by Kelli Stuart
Leaning down, Baba Mysa grabs my hand. “It’s okay, dorogaya,” she purrs. “It’s alright. The baby is coming.”
I nod and close my eyes tight, rocking back and forth slowly as the worst of the pain subsides. Suddenly the room feels vast and hollow. I hear Baba Mysa talking, and it’s as though she is far away, despite the fact that she’s standing right next to me.
“Alexei, I want you to gather the blankets and pillows together and put them on the floor, then leave the room, please,” she says to Alexei, who immediately moves in obedience. “And you need to tell Oleg to go find the doctor. I can deliver this baby, but if there are any complications, I want a doctor nearby and ready.” Alexei nods. I think of his wife, of Katya’s mother, lying on a pallet waiting for a doctor who wouldn’t make it in time, and I’m suddenly frightened.
“Katya,” Baba Mysa says, turning to my friend who looks terrified and ready to flee. “I need you to go to the kitchen. In the cabinet above the stove there’s a small tin tub. Take that down and boil some water and fill the tub halfway. Then bring it to me along with a small bowl of cool water.” Baba Mysa looks at Katya and waits for her to move, but she seems frozen.
“Katya!” Baba Mysa barks. Katya jumps. “Did you hear me?” Katya nods and runs from the room. I sit very still, willing the pain away. Alexei brings in the last of the pillows and helps Baba Mysa arrange them on the floor. I sit up to move, and my abdomen tightens again. I feel the twist in my back, like a knife turning. Pain courses down through my legs. I let out a small yelp and lean forward.
“Go, Alexei,” I hear Baba Mysa whisper and she rushes to me. “Don’t hold your breath, Luda,” she says firmly. “You must breathe. We’ll do it together.” Taking a long, slow, deep breath in, Baba Mysa forces my chin up to look in her eyes. I slow my breathing to match hers, and in a moment the pain ebbs, and I’m offered a brief reprieve.
“This hurts,” I moan as Baba Mysa helps me to the floor. She doesn’t respond, but instead lays me flat and positions the pillows to give me more comfort. I hear the door open and look up to see Katya tiptoe into the room.
“Here’s the water, Baba,” she whispers, setting down a small bowl. She runs to the door where she’s laid down the tin tub, which steams from the boiling water inside it. Baba Mysa nods. “Thank you, Katyusha,” she says. Katya turns to leave, but Baba Mysa stops her.
“I’ll need your help,” she says. “And so will Luda. I’d like you to stay.” Katya’s eyes widen, and she looks from Baba Mysa to me in fear.
“I—” she begins, and I cut her off.
“Please, Katya,” I beg. I reach for her hand. “I’m so scared.”
Katya looks at me, then takes a step forward and grabs my hand, sinking to the floor by my head.
“Good girl,” Baba Mysa says. She hands Katya a small pile of torn rags. “Dip these in cool water and lay them over Luda’s forehead and neck,” she says, and Katya complies. I barely have time to relish the coolness on my forehead when another wave of pain rips through me. I let out a cry as my whole body responds, writhing and moving with the pressure that threatens to overcome. Finally I lie back, gasping.
“How long will this last, Baba?” I ask. Baba Mysa moves to my feet and spreads my legs gently. I feel my face get hot as she checks to see the progress the baby and I are making. She looks up with a small smile.
“You’re one of the lucky ones,” she says. “You won’t have to do this long. This baby is coming fast.”
I nod just as my body contracts again. Grabbing Katya’s hand, I squeeze hard as a long, low growl escapes my throat. It is a primal, guttural moan of pain that cannot be controlled or stopped. When the pain moves past, my throat feels raw and dry.
“Can I have some water?” I ask. Baba Mysa nods at Katya and she dips a rag in the cool water, then squeezes it on my tongue.
“Katya,” Baba Mysa says, “go see if Oleg has returned yet with the doctor. I want to make sure everything is okay here before I allow Luda to begin pushing.” Katya nods and pushes up.
“Please don’t be long,” I cry. Katya’s presence is soothing and comforting to me, and I find myself a little more frightened when she steps away. Katya looks down at me with a tender smile.
“I’ll be right back,” she says.
Turning to Baba Mysa, I see her watching me, searching my face. “You’re going to be an excellent mother, Luda,” she says with a smile. I want to smile back at her, but the pain rolls in again, and I give myself to it.
For the next several hours I move in and out of pain, which comes with greater intensity as the moments drag on. Oleg doesn’t return with the doctor, and as the daylight fades into the black of night, I can sense everyone’s concern over his absence.
“He should have come back by now,” Katya whispers to Baba Mysa, who works furiously with brow furrowed each time I cry out in pain. Finally, when I feel like I can go no further, I let out a scream as the pressure mounts with such force I think I’ll split in two.
“This is it, Luda,” Baba Mysa cries. “I see the baby’s head. It’s time to push.”
“I can’t,” I cry. I’m exhausted. My back feels like it’s been tied in a thousand knots, and my head is pounding. Katya leans over me and looks in my eyes.
“Luda, your baby is coming!” she says, her eyes bright with excitement. “I know you can do this. You are the strongest person I know. You can do it!”
I nod, and she helps me sit up a little. Clenching my teeth, I let out a scream and push as hard as I can. I feel my face going red, and the world starts to fade to black. Just before it fades completely, I feel the split and a release. Collapsing back to the floor, the room spins slightly as Katya lays a cool rag on my forehead. It’s very quiet.
Too quiet.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Where’s the baby?”
I sit up and see Baba Mysa working feverishly around the baby’s head, mumbling something about the doctor and Oleg. “Come baby,” she croons. She pulls back a cord from the baby’s neck and I see blue and hear silence.
“Please don’t die,” I whisper over and over. “Please don’t die, baby. I need you.”
Baba Mysa gently massages the baby’s chest, and the silence is broken by a tiny squawk. I watch Baba Mysa let out a sigh of relief. She crosses herself, offering up a prayer of thanks and blows a kiss at the baby before holding it up to me.
“Luda,” she says gently. “Meet your son.”
My eyes fill with tears as I take in his tiny face, his features swollen and closed tight. His fists are balled and his mouth is open, emitting a strong cry. I reach for him, and Baba Mysa lays him in my arms.
“You fit,” I whisper to my boy, my tears falling fast and hard. “You fit here. This is where you belong.” I look up at Katya, who’s also crying. “This is my son,” I say. My whole body is shaking, and I suddenly realize I’m desperately cold.
“Katya,” Baba Mysa says as she works to clean me up. I hear the snip of scissors, and suddenly my son is free of my body. He’s free to walk this world on his own, free to grow into a man. I pull him in tight and feel a longing to protect unlike any I’ve ever known.
“Katya, dip the rags in the warm water and roll them up in the sacks, please,” Baba Mysa says. Katya and Baba Mysa work quickly, placing warm bags under my feet and arms. They cover me with blankets and gradually the trembling slows. Still my baby lies on my chest. He roots and cries.
“Let him eat, Luda,” Baba Mysa whispers, and she gently pulls my shirt down. Immediately my son latches on and I look up at her in surprise. She smiles and nods. “It’s okay,” she says. “You’ll learn, and you will be fine.”
Looking down at my son against my breast I feel the tears fill the corners of my eyes once more. “You’re mine, little one,” I whisper. I trace the line of his hair and his tiny ear. “You’re mine.”
I wake up hours later to the squeaks and squirms of my hungry child. I pick him up gingerly and push myself to a sitting position
. Baba Mysa must have bathed and wrapped him up while I slept. He smells clean and his light blond hair sticks up in soft tufts on his head. Holding him up, I marvel at the perfection of his features. There’s a familiarity that I see in him. I feel as though I’ve always known him—like somehow he’s always been right here with me.
I settle into nursing him, the process a little more painful this time. Leaning back against the wall, I think of Hans once again. I wish he could see my son.
My son.
“I should give you a name,” I whisper, rubbing my hand slowly across his tiny back. I run through a list of names, saying each one aloud until I find one that fits.
“Aleksandr,” I say gently and smile. That is his name. “My little Sasha,” I croon, letting the tender nickname roll off my tongue.
I don’t want this child to have any part of my own father’s name, and because he doesn’t have a Ukrainian father, I decide to give him Alexei’s surname. A knock at the door startles me. I grab a nearby blanket and throw it over my chest and shoulders, embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable position.
“Come in,” I call, and Sasha jumps in my arms. Baba Mysa pushes the door open slightly and peeks her head in. Her eyes are tired, her face drawn and long. “May we all come in?” she asks.
I pull Sasha from me and cover myself quickly, then nod my head yes. Startled from his comfort, he lets out a small cry of protest, then quickly falls asleep in my arms, his mouth still moving in rhythm to his suckling.
Alexei, Katya, and Baba Mysa all file in. Alexei hands me a small bouquet of flowers, leaning down to kiss me gently on the forehead.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says, his eyes swimming with tears. I’ve never seen this sort of emotion from Alexei before.
“Thank you,” I say shyly. “This is my son.” Everyone sits on the floor and crowds in close to stare at his tiny perfection.
“This is Aleksandr Alexeiovich,” I say with a smile. “Sasha.”
Alexei looks at me with wide eyes. “Aleksandr Alexeiovich, huh?” he says, and he reaches out for his namesake. I gingerly place Sasha into Alexei’s arms and notice that Katya’s face has darkened. I reach for her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. She looks back at me, and I nod gently. I know it hurts her to see her papa so enamored with my child. She sighs and squeezes back at my hand.
“Where’s Oleg?” I ask. They all fall silent. I glance out the window. It’s bright outside. The sun rose some time ago. Oleg has been gone a long time.
“Alexei, where is he?” I ask again. Alexei shakes his head, tears gathering again in his eyes.
“He never returned last night, Luda,” Baba Mysa answers softly. I look wide-eyed at the three of them, chins trembling, shoulders quaking. Then I sit up straight, wincing.
“Baba, you have to find Hans,” I say, the words tumbling out in a rush. Baba Mysa looks up at me sharply and shakes her head. Alexei looks back and forth between the two of us.
“Who is Hans?” he asks.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. “Hans is the man I fell in love with,” I answer. I open my eyes to see Alexei and Katya looking at me, their faces frozen and registering confusion. Baba Mysa shakes her head slowly.
“Luda, you don’t need to do this,” she says.
“Yes I do, Baba,” I say. “Oleg is missing because of me. Hans might be able to find out what happened to him.”
“Yes, but at what cost?” Baba Mysa asks, her eyes boring into me.
“At what gain, Baba?” I cry out in exasperation. Baba Mysa shakes her head again and slumps down, defeated.
I look back to Alexei, still cradling my son gently and Katya who has dropped my hand. This could be the final nail in our friendship, but I know I must tell them now.
“Hans is the German soldier I met the night you and I lured them to the flat and stole their guns,” I tell Katya. “He’s a good man, gentle and kind. He doesn’t agree with what his country is doing.”
“How did you fall in love with him, Luda?” Alexei asks. His voice registers shock and pain, and perhaps a hint of betrayal.
I quickly relay the story of how Hans and I met the first time and how we met so many times afterward until Baba Mysa caught us.
“You knew about this?” Alexei says, turning to his mother. She raises her chin up and nods yes, looking her son evenly in the eye.
“Alexei, he is good. I promise he’s good,” I say, and I look slowly at all three of them. Katya turns away from me, disgusted. “He’ll help us find Oleg if you will just go to him and ask!”
I turn to Baba Mysa. “He’ll be in the alley today at two o’clock. He told me that he would go there every day and wait for me to return. You have to go to him, Baba. You have to try.”
Baba Mysa sighs and shakes her head. “Luda,” she croons, “that was weeks ago. He’ll have given up hope at this point.” I shake my head firmly.
“No. He’ll be there. I know he will.” Turning to Alexei, I reach for my son and pull him back into my arms. “Alexei, I’m sorry that I deceived you and that I hid this from you. I’m sorry that I fell in love with a German, but I’m not sorry that I fell in love with Hans. I know he can help us. We have to try.”
I stare intently at Alexei, and he nods slowly. “Alright,” he says. I hear the fatigue and worry in his voice. Turning to Baba Mysa, he grabs her hand. “Mama, you and I will go at two o’clock to find this Hans. You can show me where he’ll be waiting for Luda. And you can also explain to me how you knew about this for so long without sharing it.”
Baba Mysa sighs and nods her head. “Come into the kitchen, you two,” she says to Katya and Alexei. “We’ll talk there.” Turning to me, she gives a slight nod. She’s unhappy that I forced her hand; I see it. “Luda, I’ll bring you some chai and bread soon,” she says.
“Thank you, Baba,” I whisper.
I watch as the three of them retreat, a solid unit of grief, frustration, and despair. When the door closes, Sasha and I are alone.
“I think it’s going to be just you and me, Sinok,” I whisper. Son. The word is still foreign, and yet the evidence lies in my arms. I have a son.
IVAN KYRILOVICH
June 19, 1942
Tanya and I have fallen into a quiet routine. Our days are spent working and cleaning and preparing for the desired return of our children, which we cling to with all the hope of those who cling to life when death seems imminent. I go with Tanya to the salt piles twice a week now to gather the salt. The piles are dwindling as many others have discovered them, and the salt isn’t pure. It’s dirty and grimy, and we spend hours each day sifting through it in our flat, picking out the dirt by hand.
When Tanya isn’t working at the library or dealing with the salt, she sews new clothes for the girls. She made a blanket for Sergei that sits folded in the corner neatly, waiting for his return with great expectation. We haven’t heard from him in months. The last letter we received was so heavily censored we couldn’t really make out much of anything that he wrote.
But it meant he was alive. That note, along with the two others we’ve received over the months, lies on top of a small chest of drawers. I pull it out and unfold it every night, willing myself to feel his hands on the paper.
During the daytime hours, I spend much of the time staring out the window. The shadows of hell still follow me, and I feel the constant potential of slipping back into the abyss. But I cannot forget Anna’s words the day the Germans took her from my arms.
Don’t leave again.
Tanya walks through the room, her peppered hair pulled in a loose bun. She catches my eyes and pauses a moment. She knows I’m fighting the dark. Our gazes search one another deeply. The light that still flickers inside her grieving eyes is the only thing that keeps the darkness at bay. I need her like I need the air I breathe.
“Would you like any chai?” Tanya asks, her voice a haunting melody.
“Will you sit and drink with me?” I ask.
“Of cours
e,” she replies.
“Please,” I say with a smile. “I would love to have chai with you, lyubimaya.” She is my love.
Tanya turns and hurries to the kitchen while I look back out the window at the passing clouds. Though I haven’t ventured out today, I can sense the warmth in the air. The day is still and bright, so full of promise. The beauty of the outdoors is in such contrast to what happens in the world that it leaves me dizzy.
How can life be anything but gray again?
I think of the German boy often—the boy who altered me forever by forcing me into the line at Babi Yar. I want to hate him and have tried to for some time, but there’s something about the way he looked at me when we met in the woods that haunts me. He was conflicted and scared.
I place his youthful face next to my Sergei’s and realize that they’re not so different. They’re boys learning what it means to lead and take charge in life. They’re young men who have simply been programmed differently.
Do I fault the boy for the evil that was obviously nurtured in him by a culture that doesn’t see the value of human life? Do I hate the boy who’s doing what he was told to do because he believes it with all his heart?
I saw the conflict in his eyes that morning. I felt his doubt. I cannot hate him, as much as I would like to. I pity him, and I pity my own boy who’s making equally difficult decisions—my own boy who’s pulling the trigger and ending life. One ends life out of hatred, the other out of self-defense. Both boys forever will have scars for their decisions.
Tanya walks in carrying a tray with two tin cups, both steaming with hot chai, and two slices of bread. She sets the tray down on the table and arranges the cups in front of each of us, then she sits and pulls her chair close to mine.
Tanya looks out the window at the fluffy white clouds. “Beautiful day,” she murmurs.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” I say.
Tanya looks at me, her thin, dry hands wrapped around her cup. “What else were you thinking?” she asks.
