Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  Let’s do agricultural work in Germany. Report immediately to your nearest station. On January 28, the first special train will leave for Germany with hot meals in Kiev, Zdolbunov, and Przemysi. Come all young men and women ages 14–16. Live in beautiful Germany and enjoy your youth.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “The Germans have hung these all over town.” Mama stares at the wall behind me. “They’re looking for workers to go to Germany.”

  “And we must go?” Anna asks. Silence grips us all as the question hangs in the air.

  “No.”

  Papa’s voice cuts through the kitchen with more force than I’ve heard from him in the months since his soul was taken at Babi Yar.

  “You won’t go,” Papa says looking first at Anna, and then at me. “I won’t lose my girls, too.”

  I see a spark of life ignite behind the dark black of Papa’s eyes. Anna and I both nod, and Mama reaches over to grab his hand. For that brief moment, we’re united again. We are a team, a family.

  Papa holds tight to Mama, and then, as we all watch, the spark dies down. His jaw goes slack, and he drops Mama’s hand. Papa retreats once again to the darkness that just won’t let him go.

  IVAN KYRILOVICH

  February 2, 1942

  The memory of Babi Yar is chasing me down. It used to only haunt at night, when the fading light pulled out the dark moments of those days so many months ago. But now I’m remembering in the light, and this scares me even more. If the memory catches me in the day, it may never let go.

  I’ve left the flat a few times since that horrible night, going with Tanya to stand in the ration lines, but otherwise my days are spent inside—often alone as Tanya still works, and the girls join her frequently to help. It is they who keep this household afloat, adding to my shame. Today, as most days, I sit once again in the quiet corner of our home, Sergei’s letters in my hands. I feel the nightmare coming upon me, and I don’t even try to fight it. I just slip in, and let it take over.

  For two days after that dreadful day of death, Polina and I walked through the woods looking for shelter, but we came upon nothing. We were still naked, and the frosty September air brought a chill unlike any I’d ever known. I worried constantly about Polina, who walked stoically beside me, her arms crossed over her chest in an attempt to maintain some dignity.

  At night I gathered up piles of leaves and had Polina lie beneath them. I lay next to her, as close as I could without touching her, and covered myself. In this way, we survived. We weren’t warm, but we didn’t freeze.

  I heard her wheezing, and knew if I didn’t find shelter, food, and clothing soon, she would die. That final night, we reached desperation.

  I woke up shivering, and in the pitch black, I instantly felt something wrong. Polina was gone.

  Standing up, I waited for my head to stop spinning and willed my eyes to adjust to the total darkness. The gnawing ache in my empty stomach made me light-headed and sluggish. Nothing felt real or concrete—just cold, dark, and hollow.

  “Polina?” I whispered to the shadows. “Polya!” My voice was urgent, and my heart beat rapidly. I heard the rustle of leaves and prepared to call out her name but never got the chance. Her scream pierced the air, the sound forever burying itself inside my head. It reverberates and echoes even now. When the piercing screech stopped and the terror floated from the ground to the sky, I heard them; boots on the cold, hard ground, shouting in a language that sounds like hate. The Nazis were there.

  They’d found her.

  Ducking beneath my pile of leaves I tried to gauge their distance. Her scream felt so close, but the sound of their shouting seemed much farther away. I waited, trying to focus. A shadowed forest is a playground for ghosts. The sounds moved before me, then behind, but the source of the fear was elusive and unseen.

  She screamed again, the sound bouncing off the trees. I could see her fear, taste and feel it to my core. But I couldn’t see her. Crouching low, I remained silent as I tried to discern how to rescue the child.

  To my right, I heard the scuffling of boots again and Polina’s fatigued whimpers. They had her, and they were near. Taking slow, steady steps in the direction of the sound, I forced myself to remain calm. I had the element of surprise, but little else. I just needed to get near. I needed to see.

  I heard laughing, and Polina screamed again. She didn’t utter words. I don’t think she had them. Sometimes horrors are too great to be put into words.

  Moving quicker, I came upon three shadows in the dark. Two of them stood over the third, one who looked to be low to the ground. I heard them laugh, watched as one raised a fist and brought it down on her face, and I felt a depth of hatred I’ve never known. If love gives flight to the soul, hate kills it completely. My soul felt the fire, deep and hot, the flames shooting through my heart straight to the top of my head.

  The moonlight burst through the trees in that moment and cast upon Polina, sitting on her knees, her eyes looking straight up into the beam. Her skin was porcelain, the deep, dark circles under her eyes an eerie black. Her dark hair hung in long strands over sharp shoulders. Crouching in the ready position, I prepared to move in when it happened. It was so fast.

  The German to her left raised his hand, the butt of his gun bared bright in the white sliver of moonlight. With a crack, his gun met the corner of her temple and the whimpering stopped. Polina crumbled to the ground.

  I didn’t realize I’d cried out until I saw the Germans whip their heads around. The taller of the two held his finger to his lips and waved the other forward. They slowly made their way straight toward me. Crouching low into the brambles, I bit hard on my knuckle, suppressing the cries and stilling my trembling arms. I bit until I tasted blood, and the urge to race to her side waned. It wouldn’t do for me to be caught. I had to live. For my family, I had to live.

  I watched through the strands of branches as the soldiers walked slowly past. For an hour, the two men walked circles around me, and in that time, Polina never moved.

  Finally, the Nazis grew weary of their search. I watched as they high stepped over the drying leaves toward Polina’s crumpled body. The darkness of night had morphed into the pale gray of early morning. Each grabbing one of her arms, they hoisted her upper body up. I winced at the dried stream of blood that ran down her cheek and neck. My eyes burn at the memory, and I feel a pit of regret settle in my stomach. My final promise to Josef had been to take care of his daughter. I failed.

  As they pulled her thin body away, Polina’s head lulled to the side and for a brief moment her eyes opened.

  “Ivan,” she gasped, her words a breath. The Germans looked down in surprise, then laughed as her head fell back once more.

  After they left, I sat for a long time in stunned silence. Polina was alive.

  Alive.

  LUDA MICHAELEVNA

  February 24, 1942

  Everything changed the morning Alexei gave me back my mother. I feel more alive, and I’m more eager than I thought possible to meet my child. Every time I feel the baby move, my heart sings. I’ve lived my entire life feeling as though I had no purpose, and now my purpose swells more with each passing day. And with each kick, I sense her—my mother. It’s as though I’ve been given a gift.

  The conception of this child is no longer a nightmare. In fact, I find it to be a miracle. Were it not for that terrible day in the church, I never would have known my mother. I wouldn’t know her name or see her face so clearly in my mind.

  It’s been weeks since Alexei told me his secret, and in that time Katya and Oleg have barely spoken to me. I wake up early this morning to find Katya sitting on her cot, her knees pulled up to her chest, her face turned toward the window. The early morning light casts a golden glow on her perfectly shaped face. She senses my stare and turns. Her eyes are bright beneath her long, wavy blond hair.

  “Good morning,” I say softly. Katya nods in return. Her chin trembles, and her eyes well up.

  “Papa t
old me,” she whispers. “He told me about your mother.” Her voice breaks, and she lowers her face into her knees. Sliding off my cot, I crawl to her and wrap my arms around her trembling shoulders. My protruding stomach presses against her legs. She pulls away from me.

  “I’m sorry,” Katya mumbles. I sit back awkwardly, and drop my hands into my lap.

  “I’m sorry, too,” I say. And I am. I’m sorry that my joy is her heartache. We’re connected to one another in a way that is glorious for one and painful for the other. I wish it didn’t have to be so.

  For a long time we sit quietly. Though every bit of me aches to stroke the child moving inside me, I refrain, keeping my hands still in my lap. Katya cries quietly, her head still pressed to her knees. Finally, she raises her head.

  “I don’t hate you,” she whispers. I nod because I can’t speak. “And I’m not angry at my papa,” she says, her voice trembling. She stares deep into my eyes. I see the pain. It moves in circles like the rough spring winds that storm across the river.

  “Has your papa told you much about your mother?” I ask Katya. She nods and gives a faint smile.

  “He’s always spoken of her to us,” she says.

  “Tell me about her.”

  Katya shifts her gaze back to the window. The morning sun is higher now and brighter. Her face lights as she speaks.

  “My mother’s name was Elena,” she starts, her voice buttery as she tugs at the words she’s heard all her life. “She was small, like me, and her hair was darker than mine. Papa says he doesn’t know how I got such light hair.” Katya pauses for a moment.

  “Papa told us that Mama was very serious. She didn’t laugh often, but when she did, he says her laugh could light up a room. Mama saved her laughter and praise for when she really meant it. I imagine that Oleg is very much like her in a lot of ways.” She looks at me intently. “He doesn’t say anything unless he really means it.”

  My hand instinctively moves to my abdomen and I rub it slowly, my heart racing. I break Katya’s gaze and stare hard at the bulge. She clears her throat. “Do you want to hear more?” she asks.

  “Da.”

  “When I was born, things went wrong. It was a terrible winter night and the doctor couldn’t come. Papa won’t tell me much about that night except that there was a lot of blood and he laid me in her arms when he knew she was going to die.” Another long, emotional pause and I wait, barely breathing, feeling every ounce of pain.

  “My mother took her last breath with her lips pressed to the top of my head,” Katya says. She smiles as tears stream down her face, pooling at her chin and dripping onto her white gown. “Sometimes I still feel her kiss,” she whispers.

  “I’m sorry,” I cry, and I pull her into my arms. This time she doesn’t pull away when my stomach presses against her. She clings to me, both of us weeping for that which we never knew. We find rest on the common ground of sorrow.

  “I wish I had known her,” Katya cries.

  “Me too.” I mean it. I wish Katya had known her mother, and I wish I’d known my own. How different would we both be today if only we had known?

  “I’m so sorry I’ve been awful to you, Luda,” Katya says, pushing herself up off my lap. “It scares me, what you’re going through.”

  I grab Katya’s hand and place it on my stomach, pressing it into the side where the baby moves. “Do you feel that?” I ask, hushed. Katya’s eyes grow wide, and she sits still, feeling the child slide across her palm.

  “Are you scared?” she asks.

  “I was,” I answer. “But now, I’m … less scared.”

  “I still don’t understand why you want to have this baby,” she confesses. She pulls her hand away as if ashamed to admit something so raw while touching the life.

  “I know you don’t.” I look down, silent and contemplating. How much do I tell her? “Katya, I can’t explain what I’m feeling because I don’t understand it all,” I begin. “But I know without fail that this child is giving me a second chance at life.”

  Katya looks intently at me. She’s listening, and I’m grateful. Hers is the relationship I can’t bear to lose.

  “What did your papa tell you about my mother?” I ask gently. Katya’s eyes darken. She sighs and wraps her arms around her knees again.

  “He told me that he loved her before he met Mama, and that he promised he would always look after you,” she answers.

  I nod. “Do you know that he told me more about my mother in ten minutes than anyone has ever said?” I ask. “I knew nothing about my mother, but Alexei gave her back to me.” I stop and wait for her eyes to meet mine.

  “I wanted this baby before because he was the only thing I had left. I needed him. But now … this child is my connection to my mother. He’s how I’ll know her.”

  Katya is silent for a moment before speaking. Her words aren’t kind, but neither are they harsh. They’re gentle and understanding. “You called the baby a ‘he,’” she says. I smile.

  “I guess I think it’s a boy.”

  Reaching out slowly, Katya touches my stomach once again. “This is going to be hard, Luda,” she whispers. “But I won’t leave.”

  Covering her hand with my own, I stare hard. “Thank you,” I whisper, and together we sit for a long time, our faces to the sun. Two wounded souls waiting to heal.

  Later that day, I make my way down the stairs to head to the market. Baba Mysa needs onions and beets for her borscht, and I have volunteered to buy them. I leave Katya sitting close to her father as he reads the paper. She needs him to herself right now.

  “Are you sure you can handle going out alone?” Baba Mysa asked before I left, the wrinkles around her eyes scrunched with concern. “I should go with you. We will go together.”

  I stopped her as she reached for her scarf. It was cold outside, and walking the icy streets and waiting in line at the market is difficult on her swollen joints. “I’ll be fine, Baba,” I assured her, and finally, after a bit of arguing, she agreed to let me go.

  “Straight there and straight back,” she said, wagging her finger in my face as she closed the door behind me. I giggle as I reach the bottom of the stairs and pull my coat up around my chin. The fabric pulls at my stomach, each button straining against the pressure. It’s nice to have someone care when I come and go.

  Just as I reach to push open the door, it flings wide. I jump. Oleg steps inside, his head covered in a thick, wool hat. He stops and stares at me awkwardly.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “To the market,” I answer, and we wait, each wishing we could fill the silence—each wishing to escape.

  “It’s cold outside,” Oleg says. I nod. He sighs and pulls his hat down further over his ears. “I’ll come with you,” he says with a hint of annoyance in his voice. My own frustration flares.

  “No, it’s not necessary,” I say, clipping each word off coolly. “I can handle it. I just need to pick up a few things for Baba Mysa.”

  Oleg shakes his head. “You shouldn’t go alone,” he retorts as he pushes open the door, gesturing me ahead of him.

  “Oleg, thank you but I’m fine. I don’t need you to come with me.”

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” Oleg barks, and he leans in close. I feel the chill of the air sweep over us, and I’m not sure if it’s a result of the outdoors or Oleg’s icy stare.

  “What?” I ask, my voice raising.

  “You don’t need me. Or maybe it’s just that you don’t want me.” He lets go of the door and it slams shut. Breathing hard, each puff of air floats anger and pain into the space between us.

  “Oleg, I’m sorry,” I say, quietly this time.

  “Forget it,” Oleg mutters, and he turns on his heel. I listen to each heated step as he stomps up the dark, narrow flight of stairs. I listen until I hear the click of the door closing up above. I listen until my heart stops calling me a fool.

  Stepping onto the quiet street behind our flat, I make my way to the main sidewalk.
The market is just around the corner, but I purposely take my time getting there. The cold air is refreshing and crisp. I breathe in deep as I turn the corner, and there he is. I stop and stare.

  The tall, handsome German leans against the wall, his left hand shoved deep into his pocket. It’s him. The man from the flat.

  “Hans,” I whisper, noticing the way his name fits so nicely on my tongue.

  His jacket is thin, and I’m sure that he’s cold, but he seems relaxed and comfortable. He raises his right arm and puts a short, thin cigarette into his mouth. I watch closely as he inhales deeply, his strong, deep-set eyes squinting as the smoke unfurls in his face.

  He hasn’t seen me. I’m not even sure he would recognize me so I begin to move slowly forward. I must pass directly in front of him to reach the market. I lower my head and try to keep my eyes from studying his smooth, handsome face.

  Just as I step past him, he speaks.

  “Privyet,” he says quietly. I freeze. I don’t turn to look at him, but I feel him step near. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I feel a shiver move down my spine. He steps beside me keeping his eyes straight ahead.

  “I know you,” he says. “You’re the girl who stole my gun. Luda.”

  My heart skips when he says my name. It flows off his tongue with a tenderness that leaves my cheeks hot. I don’t speak. I wait.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” he continues, still not turning toward me. He knows I’m shocked and nervous. I’m also struck by his kindness. “I’ve been hoping to see you again.”

  I swallow and take a deep breath, the cold air catching in my lungs. “I … I …” I blush as I try to stammer out the few words stuck on my tongue.

  “How do you speak my language so well?” I manage to squeak out.

  I hear him chuckle. “I was trained to speak your language,” he answers. He looks around the street, then finally turns toward me. “We shouldn’t talk here,” he says quietly. “But I would like to talk with you more. Will you come with me?”