Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  I hesitate for a brief moment before turning to meet his gaze. I’m met with the same honesty that I noticed the first time I saw him, and I nod. I’ve thought of him every day since we last met. I need to figure out why.

  Walking a few steps behind, I follow him to a dark ally. Hans slips inside and, looking around to see if anyone is watching, I quickly follow. We walk all the way to the end, where the shadows of the two buildings provide a veil of protection. Hans leans against the wall and props one foot up, looking at me intently. I stand against the opposite wall and look nervously back. His gaze drifts down to my protruding stomach, and I see his eyes darken.

  “It’s not what you think,” I say with embarrassment.

  “And what do I think?” he asks.

  I blush and grab my stomach protectively. “I—I don’t know,” I say. “But this baby is … it’s …” I don’t know how to finish, so I simply look into his eyes. I can tell that he knows. He lets out a long, sorrowful sigh and shakes his head.

  “I’m sorry they did that to you.” His voice is deep and pure. His Russian is accented, but the accent is beautiful. I want to hear him speak more. He looks at me tenderly. “We’re not all like that,” he says.

  I tilt my head to the side and study him. I’m feeling more courageous in his presence, and I suddenly have a hundred questions I want to ask.

  “Why are you so kind to me?” I begin. “And why were you looking for me? What are you doing in my country and in that uniform?” I stop and put my hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I shouldn’t have asked that.”

  “It’s okay,” he answers solemnly. “You have the right to ask.” He puts his foot down and takes a step closer to me. “I’m kind to you because the first time I laid eyes on you I was captivated. I have been looking for you because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that night on the roof. I’m here and in this uniform because my country dictated that this is where I should be. But I do not agree with everything my country does.”

  I look up at his chiseled features and see the truth in his face. He means every word.

  “I’ve thought of you every day since that night, too,” I whisper. I’m trembling from head to toe. “I haven’t been able to—”

  I stop short as Hans lifts his hand and turns his head sharply toward the end of the alley. Someone’s coming our way.

  “Lean back quickly,” he hisses. I press against the building behind me, the shadows covering my frame. To my surprise, Hans leans in on top of me, his hands on either side of my head and his face inches from mine.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispers. “Don’t be scared, and don’t pull away.”

  Before I have time to respond, he leans in farther, and his lips graze my cheek. It’s soft and warm, the way he lingers gently over me. I let my hands drift to his waist and rest on his sides, and my whole body lights up. I draw in a deep breath at the nearness of him, my heart pounding.

  Footsteps shuffle against the snow and dirt. I hear the drunken laughter of two Nazis. They stop short when they come upon Hans and me seemingly locked in an embrace. One of them laughs and says something. Hans turns toward them, his large frame still covering me. I turn my head to the side, away from their hungry stares and greedy laughter. He replies in his native tongue, and they all laugh together. He’s playing a part—and playing it well.

  My hands drop from his waist and the two men laugh again. One of them leans in, giving Hans a good-natured punch on the shoulder. Moments later, they turn to make their way back out. We’re alone again; Hans still leans in over me.

  He turns to look at me, and I keep my face turned away, ashamed and embarrassed. “Luda,” he says gently. He reaches down and grabs my chin with his hand, pulling my eyes to his. He searches me, a look of concern and sorrow furrowing his brow and tainting his handsome features. Reaching up, he gently brushes the hair back from my forehead. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice sad and aching. “I’m sorry that my own people have taken so much of you.”

  Leaning in, he kisses my forehead gently. I close my eyes, paralyzed by this moment.

  “I was looking for you,” Hans breathes, “because you are the most beautiful, fragile girl I have ever seen, and I want to protect you.”

  My eyes fill with hot tears as I look up at him again. He smiles, though his eyes are still laced with sadness.

  “You don’t even know me,” I whisper, my voice cracking. The tears hit my cheeks in hot streams, and he wipes them away. “I’m quite broken, and when you see this you won’t want me anymore.” The words tumble out heavy and thick as I hand him the shattered piece of my soul.

  Hans runs the back of his hand down my cheek and shakes his head. “I know this is strange, Luda,” he says. His voice is like a gentle melody, so soft and warm and smooth. “But I don’t think you’re broken at all. In fact, I’m certain you’re stronger than you think.” He leans all the way in until his mouth grazes my ear. “You captured me from the very first moment I saw you,” he breathes. I close the small space between us and lay my head on his chest. He wraps his arms around me, his hand pressed tight and warm against the back of my head.

  “I’ve never done this before,” I say quietly, and he chuckles.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Met a strange boy in a dark alley,” I respond. Both of us smile. Hans pushes me back, his blue eyes dancing with mischief and amusement. He raises one eyebrow slightly, then leans forward and he kisses me, soft and quick. I look at him, my eyes still brimming.

  Hans smiles. “I’ve never done that before,” he says.

  “Kissed a girl?” I ask in surprise. “I don’t believe you.”

  Hans chuckles and pushes back. “I have never kissed a girl I barely knew before,” he clarifies.

  “I’ve never kissed anyone,” I reply. Hans looks down at me again, his eyes twinkling. He begins to lean toward me when I gasp, realizing all at once how much time has passed. “I’m going to the market,” I say quickly. “If I don’t hurry back they’ll be worried about me.”

  “Who will be worried? Your family?” he asks. I shake my head.

  “No. I don’t have a family,” I reply, then press on past the look of shock on his face. “The family I live with is very protective, though. They’ll come after me if I don’t return soon.”

  The thought of Oleg and Alexei searching for me and finding me in the arms of a Nazi makes me shiver, and I pull out of Hans’s grasp. “I have to go,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “I understand,” he replies. “Go. I’ll wait here while you leave.”

  I nod and step away, then turn and rise up on my toes, kissing him quickly on the cheek. It’s a foreign act of emotion for me, and I blush as I step back. “Can I see you again?” he asks. I grin in reply.

  “I’ll wait here every afternoon between two and four,” he says. “Come when you can.”

  I smile shyly, then turn and hurry toward the exit. Leaning out, I look both ways to make sure no one is coming before I step into the street and hurry to the market. I buy the needed items in such haste that I forget to take my change from the seller, and she chases me into the street, shaking her fist and yelling at me to slow down.

  I race back up the street and round the corner, bumping hard into Alexei.

  “Oh! Alexei, I’m so sorry.” I stumble, looking down at my feet. “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “I was coming to find you, Luda,” Alexei says, his voice revealing annoyance and fear. “My mother is upstairs pacing the flat, certain that she made a mistake by letting you go alone. What took you so long?”

  I look into Alexei’s concerned eyes and swallow hard. It hurts to lie, but I know it’s better than telling the truth.

  “I ran into my father,” I blurt out, and my eyes instantly fill with tears at my ability to lie so effortlessly to this man who has cared for me. Alexei sighs and pulls me to his chest, which only makes the tears fall. I choke back a sob.

>   “I’m sorry, Luda,” Alexei murmurs. I fight back the tears as guilt wraps itself around me. I’m completely baffled by my ability to fluctuate between such polar emotions in such a short amount of time.

  “Did your father say anything to you?” Alexei asks. I shake my head no. I can’t embellish on the lie.

  “Come, Luda,” Alexei says, reaching down to take the small sack of vegetables from my hand. “Let’s go home.” I nod, wiping my cheeks. Alexei puts his arm around my shoulders, and together we walk toward the stairs.

  “I’m sorry, Alexei,” I say again and I mean it, but not for the reason that he thinks. Just before we step inside the building, I turn and see Hans standing at the end of the sidewalk. He leans against the building, his right hand on his lips, drawing in deep one last puff of a cigarette.

  I offer a small smile, and I know—as much as it pains me to lie to Alexei—I know I will do it again.

  MARIA IVANOVNA

  March 2, 1942

  “Masha! Masha, wake up!”

  I bolt up, panting, my hair matted to my forehead and hand clutching my chest. “What? What is it?” I cry. Anna sits next to me. Her hand rubs slowly up and down my back as she whispers softly in my ear.

  “It’s okay. It’s alright. It’s all okay.” Slowly, quietly, back and forth, her hand moves and my heartbeat slows. Somehow, though, I can’t seem to swallow the lump inside my throat.

  “I was dreaming again,” I say, my voice flat.

  “Da,” Anna replies. Fingers back. Fingers forth. Slowly, gently. It’s been six weeks since Papa showed us the poster calling for volunteers to leave for Germany, and in that time Anna has slept as near to me as possible, trying to quell the nightmares that force their way into my slumber. When the screaming starts, she’s always there, her fingers playing a melody of peace on my shaking frame.

  “I’m sorry I woke you,” I murmur. Anna doesn’t speak in reply. She doesn’t need to because I know she doesn’t mind. Somehow my sister has become my protector.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she finally asks, and I shake my head. I can’t yet. There’s nothing to tell. The nightmares aren’t concrete, but the terror they produce is very real. When I close my eyes, I’m chased by shadows. Everything gets hot, and clouds of black circle and swim. But the real terror begins when yellow creeps in. Slowly and methodically, the yellow pushes the black clouds out, and I’m left in its heat. I don’t know what it is, but I feel the terror. It’s beyond what I can comprehend, and as the yellow intensifies and builds, a scream escapes my throat.

  This is when Anna wakes me up.

  Slowly, as her nails work over my tight shoulders, I feel my muscles grow limp, and as she has done every night, Anna pulls me down until my head lies in the crook of her arm. For a long time, we lie silent, both exhausted yet unable to sleep. Finally I speak.

  “Anna, what’s going to happen to us?”

  “I don’t know, Masha. I just don’t know,” she answers with a sigh.

  The first wave of recruits left for Germany a month ago. Mama and Papa continue to insist that we will not leave. Every day Papa sits and holds my hand in his own. “I won’t lose you,” he whispers over and over. I, however, can’t help but feel that our time is limited in this place. Nothing is stable or secure.

  “Happy birthday,” I whisper. Today, March 2, 1942, when the daylight finally chases away the shadows of night, she will be seventeen. It feels odd to celebrate, and I imagine we won’t, because somehow I feel as though the world stopped moving the day the Germans dropped their bombs. I think of this day, just one year ago, and I smile.

  Sergei crept into our room in the early hours of that morning and tossed a red carnation across Anna’s bed. When she woke up, he sat on the floor staring at her with a devilish grin. “Happy birthday, rebyonka,” he said with a laugh.

  “I’m not a child,” she huffed, grabbing her small pillow and tossing it at him, which caused me to fall over in a fit of laughter. Anna had always been too serious to enjoy life, but Sergei—he could get her to smile.

  Now as I lie so close to her, I find myself thankful for the serious nature of her protection. For the first time, I feel a bond with my sister. I’m grateful to have her by my side.

  “Do you really think we’ll be able to stay home with Mama and Papa and not go to Germany?” I ask.

  “Masha, I don’t know what to think. All I know is that Papa won’t let either of us go voluntarily.”

  Sitting up, I turn and lean on my elbow looking deep into my sister’s eyes. “Would you go if he let you?” I ask.

  Anna looks back at me, and I’m stunned at what I see moving in her eyes: surrender. “It’s got to be better than slowly starving to death here, Masha. Better than watching Papa fade away until there’s nothing left but a shell.”

  Food has been scarce the last few weeks. Mama is still employed, which allows her a few extra ration cards per week. Bread is scarce, and meat even more so. Last week Mama managed to secure a large jar of lard, which we’re adding every night to the warm water and onions giving our broth a little more weight, but it isn’t enough. I’m hungry, and so is Anna, and we live in fear every moment of every day. Nothing is secure, and the weight of insecurity makes it difficult to breathe. And now my sister appears to be ready to give up—ready to leave forever.

  “But …” I search for the right words. “But Anna, you have to know that’s not true. You’ve heard Papa murmuring and muttering throughout the day. He knows what they’re capable of, and telling the truth isn’t it.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard him, Masha,” Anna replies with a sigh. “But I’ve also watched him. He’s not the same. The papa we knew before Babi Yar doesn’t exist anymore. I hear him and feel for him, but I don’t trust him.”

  Pulling away, I look at my sister in horror. “How can you say that?” I ask, my voice laced with betrayal and hurt.

  Sighing, Anna pushes herself up and pulls her knees to her chest. “Masha,” she says, her voice once again melting into that arrogant matronly tone that drips with annoyance.

  “No, forget it. I understand,” I say, and I turn my back to her.

  “Masha, I just don’t know who to trust anymore,” Anna continues. “Papa isn’t in his right mind, and the Germans promise food and comfort. Doesn’t that at least sound a little bit freeing?”

  I don’t answer, and after a moment, Anna sighs again and lies back down.

  “If we leave, it will kill him,” I whisper, and a hot tear escapes my eye, running down my cheek and dripping from my chin. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the yellow to overtake again.

  When I finally wake, Anna is gone, and I’m relieved. I replay our conversation and try to wrap my mind around the fact that my sister is willing to leave—that she believes life would be better in Germany. I feel betrayed by her confession.

  Walking slowly out of the room, I enter the kitchen to find Mama and Papa wrapped in conversation. They look up at me, and for a moment, Papa’s eyes twinkle. The spark quickly fades, however, and he turns back to his mug. But that brief moment is all I need to know that Anna is wrong.

  “Come sit down, Masha,” Mama says, gesturing to the chair across from them. “I have chai prepared, and there’s a little bread left for both you and Anna. I get my ration cards for the week today and will hopefully be able to get us a little more food.” She looks at Papa and offers a smile that belies the confidence in her voice. “Would you like to sit down and eat with your Papa? I must get ready for work.” I nod and sit back in my chair.

  “Where’s Anna?” I ask Mama and Papa.

  Papa looks up in surprise. “She’s not in your room?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “No. She was gone when I woke up. I thought she was out here helping Mama.”

  Papa turns and looks at Mama with concern and fear. “Where would she have gone?” he asks and I hear it: fear.

  I jump from the table and run to where we hang our coats and leave our shoes. Anna�
�s coat, her hat, and her worn, black boots are missing. Anger bubbles up as I remember our conversation, but then I hear the familiar scrape of shoes against the stairwell outside our door. I wait for a moment and listen to the key slide into the lock. The door opens and in steps my sister, her face flushed red.

  “Where were you?” I ask, my voice high pitched and frustrated. Anna looks at me in surprise.

  “I went for a walk,” she answers. “I needed some fresh air to clear my head.”

  “Anna?” Papa steps around the corner and takes two long steps toward her, pulling her into his chest. “Where did you go, darling? Where did you go?” he asks, pulling her hat from her head and letting the light blond hair spill loose over her shoulders. He pushes her back and looks into her wide eyes. “Please don’t do that again,” he says. “Don’t leave me, do you understand?”

  Papa grabs me and pulls me in with him and Anna, and together the three of us stand still for a long time, Papa whispering, “Don’t leave me. Don’t ever leave me.”

  We finally pull apart and head to the kitchen, where Mama has set out three mugs of steaming chai and half a small loaf of bread. She doesn’t speak to Anna, her lips pressed tight together. Anna tosses me a wary glance from which I quickly turn away, too angry to sympathize.

  Papa sits down with us, visibly shaken, as he tries to will away the demons. For several minutes we’re quiet, slowly eating our bread and sipping the chai. Mama buzzes from the room and returns quickly, her hair brushed and tied back at the nape of her neck. Her face is still pinched as she takes one last swallow. She stands tall, pushing her thin shoulders back.

  “Happy birthday, Annichka,” she says. Her voice is soft despite the accusation that still flows through her eyes. Anna scared her—we can all feel it.

  Finally Anna speaks. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was going out. I just needed to take a walk,” she says quietly.

  “It’s not safe for you to be out there alone,” Mama replies quickly, her eyes blazing as she looks at her oldest daughter. “Have you not heard what’s happening on the streets? The Germans are rounding young people up and taking them right from the market, from the square.” Mama looks at all of us as her words sink in. “I even heard that they gathered up a group of young people at the soccer match last week.”