Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  Alexei leans forward, pressing his elbows against the table and looking hard at Hans. “They’ll kill all the prisoners when construction is complete, won’t they?” he asks. Hans nods slowly.

  “Will you be safe?” I ask.

  “Stupid girl!”

  We all jump at Katya’s outburst. She shoves herself away from the wall and lunges toward me. Alexei manages to catch her just before her fist hits my face. “You’re worried about this … this … German while my brother is being forced to build a hideout for the devil? I hate you! I hate you!”

  Alexei drags his daughter from the room as she writhes and squirms in his arms. The tears fall hot against my cheeks, and Hans wraps his arm around my shoulders protectively. In the background, I hear my son begin to wail.

  “I’ll get the baby,” Baba Mysa says, standing up slowly. She looks at Hans closely. “Forgive my granddaughter’s emotions. Thank you for your help.”

  Hans nods, and Baba Mysa moves quickly to retrieve Sasha.

  “I’m sorry, Hans,” I cry. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Shh …” Hans whispers. “It’s okay. I understand why Katya doesn’t trust me. But I don’t like her anger at you.”

  “I’m so afraid,” I weep. I bury my face in his chest, his strong arms engulfing me in a tight embrace.

  Hans lets me cry for a moment before pushing me back. He wipes the tears from my cheeks gently and offers a small smile. “I’m afraid, too,” he says. “Which is why I have to do what I’m going to do.”

  The sound of his voice stops me cold, and I look up at him. His eyes burn bright and his jaw is set firm. “What are you going to do?” I ask.

  “I’m going to free Oleg,” he answers. “And then I’m going to kill Adolf Hitler.”

  IVAN KYRILOVICH

  June 28, 1942

  Bolting upright, I grasp my chest and take in long, gasping breaths. It wasn’t real. It can’t be real. Lying back down, I glance out the window and take note of the early morning sunlight pouring into the room, as the nightmare vision of my son, bloodied and broken, rolls through my mind. It felt so real, so tangible. I can’t breathe.

  In the stillness, my mind wanders again to the children. Where are they? I think of Anna and her quiet, sensitive nature that so similarly mirrors her mother. Is she being treated with gentleness in return? I fear that too much cruelty will break her and leave her unable to function—unable to live.

  And what of my Maria? I feel her name wash over my lips, “Masha,” my wild, impulsive girl with a strong sense of justice. Is she well? Is she working or is she fighting? I think of my own willingness to disregard safety and go after Joseph, Klara, and Polina, and realize with great heaviness that if Maria’s impulsivity kills her, it will be entirely my fault. The child is too much like me.

  Then I think of my Sergei, the visions in my dream leaving me sick with fear and worry. Where is my boy?

  Tanya wakes and pushes herself up. She stretches, then turns to face me, her face drawn, eyes hollow. “Good morning,” I say quietly. She stares, but doesn’t acknowledge my words. A strange silence has settled over us this last month. Like a vapor, Tanya moves in and out of the room. It’s as though the grief has finally become too heavy. I’m losing her.

  Tanya pushes herself up and moves silently through the motions of dressing. I long to reach out to her, to hold her close, but the chasm between us feels too great.

  “I’m going to work,” she mumbles. “I’ll be home for dinner.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but I’m not fast enough. She moves from the room before I can form a response. A moment later, I hear the front door open, then shut with a dull click.

  I flit through the house for most of the day. I consider heading out, but the energy it would take leaves me overwhelmed. Most of my time is spent staring out the window, reliving the past. The memories always begin so joyful, but they end in mourning. By three o’clock, I’m utterly exhausted. I lie down on the bed and immediately fall into a deep sleep.

  When I wake it’s dark. I bolt up in panic. “Tanya?” I call, my eyes shifting left to right. There are no lights, no sounds. It’s deafening. “Tanya!” I fall back to the bed, my head spinning. I’m disoriented and confused.

  I don’t know the time, and my mind races with all the things that could have happened. “Tanya!” I yell. The sound of crying pierces the room. I push up on my elbows and will myself to keep steady.

  “Where are you?” I ask. A light flickers on in the corner. Tanya sits at the table, her hands shaking. She clutches a piece of paper in her right hand, and her face is puffy and swollen.

  “What is it?” I ask, my heart sinking low. I fall back onto the hard pillow and stare at the ceiling, which sways back and forth like the Dnieper River on a windy day.

  “It’s Anna,” Tanya says. I sit up again as something in her voice captures me. It isn’t devastation, but rather the sound of elation. “It’s a letter from Anna!” she cries. She throws her head back and laughs. “Anna’s alive, Ivanchik. She’s alive.” She laughs again as the tears fall. For the first time in weeks I hear my wife laugh, and the sound is magical.

  “Alive?” I ask. “Read it to me, darling, please!”

  Tanya lays the letter on the table, smooths it out, and begins to read:

  “Dear Mama and Papa,

  “I received permission from the lady of the house to write to you. I live in northern Germany, far out in the country. We’re away from the fighting, and I am well. I work as a cook for a Nazi general’s family. I’ve never met the general, but I know his wife and daughter well, and they are good people. They have treated me well, and I’m grateful for their protection. The hours are long, and the work is hard, but I’ve found much satisfaction here.

  “There are many young Ukrainians working on this farm. There’s a boy here from Kiev. His name is Boris, and he’s seventeen. He works hard in the fields. It’s back-breaking work. He reminds me so much of Sergei. He’s gentle and kind and has a wonderful sense of humor. I’ve found that I love him very much, and we’re talking of marriage. I hope you’ll love him as I do. We look forward to the day we will return to our home and be reunited with our families.

  “And how is Sergei? Do you have any news from him? And what of Masha? I think about her every day. We were separated at the train station so I don’t know where she is now, and that frightens me. I hope that she’s behaving and keeping quiet. The Germans are strict and hard, but if you follow their rules, they can be very kind and helpful.

  “I love you, Mama and Papa. I hope that you’re well and that this letter brings some joy and relief. I was so happy when the mistress of the house agreed to mail it for me. I think of you every day. I will survive this war, and so must you. Just think of it—we’ll all come out the other side of these years with our lives and our spirits still intact!

  “I must go now. How I long to hug you close. Rest tonight, dear Mama and Papa, knowing that I’m well. There’s hope in knowing.

  “With all my love,

  “Anna”

  Tears stream down my cheeks and pool on the pillow behind my ears. Tanya’s voice breaks, and she rushes to me, the letter still clutched tight in her fist. Lying down on the bed next to me, her body heaves with racking sobs. I turn on my side and wrap my arms around her.

  “She’s alive, Tanya,” I whisper. I stroke her gray-brown hair. “She’s alive, and we’re alive, and we must believe that Masha and Sergei are alive.”

  Tanya nods and pulls in long, ragged breaths. She pushes up on her elbow and looks at me. Her eyes are swollen, her face splotchy and red. She has never been more beautiful.

  “She’s alive and she’s in love,” Tanya says and both of us laugh. “Our Anna in love.” Tanya shakes her head. I reach up and run my hand down her cheeks, wiping away the tears.

  We stare at one another for a long time, letting the overwhelming confliction of emotions sweep back and forth. Tanya breaks the spell with another smile. She wipes her
eyes, then reaches up and places her hand gently on my cheek. “I’ve missed you,” she whispers.

  “I love you, Tanya,” I answer. Tanya smiles, and her eyes crinkle at the corners.

  “I love you, you stupid, crazy man,” she says and she leans forward and kisses me deeply. Just like that, we’re young again, lovers caught in the embrace of hope and future. We spend the night wrapped in passion, and in the morning, I sit up slowly. The room stays steady.

  The world has settled.

  MARIA IVANOVNA

  June 29, 1942

  With a soft moan, I try to lift my head, but something weighs me down. I feel heavy, like I’ve been stuffed and laid out beneath a mass of stones. With great effort, I manage to pry my eyes open and focus on my surroundings.

  Panic threatens to rise. Just before it fully settles, a light splits the room, and my eyes shut involuntarily. From behind lids squeezed tight, I feel the light pierce, then fade. I push my eyes open again. It’s not so bright now. The dim bulb overhead sways back and forth, casting golden glows from one side to the next, like spirits dancing above me.

  Her shadow darkens the swaying bulb, and my eyes open a little wider. Focusing, I finally make out her concerned eyes and pinched expression. Her hair stands in wild tufts, the light glowing through the strands and illuminating her head in a sort of wild fire.

  I form my lips around the word and force the air forward. It comes out as a whisper only, my throat dry and scratched.

  “Helga.”

  “Shh,” she says. She lays a cold cloth on my forehead, and I feel immediate relief from the heaviness. I look around. I’m in a small, stone room. I’m covered in heavy blankets, which explains the weight on my body. Helga lifts my head and pours cool liquid into my mouth. I gurgle and choke before swallowing hard.

  “Dankeschön,” I rasp. She smiles and nods her head.

  “Where am I?”

  Helga looks at me quizzically and shakes her head. She doesn’t understand. I fall silent as my eyes continue to dart from left to right, trying to make sense of where I am and how I arrived here.

  The last thing I remember is the sound of the German boots marching toward us. We were sick. I hear the screams. I see Alyona’s desperate eyes.

  “Alyona!” I gasp. “Where’s my friend?” I ask. She looks at me, and I see it in her eyes. I see the sadness and regret. I force my mind to slow down and pull out the limited German that I’ve picked up since arriving at the camp.

  “Is Alyona dead?” I ask. It’s the only question I can think to ask in the tongue of my enemy. Helga’s eyes fog, then fill with tears. She nods her head, very slightly. She understood my question, and I understand her answer.

  My friend is gone.

  I feel the tears on my cheeks and turn my head away from Helga so she doesn’t see them fall. The cool cloth slips away, and the air blows across my bare forehead. Helga sighs and shuffles out, leaving me alone in my sorrow.

  Sometime later, I hear the door open again. I keep my face turned away, not interested in trying to communicate with Helga anymore. As I’ve lain alone in the glowing room, my anger and hatred for her has built. She served the maggot-filled bowls of rice that nearly killed us all. She is the one who made the choice to let us eat that food, and as a result, Alyona is dead.

  The side of my bed sinks with the weight of someone sitting next to me. I jump as the sound of a man clearing his throat breaks my obstinacy. Turning my head, I see the man who took Sveta away that day in the factory. His face is soft, his eyes gentle. He looks back at me for a moment before speaking.

  “My name is Ewald,” he says in thickly accented Russian. “I’m so sorry for what happened.” I narrow my eyes and remain silent. Ewald takes a deep breath and turns his face toward the door where Helga stands silently, wringing her hands. I look back at Ewald.

  “My friend is dead,” I say. My voice cracks with emotion, but I push it back. “My friend is dead because she fed us infested food.” I toss a glare at Helga.

  Ewald nods. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he says softly. “Helga is terribly sorry, too. She served your food out of duty, not malice.”

  Before I can stop myself, I rear up and spit hard at his face. Ewald jumps up from the bed and wipes his cheek. Taking a deep breath, he looks up at the ceiling before looking back down at me.

  “Helga is going to take care of you until the fever breaks and you’re stronger,” he says. His voice isn’t cold, but it isn’t as gentle as when he first spoke, and I feel some satisfaction in knowing that I ruffled him. “When you’re well,” he continues, “you’ll be transferred to a new service assignment.”

  “So I’m still a slave?” I ask. My voice is thick and hot and comes out stronger this time. I’m angry at his orders—at his attempt to justify the actions that killed Alyona. Ewald looks at me sharply.

  “I am not so hateful as some of my comrades,” he says in a low voice, “but I’m not without some belief or conviction of my own, either. Your service to our country is necessary and important. I will not bring harm to you for it, but if I were you, I would be careful not to bring harm to yourself.”

  Ewald spins on his heel and marches to the door. I watch as he stops next to Helga and smooths her wild hair back. He leans forward and kisses her nose gently, then whispers something in her ear. She ducks her head and swipes a hand over her eyes. Both of them look back at me once before leaving together, closing the door firmly behind them.

  The next few days pass in a hazy blur. The fever leaves me listless and achy, and my head pounds with such ferocity that I’m sure it will split in two. Helga flits in and out of the room anxiously. I sense her desire to make amends, to purge herself of the guilt that haunts and torments. I, however, cannot give her the pleasure of forgiveness.

  The longer I lie pinned beneath the blankets, the more anger and hate fill my being. I’m entirely buried in these feelings, and I cannot even bear to look Helga in the eye. My brokenness will not accept her remorse or her regret.

  I feel it when the fever finally breaks. My body is wet with sweat. In an instant, the fog lifts, and I feel the fever flee. I’m weak and worn, but no longer heavy. The relief is welcome.

  Helga walks in about an hour later with a bowl of broth and another bowl of cool water for my forehead. She sees me sitting up, and her eyes widen. Rushing to my side, she places her hand on my forehead. I turn my eyes downward so they don’t meet hers.

  Helga sits by me on the bed silently for a few minutes. I can smell the broth in the bowl that she’s set next to me, and my mouth waters. For the first time in days, I feel a genuine hunger. I wait for Helga to retreat—to back away, but she doesn’t move.

  “Forgive me,” she says quietly. These are the same words she whispered the night she served us the contaminated food. Despite my resolve not to acknowledge her, my eyes fly up to her face, and I feel the hot daggers of hatred pool in bitter tears.

  “I can’t,” I hiss. “You knew you were feeding us that food. You knew!” Breaking down in sobs, I put my hands over my face.

  “I’m sorry,” she cries. “Forgive me. Forgive me.” She rocks back and forth, and I watch through blurred eyes as she pleads, the hatred easing with each fallen tear. This is her penance.

  Helga pushes to her feet slowly after several minutes. Murmuring something in German, she turns and walks out the door. I don’t stop her, nor do I confirm forgiveness. I feel her disappointment as the door closes behind her.

  LUDA MICHAELEVNA

  July 7, 1942

  It’s here. In two days they plan to rescue Oleg—in two days the three men I love most in this world may not survive. The fear of what may come has wrecked me entirely.

  Sasha has been my only balm. When I’m not nursing him, I hold him in my arms, the warmth of his tiny frame a soothing comfort to the tumult that overwhelms my soul. He spends a little more time alert these days, and I’m entirely captivated by him. His eyes are bright and inquisitive, and his mouth in c
onstant movement. It seems as though he wants to speak, and I wish that he could. I long for someone to tell me it’s all going to be okay. I want to know what will happen next.

  Soon Hans will free Oleg. I know that he’ll succeed, because I don’t believe him capable of failure. When I compare Hans to my father, I’m left dizzy from the differences. My father, the coward, cannot even begin to measure up. The only thing he ever succeeded at was making me feel useless.

  Last night, I sat on the floor outside the small kitchen and listened to the men whisper their plans, their hushed voices laced with intent and fear. With Sasha tight against my chest, I close my eyes and will myself to remember every plan, every movement, every step laid out.

  Alexei somehow managed to convince two men from his partisan group to come and help. When they walked in earlier and saw Hans sitting in the flat, I watched their eyes glaze over. It is a testimony to the level of trust that people have in Alexei that they were willing to formulate plans with a German soldier.

  What they plan seems impossible. I’ve run through each step a thousand times, and I don’t see how they can pull this together without one, or all, of them dying. They have diversions planned for each step—plans to draw Nazi guards away from the compound and keep them occupied long enough for Hans to seek out the prisoners, find Oleg, and get him out into the dark of the woods.

  My mind is swimming with the details when a soft knock on the bedroom door startles me. Assuming it to be Alexei, I feel my heart sink. I’m still afraid to speak with him, too scared to face the betrayal that clouds his eyes. Standing up, I hold Sasha tight against my chest like a shield of protection. The door opens, and I gasp in happy surprise to find Hans standing in the doorway.

  “May I come in?” he asks. He steps in and closes the door quietly behind him. Walking to me, he stops close and looks down at Sasha who’s now alert and content to gaze about the room. My baby is still so small and delicate, but his eyes are big and bright. Hans smiles and puts his hand on top of Sasha’s head.