  Pulling myself from the window of the past, I sit up and rub my eyes, taking in a long, deep breath. I have spent most of my life alone with my thoughts. Growing up as the only son of Tomas Herrmann meant that I had to be perfect. Especially after Talia left, Father poured more energy than ever into making sure that I didn’t become a disappointment. Now here I am, alone and still under his watchful eye though we are hundreds of miles apart. I’m certain that Blobel gives Father frequent reports of how I manage myself, and despite the distance, I know that I cannot escape my father’s disapproving glare.

  If Blobel gets any sense that I feel guilt or shame for my actions in the nightclub, he will go straight to Father. I cannot show fear. Following orders is the only path to greatness.

  But since that night at the club, when the memory of Talia was opened wide, her words nag against my conscience. I can’t escape the accusations of her final day. “Selfish. Arrogant. Wrong.” Her voice echoes inside me, and I find that, each time I pull the trigger, the sound of her words grows stronger and harder to ignore.

  Shaking my head, I stand up and button my uniform. “She was a traitor,” I mutter as I slip my arms into my thin wool coat. I need to convince myself of my sister’s wrongdoing. “There’s only one path to victory, and that is to conquer.” I continue mumbling as I make my way to the exit. As I walk, I jump at the shadows. There’s a growing certainty that I’m being watched, reports of my every move being sent home to my father.

  I pull on my cap and step out of the barracks into the crisp winter air. Taking a deep breath, I try to clear my head of all doubts.

  I will be the
man he created me to be. No matter the cost. I repeat the mantra Father drilled into me all my life: “Germany is the greatest nation on earth. And I am a son of Germany.”

  MARIA IVANOVNA

  January 25, 1942

  We’re well into the new year. It’s 1942. For seven months, we’ve lived under the uncertainty of Nazi rule. For seven months, my brave and resilient mama has sold off every possession we do not absolutely need in order to put food in our bellies. For seven months, Sergei has been gone. We’ve had two letters from him in all that time, and Papa has read them so often that the words fade and smudge from his desperate fingers.

  He tries to feel Sergei through the page.

  Papa hasn’t spoken any more to us about what happened to Polina, but in his sleep, the memory betrays him. He moans and cries fitfully, and we’ve pieced together enough to know that Polina was caught, but what could have happened to her we just don’t know.

  I don’t think my papa will ever recover from this one event, and the cloud that hangs above our small flat is oppressive and dark. I long for laughter.

  Without Sergei here to break the tension, the air in the house feels almost too heavy to breathe, much less have any kind of conversation. So we all simply move around one another in silence, speaking when necessary and never more.

  This morning, I follow Anna into the kitchen for our morning chai and find both Mama and Papa sitting silently at the table. Their mugs sit before them, the hot water sending a tendril of steam upward in a silent dance. Between them, lying on the table, is a piece of paper with a picture on the front.

  “What is that?” I ask, somewhat hesitantly. I never know when my words are going to break the surface of Papa’s emotions.

  Mama looks up at us in surprise, as if our presence here is something new and strange. Anna and I stepped forward to read.

  The picture shows a young man standing tall, his arm gesturing proudly to a large field of workers. In front of him are many other young boys, all smiling and eager, their hands grasping farmer’s tools.