by Kelli Stuart
I haven’t told her anything about the days following Babi Yar. I haven’t spoken of the young Nazi, or Polina, or the inner torment I feel for not protecting her from those animals. I haven’t told her my fears for Sergei and my regret for the choices he must make every day. I haven’t shared myself with my wife in a long, long time.
Leaning forward, I take the cup from her hands and set it on the table then wrap my own hands around hers.
“I was thinking about Babi Yar,” I say softly. Tanya pulls in a deep breath. She nods and waits. I take my time, gathering my thoughts and filtering them in a way that is coherent.
For the next hour, I share with Tanya the stories of darkness. I tell her about cradling the child inside the ditch and about the hollowness in Polina’s eyes as we stumbled naked through the forest. I tell her of the cold that penetrated to the very core and left me desiring death and release. I describe the moment that I heard the butt of the German gun make contact with Polina’s head and the sound of her whispering my name as they dragged her away.
I don’t speak of the guilt, but I know she can sense it, and her hands grip mine tighter, sweaty palms communicating a solitary promise to never leave. Tanya doesn’t speak, but she listens, her eyes wet.
Finally, I tell her about the boy who started it all—the Nazi soldier who committed evil acts but whom I cannot hate.
“I saw him again,” I say quietly. “Just a few weeks ago, in the woods. I came to the place high up above the Dnieper and he was there.”
Tanya’s eyes narrow, and she leans back in her chair, dropping her hands in her lap. Her expression has changed from sorrow to anger, but she still doesn’t speak. She waits, her eyes moving from my face to the clouds.
“He was confused,” I tell her, searching her face for some clue as to how she’s feeling. “I could see the fear and the doubt in his eyes. I could sense his reluctance, and I realized that he’s not so different from Sergei.”
Tanya’s eyes flick to my face. “He is nothing like my Sergei,” she snaps, her words laced with fire and protection. “My Sergei is good. He chose good. He is protecting life, not ending it.”
I reach forward for her hands, but she pulls away. A small sob escapes her. I drop my hands to the table and look hard into her watery eyes.
“My darling, our Sergei is doing both. He’s protecting and ending life. He will never be the same for it.”
Tanya drops her face into her hands, bitter sobs racking her thin shoulders.
“I’m sorry, dorogaya,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have told you these things.”
Pushing up, Tanya glares at me. “No. You shouldn’t have told me these things,” she spits. I fall back in my chair, stunned by the heat of her words. “I don’t want to hear of your pity for that monster, and I’ll never get the image of you leaving Polina out of my mind. You’ve abandoned all of us during this war, haven’t you?”
She pushes back from the table, the sound of her chair scraping against the floor sending a chill down my spine. I watch as she storms out of the room and leaves me alone with my failures.
FREDERICK HERRMANN
June 21, 1942
“Herrmann, stand!” I leap to my feet and stand at attention as Sturmbannführer Hitzig marches swiftly into the barracks. The men around me look up curiously, wondering why I’m being summoned this late in the evening.
“You have a visitor,” Hitzig snaps. “Dress in uniform and meet me outside in ten minutes.”
I raise my arm straight above my head and click my heels in salute. Hitzig turns on his heel and marches back out of the room. He came in just a few months ago, replacing Paul Blobel who’s being further utilized to coordinate steady and drastic attacks against the Jews after news of his grand success at Babi Yar spread throughout the upper ranks. Hitzig is a sniveling, whiny man, and I loathe his leadership, though I would never share these feelings with anyone else.
I look around at my comrades, all of whom have their eyebrows raised. I grab my things and dress in a hurry. Turning, I run into Nikolaus.
“What’s going on, Frederick?” he whispers.
I shrug. “I don’t know, Nikolaus,” I snap. “You heard the same information I did. I have a visitor.”
“Who could possibly be coming to visit you this late at night?” Nikolaus asks. Sighing, I brush past him and rush for the door. I hear the men buzzing behind me. Their voices trail after me every time I leave a room. They’re against me—I can sense it.
Stepping outside, the warm summer air is a refreshing break from the stale smell of the barracks. The general stands against the building, inhaling deeply from his freshly rolled cigarette.
“Well done, Herrmann,” he says with a wink. I nod. “Shall we go?” I fall into step behind him, making sure to match his steps while still allowing him to remain ahead of me. Our arms swing back and forth in rhythm.
“You’re quiet,” Hitzig says.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” I answer.
“Aren’t you curious as to who is here to see you?” he asks.
“Of course,” I reply with surprise. “But I didn’t feel it was my place to ask questions.”
Hitzig chuckles and nods. “You’ve been trained well, Herrmann,” he says. “Not that I’m surprised.”
So Hitzig knows who my father is. We walk up to the building that once served as a cinema for the local people of Kiev. It’s now the German command center where major military operations are organized and put into action.
Stepping inside, I need a minute to get used to the swaying feeling that accompanies the dim orange lighting. As I focus, I see him in the corner, and my heart turns cold with fear. Strolling up to me, he stops short just a few feet away, his chin held high. He looks down at me over a sharp nose. He’s dressed in a sharply pressed black suit and holds a top hat under his arm with an air of regality. He thrusts his arm up. “Heil Hitler!” he cries.
I return the salute. “Heil Hitler,” I reply, my voice cracking. I drop my arm, shame and embarrassment immediately enveloping me.
“Hello, Frederick,” he says. His voice is not warm, nor is it cold. It’s … indifferent.
“Hello, Father,” I squeak, and I see the disappointment flick across his face. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I’ve come to check the status of our position in this country. When we finally overtake Kiev for good, the Great Führer has asked that I manage the architectural rebuilding of the area into a German hub.”
I nod my head, not sure of what else to say. We stand in awkward silence for several minutes, both sizing one another up. I finally speak again.
“How is Mother?” I ask. My mother’s face floods my mind as I remember the worried look that seemed to perpetually cloud her features. For so long I saw my mother as simple, misled, somehow beneath and not worthy of my father or me. But in recent months I’ve found myself longing for the comfort of her presence, a feeling that only adds to the growing sense that I am weak and unfit for my father’s approval.
“Your mother’s fine,” Father says. “She sends her love.”
This is followed by another awkward pause. Thus far, my father has not attempted to touch me. No hug or shaking of the hand. Just an awkward and cold salute. I feel his eyes boring into me, sizing up and determining just how deeply my disappointment to him will run.
“Let’s walk, Son,” he says. Father sweeps past me, and I stand still for a moment, gathering every ounce of my courage to follow him. I catch Hitzig’s eye and see the amusement twinkling behind the surface. He sees my fear and finds it amusing.
He now knows just how weak I am.
I spin on my heel and march out the door behind Father, trying hard to make my shoes click the floor with some authority. Instead, the rhythm of my gait gives away my lack of confidence, and the hollow echoes reveal my fear.
Father and I step out into the street. It’s dark and silent. Because of the imposed curfew, very few peopl
e are walking around. Every once in a while we see a wayward solider swaying and stumbling back to the barracks after too much fun at a local nightclub, but other than that, the streets are hollow and still.
“Which way should we walk, Frederick?” Father asks, and I look up in surprise. He has rarely before asked my opinion, and I feel a thin line of sweat break out on my upper lip. Is this some sort of test? Am I expected to take him somewhere important, to guess where it is he wants to walk?
With my heart beating wildly, I point to the right, deciding to walk Father to the center of town. Kreshadik Street is Kiev’s main hub, where once upon a time I imagine quite a bit of hustle took place. It’s not nearly as grand or opulent as the streets of Berlin, of course, but there’s something about Kreshadik that brings me some comfort, despite the rubbled streets and buildings. It’s the exchange of life that happens on a busy city street that gives it an air of importance, and my Father is one to only appreciate importance.
We’re silent as we stroll, and I wait for him to speak. I know better than to be the first to initiate conversation. A few minutes later, my father finally breaks the silence.
“I got a letter from Blobel last week, Frederick,” Father says, and my blood runs cold. So this is why he came. Father is here to follow up on a letter from his colleague. I nod and wait.
“He had quite a lot to say about you,” Father continues, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, silver flask. He unscrews the top and takes a quick drink, the rich bourbon scent floating into the street like a ghost.
I look up at the stars above us, the black sky dotted with white holes, and I try to think what on earth Blobel could have possibly said that caused my father to make such a drastic trip. I know that my father has not come to give me praise, and as I stare at the sky, I long to escape.
“Are you curious as to what he had to say, Son?” Father asks, his face twisted into a sneer. I swallow hard and nod my head, giving the proper response, if not the courageous one.
Father reaches into his pocket again, this time pulling out a letter. He stops walking and turns to me, opening the letter quickly. Using the moon’s light, Father begins to read. The first few lines are simple formalities. It’s the second paragraph that causes me to quake:
“Your boy is fine, Tomas, though I must say his lack of leadership and courage have surprised me. He follows every order, yet takes little initiative to move on his own. It is as though he’s afraid, but what he fears I don’t understand. While I never had a single problem with him, and he accomplished every task I, or any of his superiors, gave him, I felt for some reason a little disappointed each time I looked at him. I couldn’t help but feel as though he were a waste of great, Aryan blood.”
Father stops reading and folds the letter slowly while I stand before him shocked and exposed. I take in slow, deep breaths and stand stiff at attention. Father tucks the letter back into his coat and runs his hand down his face and over his smooth-shaven chin.
“So what do you have to say for yourself?” Father asks. His voice is cold and icy. I open my mouth to speak, but find that I can hardly draw in a breath, much less form words. In a sudden move, Father’s hand snaps up and clamps down on the back of my neck. He squeezes so hard that it feels as though my bones will break, and he pulls my face to his so that our noses are nearly touching. I can see the fire of anger blazing in his eyes, and the bourbon on his breath stings and chokes.
“You have shamed us, Frederick,” he hisses, spitting the words out like a bitter poison. “Your cowardice has been noticed and observed by one of the great leaders of this army, and you have left me humiliated and ashamed.”
I pull back against his hand, trying to release myself from the hatred and anger, but he squeezes harder. I feel my eyes growing hot and wet, and my Father, seeing the tears glisten, releases and shoves me backward. I stumble, catching myself just before falling. Swiping my hand across my eyes, I pull myself up straight and take in several deep breaths as my Father claps his hands together, wiping away the grime of shame.
Turning slowly, Father reaches up and straightens his hat. He begins to walk slowly back in the direction that we came. I stand still, wondering briefly if I should just run.
“Come now, Son,” he commands, his voice sharp, dripping with disdain. I turn and fall into step just behind him. We walk in silence back to the command center. Stopping just outside the door, Father turns to me.
“You are a great disappointment,” he says. “Even more so than your sister.” I don’t respond. I look him in the eye and see that it’s true. I have let him down deeply.
“I have a meeting scheduled with Hitzig tomorrow,” Father continues. “He and I will determine what your next step should be in this war and how we can best utilize a cowardly soldier with the best grooming our great nation has to offer.”
With each word my Father speaks, I find myself shrinking further and deeper into the pavement. Father steps close to me, and I flinch. “I’ll give you one more chance, Frederick,” he says, his voice low and measured. “You have one more chance to prove you’re worthy of my approval and worthy to bear my name. If you let me down again …” Father stops and sighs, stepping back and looking out into the street.
“You are no son of Germany.”
Turning quickly, Father pushes the door open and enters the command building, where I imagine he will quickly subdue the room with his power and confidence. He doesn’t invite me to join him, and I understand my dismissal. I’m to go back and earn his approval.
I watch the door swing shut and jump when it slams. Numb and humiliated, I turn and slowly begin making my way back to my bunk.
MARIA IVANOVNA
June 22, 1942
This morning, as I drag myself from my wooden pallet, I hear the whispers again. The girls around me, new Ostarbeiter who joined us a week ago, speak softly of a place called Auschwitz and another called Bremen.
Alyona Semenova stands up beside me. She came to the camp three weeks ago and has become a dear friend. She links arms and leans in close.
“It’s better that we’re here,” she whispers. I nod. The stories I hear of these camps give weight to her claim. It’s been one year since the bombs first fell on my city and four months since the Germans marched me away from my family. It feels like a lifetime.
We’re all sick, though I assume it will only get worse when the winter settles in. We’ve been told that we’re not prisoners but workers. I don’t understand how this could be when we’re not paid for the work that we do and are kept inside a barbed fence. For twelve hours a day, I move heavy machinery back and forth, handle harsh chemicals, and trudge through the yellow dust of the factory in a trance. The only things that keep me moving are my friendship with Alyona and the thought of seeing my family again.
Sometimes, though, the shadows close in, and I let them swallow me up. There’s a pole at the front of the camp with a noose hanging over it—trying to escape this place holds a penalty of death. Though no one has been strung up since the girl who tried to run early on, I feel my palms sweat and tremble each time we trudge past that spot.
I pull my dress over my head and sigh as it hangs loosely on my gaunt frame. My shoulders jut out at an odd angle, and I can’t seem to keep the worn material from sliding around throughout the day.
“Here, let me help,” Alyona says, stepping up behind me. She pulls the material up in two sections around the back of my neck and ties it in a knot. I look down and smooth it out, making sure the faded patch is still fully shown.
OST. I am still Ostarbeiter. I am a slave.
“So … another day?” Alyona says. I nod with half a smile. I’m weak with hunger, as the rations have been sparse these last few weeks. Apparently, we haven’t been working hard enough in the factory.
“I’m hungry,” I mumble, and she puts her arm around me.
“So am I,” she says sadly. Together we trudge out into the early morning air. It’s dusky, the summertime h
ours giving us more of a glimpse of our surroundings. Beyond the barbed wire and grotesque wooden fences, the German countryside is beautiful. It’s mountainous and green and lush with the glory of nature.
In the gray haze, I pull in a deep breath and feel the pang of hunger momentarily wane. If only the fresh air could sustain me.
We push to the mess hall for our morning allotment of stale bread. Sometimes we’re also allowed a cup of hot water. Today, though, when we walk in, the table is empty and those who have arrived before us stand slumped and defeated.
“What’s going on?” I ask someone, a frail mouse of a girl named Svetlana. She shrugs her shoulders, her eyes brimming with tears.
“There’s no food today,” she says, and her chin quivers. I see the desperation, and I understand. The prospect of working all day without some sustenance is too much to consider. I put my arm around Svetlana and kiss the top of her head. Her hair is thin and patchy.
“Shh …” I whisper as she cries quietly. Svetlana’s shoulders tremble.
“I can’t make it,” she whispers. I look desperately at Alyona, and her eyes meet mine with the same mournful doubt. Taking a deep breath, I push Svetlana back and wipe the tears off her cheeks.
“Well,” I say, willing my voice to sound relaxed and upbeat. “Let’s make a game of today, then.” Svetlana breathes in ragged breaths as she stares back at me.
“A game?” she asks.
I nod and glance at Alyona, who looks equally curious.
“Today is a contest,” I say. “We’ll see who can fill the most artillery shells by the end of the day.”
Svetlana shrugs her shoulders. “You can’t have a contest without a prize,” she mumbles.
I put my hands on my hips and look at her sternly. “Well, I know that,” I say impatiently. “Of course there will be a prize.” Svetlana eyes me warily, and I force a grin.
“The prize will be a grand feast tonight in the barracks,” I say with a mischievous wink.
