by Kelli Stuart
“Can we say good-bye?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“You have one minute,” the Nazi replies, looking bored and uninterested.
Tanya rushes over from the corner where she has been standing, her hand pressed over her mouth in horror. It’s our worst nightmare and greatest fear. We will lose them all.
Maria and Anna bury their faces in my chest, and Tanya throws her arms around us all.
“Papa. Papa,” Maria sobs, her hands grasping at me. Anna reaches up and places her hands on my cheeks, her eyes bright with fear and sorrow.
“Don’t leave again, Papa,” she says, so fiercely I feel the heat of her words pierce my heart. “Do not leave Mama alone when we’re gone, do you understand? Do you, Papa?” Her voice is desperate.
I nod and grab her shoulders. Leaning forward I press my lips hard to her wet cheek. “I promise, Dochka,” I whisper. “I won’t leave. I’ll be right here when you get back.” Anna nods and turns to her mother, melting into her arms. I pull Maria up off the ground into my arms as I did when she was small, and she wraps her legs around my waist, her arms clinging to me like a child who’s seen a ghost.
“You have to be strong, Masha,” I whisper in her ear as my heart tears. “You cannot let them break you. I need you to come back to me, my darling. I need you …”
“Papa. Papa.” Maria says my name over and over, her voice dripping with grief.
“Alright, enough!” the German yells. I slowly set Maria down and pull her face back to look into her eyes.
“You can do this,” I cry, my voice desperate. “You’re stronger than I am—I know it. You’ll survive this, and you will come home. I’ll be here, Masha. I will be here.”
My daughter nods and turns to her mother, who pulls her in tight and weeps bitterly. “I love you,” she cries. The German grabs Maria’s arm and yanks her from Tanya’s grasp.
“I said enough,” he barks. He turns to leave, pushing Maria and Anna in front of him. He nods toward the boy, who steps up next to Anna, and the three teenagers are pushed out the door, all four Germans walking in a pen around them. I pull Tanya to my side, and we watch as the door slowly swings shut, the last remnants of our life flitting away like a leaf in the wind.
MARIA IVANOVNA
March 3, 1942
Anna grabs my hand and holds tight as we march down the street with the four Nazis. The boy from the market walks quietly next to us, chin held high.
“We’ll be okay,” Anna speaks, her voice a whisper. She says it to me, but mostly I think she says it to Papa: a gentle message carried on the wings of the wind, a prayer that he’ll believe and will not retreat again.
“Where are we going?” I whisper to Anna.
“You go to Germany,” the Nazi to my left barks. I don’t look at him. I’m too afraid to see his face, to know who he could be.
We walk until my feet ache and the buildings that house my entire life fade behind us. I look up ahead to see a large group of people standing in the center of a courtyard. We have walked far from the store, far away from Mama and Papa, far from home.
As we approach the group, I realize they’re more youth like myself, all rounded up like cattle and brought together for … for what? Why are we here?
We gather, and the Germans surround us, creating a barrier to keep us penned in. The group consists of mostly girls. Of the roughly thirty students standing in the frigid air, only four of them are boys. Many of the girls weep. Others, like Anna and I, stand in shock.
After fifteen minutes of waiting, the tall German who pulled me from my mother’s arms in the market climbs on a low wall in front of us.
“Listen to me, all of you,” he yells. “We will march together to the train station where trains wait to take you to beautiful Germany. If you stay close and follow orders, this will be quick and easy. If you try to run, we’ll shoot you. Do you all understand?”
No one responds. We simply look at the man who has just changed the course of our lives in stunned silence. This is real. We’re leaving. Was it really only this morning that I felt happy?
We turn and begin to walk slowly toward the train station. Despite the chill in the air, my palms sweat. Feeling panic well up in my chest, I gulp in quick breaths, the cold air burning my lungs. I’ve never been on a train before. I’ve never left Kiev except to visit our dacha just outside the city limits. I want to go home. I just want to go home.
Anna grabs my hand and holds it tight, but it doesn’t quell the trembling. In front of us, one of the soldiers jabs his gun in the side of the boy from the market. The Nazis shout as we walk, their guttural speech harsh and cutting. Finally I see the train station in the distance, and I feel my throat close. This is it.
We move to the large brown building and are pushed into a long line. Others are already here, a row of weeping and shaking young people. We are fear, lined up for all to see. As we’re herded into a solitary line, someone catches my eye, and I squint to make sure I’m seeing her correctly. She’s close to the front, standing completely still, her shoulders slumped. I see only the side of her face, but then she turns and looks back. I gasp.
“Polina,” I cry. Anna snaps around to look at me.
“What did you say?” she hisses, and I point to the girl.
“It’s Polina,” I breathe, and Anna gasps. Polina’s eyes are sunken deep in her head, and a noticeable scar cuts across her forehead. She’s thin and looks dreadfully sick, but I know it’s her. I raise my hand slightly to wave, but she quickly turns and looks forward again.
“It’s her, isn’t it, Anna?” I ask, but Anna doesn’t respond. She’s watching a Nazi soldier march toward us. I grab her hand and squeeze tight. The Nazi stops in front of the boy from the market.
“You come with me,” the soldier commands. The boy glances at us and gives a gentle nod. We watch as he’s swiftly escorted away.
“I wonder where they’ll take him,” Anna murmurs.
I don’t want to know the answer to this question.
The line moves forward slowly toward the front, where two tall, pugnacious German women stand, their backs stiff. As each girl steps forward, one of the women snatches her passport and identification papers, and the other grabs her by the wrists. I watch as the big-boned German purses her lips, studying each girl’s hands closely. The women then converse quietly and assign the waiting girl to a train.
On and on it goes until I see that Polina is next in line. The first German reaches out her hand for Polina’s identification papers. Polina shakes her head and I see the woman look down disapprovingly over her jutted nose and hairy upper lip.
We all have identification papers that are to be carried on our person at all times. They give our names, our birth dates, our nationality, and race. I know why we’re to have them—so the Jews can be quickly identified and weeded out. In this case, I think it’s good that Polina doesn’t have her papers. Her looks are so altered that she no longer carries the appearance of a Jewish girl, and so I think she may be spared such a fate.
The other German woman grabs Polina’s thin wrists and turns them slowly. She speaks quietly to her partner, and the two laugh. It’s a terrible sound, like the cackle that Papa used to make when he told us the fabled tale of Baba Yaga. Grabbing Polina’s shoulders, the German woman gives her a shove toward a waiting train. Polina stumbles and falls to her knees, then slowly pushes herself up and joins the others who trudge toward this unknown fate.
“Anna,” I whisper, “what if we’re separated?”
Anna looks up, for the first time noticing what’s happening at the front of the line. She looks at me in horror, her eyes wide and bright.
“Listen to me,” I say, turning to face her straight on. The line moves forward, and we step in unison. We’re getting close, our fates to be determined in just a few minutes. “If we do, you have to survive,” I whisper. “We both have to come home alive, Anna. We have to.”
Anna looks at me and nods, struggling to comprehend. I gr
ab her shoulders and pull her in close. “I love you,” I say. Anna grips at me, desperate.
“I love you, Masha,” she whispers back. We stare hard, memorizing the moment. The line moves forward. Step.
Then it’s my turn. I turn to face the German women and hand over my identification papers. The woman on the right grabs my hands and pulls them up roughly. She runs her coarse thumb over my palms then turns them over and studies the back. My hands are strong and rough. I have never had the delicate hands of a young lady.
Handing back my papers, the German jabs her stumpy thumb to her right, pointing at the line directly behind her. It’s the same train that Polina will board. I’m momentarily relieved. Stepping in line, I turn and watch them look Anna over closely. My sister, the beauty with the delicate features, stands tall and poised. The fear that entangled her earlier is waning, and I see her strength beginning to shine through.
Then my heart stops. They send her to the other train.
Anna looks at me, and our eyes lock. I love you, I mouth, and she says it back. In that final moment, I feel my soul sever and tear in a way that feels like I’ve swallowed fire. The heat boils out, and my eyes burn with hot tears. Anna holds up one hand to her lips and kisses her fingers gently. I do the same, and we reach out to the gap between us.
The final good-bye.
My line inches forward as my vision blurs. I can’t see her anymore. Anna is lost in the sea of heartache that surrounds us, her silky hair no longer visible to my trembling eyes. I have never felt a more solitary feeling than this moment. German soldiers mill about the room, their caps pulled low over stoic features. Some jeer and mock us openly. Others simply march, their eyes trained forward, poised and ready to issue justice on us, their charges. We’re Untermensch.
I have heard the word so many times since the Nazis first infiltrated our home. It’s ugly, and it tastes bitter on my tongue. I know what it means, but I can’t understand or fathom how anyone truly believes such a thing. Subhuman? I’m made of flesh and bone just as each of these men in uniform. How can my worth as a person possibly be determined by something as small as geography?
For the first time, I find myself face-to-face with the evil that lies in man. I didn’t think we could possibly be capable of such cruelties. I knew they were happening. I saw how they changed my family, my life. But I didn’t want to believe it. Are we as people inherently good or evil? I thought I knew, but today …
My hands shake violently, and I quickly tuck them under my arms, a bitter chill running down my spine. Lifting my eyes, I watch as Polina is lifted into the waiting car of the train. She disappears into the dark, and I wonder what’s beyond the door.
“Davai! Bistreye!” I jump when he pushes the butt of his gun into my side. It’s cold and sharp and feels like a knife. I stumble forward to catch up to the line that has moved forward significantly. It’s almost my turn to board. There are few left behind me. Soon we’ll depart. I cannot believe how this day has changed.
I reach the car doors and stare up into frightened eyes. The car is full, all of them crammed together, shoulders pressed tight. I don’t see how I’ll possibly fit and I look up bewildered for a moment before he prods me again.
“Davai!” he repeats. I reach up and two of the girls grab my hands and pull hard. They hoist me into the car, propelling me through the crowd into the packed-tight center. There is little room to move, and it’s already very hot. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim surroundings, but when they finally do, I realize that we’re to be transported exactly like cattle.
One small window stands high above us, bars covering it—our cell on wheels. The train car smells thick of manure and grass. Most of the girls are quiet, though some still cry softly. No one is hysterical, and for that I’m grateful. It’s all I can do to keep from breaking down myself, so I take in deep breaths and force myself to open my hands and let them hang slack at my sides.
I crane my head, looking for a glimpse of Polina, and I quickly find her pressed against the hard, wooden wall of the train car. In the dim light, her face looks white, her stringy hair hanging heavily over ghost eyes.
I slowly begin to push my way through the crowd. We’re all young—a car full of youth who just had all the promise of a future pulled away in a single, solitary blow. We are the future, stolen from the past.
I push and move until I’ve finally made my way to the wall where Polina stands. She looks at me, and it takes a moment for her eyes to focus and register. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the same way Papa looked at me for months after returning from Babi Yar.
“Polina,” I whisper. To speak out loud would be too much. She’s like a small fawn, frightened and caught, stuck in a trap without promise of release. My whisper, like the rustling of a leaf in a quiet forest, stirs her soul, and she jumps.
“Masha,” she whispers back so softly I can hardly hear the words.
“Polina, I—” Stopping short, I realize I don’t know what to say. I fall silent and study her closely. The scar on her head is thick and gnarled, the result of a deep wound that didn’t properly heal. What happened?
“How is your papa?” she asks, and my throat tightens.
“Changed,” I say, a small choke tugging the word back inside.
Polina nods, and her eyes drift to my shoulder, fixed in a place that’s far away. “We’re all changed,” she breathes, and in a moment of clarity, I reach forward and grab her hand. It’s small, icy. I pull it up and press my lips hard against the back, her bones sharp and thin.
“I’m here, Polina,” I say, my voice hoarse with emotion. “Papa told me to survive, and I’m going to. We’ll do it together. We’ll go back together when this is all over.”
Polina sighs and lifts her eyes to mine again. “I don’t want to go back, Masha,” she murmurs. “I want to die.”
The words float from her lips and fill the small cabin where they linger above us all, a solitary wish for all the pain and fear to end.
LUDA MICHAELEVNA
March 5, 1942
Stepping outside, I take a moment to collect myself. I smooth my coat over the undeniable bulge in my abdomen. In two short months, we’ll welcome the heat of summer, and I will meet my child. I feel a flutter of excitement and anxiety course through me, leaving my fingertips tingling with anticipation.
Looking up, I notice Baba Mysa staring at me from the small kitchen window. I have angered her these last few months with my insistence on taking afternoon walks alone. “You’re being foolish,” she mutters every day as I pull on my boots and coat. I hate her displeasure with me, but the alternative is unimaginable.
Abandoning my afternoons with Hans is something I cannot do, and so each day I give Baba Mysa a hug and thank her for honoring my desires. She has seen the difference the time alone has made in me. I’m happier than I’ve ever been, and for the first time smiles come quicker and easier than tears. Baba Mysa only lets me go because she believes the fresh air has been good for me.
She doesn’t know.
Nobody knows that every day at two o’clock I round the corner and spend the next hour talking and laughing with the man I have fallen in love with—a German.
I lift my hand in a slight wave and give Baba Mysa a smile. She shakes her head and backs away from the window. Sighing, I turn and make my way down the sidewalk. Stepping up to the alley, I feel my pulse quicken. I will see my love in just a moment. I look around to make sure no one watches as I slip into the shadows and walk to where Hans always waits.
“Hans?” I say quietly. He steps forward into a band of light, his mouth split in a wide grin. My heart skips a beat, and I rush forward into his arms. I live for this moment every day when I will feel him close to me.
“Hello, my beautiful girl,” he whispers in my ear, and he leans in to kiss my forehead. Pulling away, I look up in his eyes, so clear and blue, full of honesty and truth and goodness. He pushes me back and places his hands on my stomach.
&nb
sp; “How are you feeling today?” he asks.
“Happy,” I say with a smile. And I am. I’m happy.
“Good,” he says. He pulls my hands up and kisses each one. “I’m happy, too.”
I grin, and we walk to the nearby crates to sit down. Hans holds my hand tight and pulls it up to his chest. “I live for two o’clock. Did you know that?” he says with a laugh.
I lean into him with a giddy laugh. “So do I,” I whisper.
For several moments, we’re silent, both relishing the nearness and tenderness of the moment. Hans finally kisses the top of my head. “I brought you something,” he says.
Reaching into the bag at his feet, Hans pulls out a fat, red apple. I laugh with delight and clap my hands. “Where did you find this?” I ask, taking it from his hand. Just yesterday, when he asked what my favorite food was, I told him that I longed to taste an apple. I haven’t seen any in the market for weeks, and I’ve craved the juicy sweetness of my favorite fruit.
“I took it from the kitchen at the barracks,” he said with a smile. “Go on … eat it!”
I take a giant bite of the apple and close my eyes, the flavor overtaking me. I open my eyes to find Hans watching me with a strange look of amusement and infatuation.
“What?” I ask, swiping the back of my hand over my mouth.
Hans doesn’t respond for a moment as he studies. I sit quietly, looking back at him with curiosity and a bit of insecurity. What does he see? Perhaps I shouldn’t have eaten the apple in front of him. I lower my eyes to my lap, suddenly embarrassed by my behavior.
“I love you,” Hans says. My eyes snap up.
“What?”
“I love you,” he repeats, and I know he means it. He leans forward, his face so close, and says it again, this time in German. “Ich liebe dich,” he whispers, and he completes the distance, brushing his lips across mine. When he pulls back, he takes the apple from my hand and brings it to his mouth, taking one large bite.
