Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  “Sometimes I imagine that he’s mine,” Hans says quietly. I look up at him and search his face, willing myself to memorize each line around his eyes, every mark and contour that gives him an air of confidence and goodness.

  “I’m scared,” I whisper, and he nods.

  “I know.”

  Hans leans forward, swallowing Sasha and me in his arms. I stand still in his embrace for several minutes.

  “Ich lieben dich,” he says quietly.

  “I love you, too,” I whisper, and the tears catch in my throat. Pushing me back, Hans wipes my eyes with his thumbs then kisses my forehead tenderly. He leans forward and kisses Sasha, and I listen closely as he whispers something to my son in his native German.

  “What did you say?” I ask as Hans straightens up. I adjust Sasha, laying him over my shoulder, my hand cradling his bottom gently. His tiny face burrows in the crook of my neck.

  “I whispered a prayer of strength and safety over him,” Hans says. “It’s the same prayer my father used to whisper over me when I was young and he left town. It always made me feel important and brave.”

  “You’ve never mentioned your father before,” I say. “What was he like?”

  Hans searches my face and pushes a strand of hair off my forehead. “My father was a good man. Though misguided in his beliefs, his intentions were noble. I respected him greatly.”

  “Is he still alive?” I ask.

  Hans shakes his head. “He died three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Hans gives a sad smile. “I’m sorry, too.”

  There are more things I want to ask Hans. I realize in this moment that I know very little about him. Does he have siblings? Is his mother alive? Who is this man who has taken all of my trust and all of my heart into his hands? I open my mouth to ask the questions when the door bursts open. Katya stands in the doorway, her pretty face pinched and clouded with anger.

  “I need to change,” she says. Her voice is dull, devoid of any feeling. Hans nods and kisses me on the cheek. My eyes fill with tears again as he takes a step back.

  “Please be careful,” I beg.

  “I will,” he promises. “You stay inside and keep safe.” Turning on his heel, Hans strides past Katya. He pauses very briefly beside her and nods his head, but she refuses to look at him. In a heartbeat, he disappears out of the room. Seconds later, I hear the front door of the flat close, and I’m left with nothing but hope and the weight of my child to keep me warm.

  Katya flits quickly through the room, pulling on her skirt and boots and lacing them quickly. She runs her fingers through her long blond hair, pulling it back away from her face and tying it into a low knot at the base of her neck.

  “Where are you going?” I ask. My voice is cool and gathered, though inside I feel as though a storm is passing through.

  Katya sighs. “I’m going to help Papa prepare for the mission,” she says impatiently.

  “You aren’t taking part, are you?” I ask, surprised.

  “I said I’m helping prepare,” Katya snaps. She straightens and faces me, her eyes icy and narrowed. “Papa won’t let me participate in any more real missions since you decided to go and fall in love with a German. He says it’s too dangerous for our young female minds.” I feel the heat of her words and step back as though I’ve been slapped.

  “I’m sorry I’ve made things difficult for you, Katya,” I murmur. Katya spins and stomps to the door, yanking it open. She stops and turns her head just slightly back toward me.

  “I’m sorry you came to stay here at all,” she says. She steps out of the room and slams the door behind her. Sasha jumps in my arms and begins to cry. Feeling numb, I walk to the couch and sit down, pulling him to my breast. As he soothes and drinks, I close my eyes, and fight against the sorrow.

  The day drags on slowly and without mercy. Baba Mysa tries to occupy my mind with tasks, and it wears on my patience. I drop the small bit of yarn that fumbles between my fingers and look up at her in frustration. She’s still trying hard to give me the tools I need to make Sasha’s clothing, but I fear I’m an unruly student.

  “I’m sorry, Baba,” I mutter. “I just can’t think about this today.”

  Baba rocks slowly and rhythmically back and forth in her rocking chair, her hands moving in perfect rhythm. The yarn begins to take shape, a perfect hat for Sasha’s tiny head.

  “I want to tell you a story, Luda,” she says. Her voice is soft and warm. I sigh as I melt back into my chair, nodding my head in concession.

  “I was born a long time ago, deep in the heart of Ukraine. My father was a farmer, and my mother was his strong and doting wife. I grew up among the rows of wheat and vegetables that my father grew.”

  Setting her work in her lap, Baba Mysa leans back and a serene look overcomes her face.

  “I can still smell the scent of the cherry trees that surrounded our small country house. I feel the cool air of fall and remember every bit of peace as I walked along behind my father through the rows of potatoes. Everything about that time was simple and sweet.”

  She pauses, and I look at her impatiently. I enjoy hearing a bit about her childhood, but I don’t understand what she’s trying to communicate.

  “When I was ten years old, my father took me into the fields to harvest the potatoes. For hours, we pulled plants from the ground and filled baskets, which we lined up in a long row at the edge of our field. My parents would clean the potatoes later in the day and sell most of them in the local market. At least, that’s what they did every year before this one.”

  Baba Mysa’s voice trails off, and I study her face. Her eyes are bright and clear as she stares hard at the wall, the memory playing out before her on an invisible stage.

  “On this day, as father and I neared the last row, he told me a joke. I don’t remember what the joke was, but I wish I did, because those were the last words he ever spoke to me.”

  My eyes focus in tight as I absorb the shock of her story. Her eyes remain still on the wall, wide and pained.

  “As I laughed at his silly words, a man on a large horse rode quickly up to us. He shouted something about danger coming and told us to run. My father told him to take me, and the man scooped me up and fled with me. My last vision of my father is the sight of him standing in the fields, covered in dirt, his arm up in a solitary wave good-bye. I never saw him again.”

  It’s quiet for some time as I process Baba Mysa’s story. She wipes her eyes several times, and I don’t speak in order to give her time and space. After a few moments, I finally work up the courage to say something.

  “I’m so sorry, Baba,” I say quietly. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that terrible ordeal. But …” I pause, unsure of how to proceed without sounding harsh. “I’m just not sure I understand what that story has to do with me,” I say, and then I cringe. The words sound so selfish coming out of my mouth, and I immediately regret them.

  Baba Mysa turns her head and studies me closely. She nods in approval at my acknowledgment of, and reaction to, the selfishness in my statement and she waits a beat before responding.

  “It has nothing to do with you, child,” she says firmly. “But you can learn from it.” I nod and wait for her to continue, figuring it’s best to remain quiet at this point.

  Baba Mysa sighs, and her fingers begin moving in and out of the yarn on her lap once again. “Life is full of heartache and hardship,” she says. “Very rarely will life make sense, and it will almost never seem fair. But if you remember that pain and heartache aren’t unique to only you, that you’re not the only one mired in circumstances that seem too great to bear, you’ll do much better in life.” She stops and turns to look closely at me.

  “You’re not the only one hurting right now, and you’re not the only one afraid. More importantly, if this plan goes poorly, you will not be the only one affected. Please do not assume that you will be, and remember that when this is all over, for you, life will go on.”

&n
bsp; I sit back in my chair and look down at my hands. I nod slowly as my eyes well up with tears. In the bedroom, Sasha begins to wail, his little voice strong and urgent. Baba smiles gently and sets down her knitting. “I’ll get the baby,” she says. “I could use a little snuggle time right now.”

  Left alone, I reflect on her words and what she obviously meant to communicate to me. I listen to her sing softly to Sasha and hear the creak of the boards as she slowly walks him back and forth in the next room, and I smile. For the first time, I realize how wonderfully blessed my life has become.

  I have a son and a family and love. Why didn’t I see it before? Why did I feel so lost in the dark when so much of my life is full of light?

  Baba Mysa walks into the room. “I think he wants to eat,” she says, and she lays him in my arms. Looking up at her, I offer a smile.

  “Thank you, Baba,” I say, and our eyes meet. She looks deep, and I nod slightly. She places her hand gently on my cheek, and I lean into it.

  “My darling,” she says, and I see the tears dance in the corners of her eyes. “Don’t ever forget that you’re safe and you are loved.”

  I lean back in my chair as Baba Mysa slips away to make tea. For the first time, I feel the tension in my shoulders relax, and a confidence in the future gives light to the darkness.

  “You have to survive, Hans,” I whisper in the quiet room, and I send my quiet prayer up and out into the void with the hope that it reaches his heart and brings the protection that I long for him to have.

  MARIA IVANOVNA

  July 8, 1942

  Stepping off the train, I pull my sack of clothes tight against my chest and try to quell the nausea in my stomach.

  “Come quickly,” Ewald says. I fall into step behind him, my head bent low. Staring at the back of his freshly buffed boots, I try to make myself invisible. As we walk, I attempt to process all that has happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  Was it only a day ago that I lay in a bed tucked deep inside a German barrack, longing to be released and to know what would happen next? How it all changed so quickly.

  Yesterday as I lay against the hard pillow, Helga burst into the room, her frizzy hair a little wilder than usual. Gesturing vehemently, she looked scared and harried and frantic. She pulled my arms, lifting my shoulders from the bed as I fought in protest.

  Helga babbled over and over in German as she pulled me to my feet, then held me steady while the room spun. I hadn’t stood up since the illness hit, and in that moment, my head lolled, and I wasn’t sure if I could remain upright.

  “What are you doing?” I protested, as she tried to pull off my thin gown. She grabbed my clothes, which hung on the wall in front of the bed, and shook them at me. I pulled them on quickly, not because I understood what she wanted from me, but because her urgency compelled me to move.

  Minutes later, Ewald strode into the room and closed the door behind him. Helga stepped back and leaned against the wall, wringing her hands.

  “Good, you’re ready,” he said to me. “We need to go now. Our commanding officer is on his way, and he’s not a kind man. We have to get you out of here fast. Stay close to me and move quickly.”

  Ewald yanked open the door, then turned to Helga, who looked like a wild animal caught in a trap. He gently issued a command in German, and she nodded her head. My last vision of Helga was of her stripping the bedding off the bed, removing any trace of my existence.

  The memory will forever remain with me of moving through the shadows from one room to the next until we emerged out a back door. My first vision after weeks of lying in a dark, damp room was of a black car with the Nazi emblem outlined on the door. Ewald grabbed my hand and propelled me forward, opening the door and shoving me into the car in one swift movement. He threw a blanket over me and hissed, “Cover yourself.”

  Moments later, as I lay trembling beneath a scratchy burlap blanket, we bounced and rumbled away from the prison camp that had been my hell. Ewald spoke over the engine, and I listened without movement.

  “We’re going to be stopped in a minute,” he said quietly. “I’ll do my best to keep them from searching the car, but if they should insist and you’re found, I must pretend I don’t know how you got here. Remain still and quiet. Here we are.”

  The car rolled to a stop, and I heard Ewald speaking to two men outside. The voices grew louder, and Ewald shouted something with such anger that I felt my blood run cold. A moment later the car began to move again. It took most of the remainder of the car ride to calm myself.

  We arrived at the train station, and Ewald got me quickly aboard and into a room without drawing any attention to either of us. We spent a long night on the train, Ewald staring at me in measured silence. He didn’t tell me where we were headed, and I didn’t ask. Some things are better left unknown.

  We departed the train early, and I now follow him quickly, trying to keep up with his long stride. Lost in thought, I don’t notice that Ewald stops walking, and I run hard into his back. I mumble an apology. “Forgive me,” I say. Ewald sighs.

  “Look up here,” he says, and I look up, meeting his gaze. “You can’t look like a scared, lost little mouse or people will get suspicious. You’re here to work as a farmhand. That’s your job. You’re not a prisoner, so don’t act like one.”

  “Forgive me, but I am a prisoner,” I respond, and immediately regret my words. Mama always told me I talk too much.

  Ewald steps back and studies me closely then nods his head. “Well, you’re not a criminal, anyway,” he concedes, then turns and we begin walking again.

  I don’t know if I should trust Ewald or fear him. As I study the back of his head, his dark blond hair cropped close and peeking out from under his officer’s cap, I find myself in awe of him. It’s the first time I have ever studied a Nazi so closely, and I can’t draw my eyes away.

  “Come,” Ewald commands, and I jump. He points to another black car emblazoned with the Nazi sign that symbolizes my inferiority.

  “Where did you say we’re going?” I ask timidly after he slides into the front seat and starts up the engine. Ewald sighs the same way my mother used to sigh when I asked what she felt to be nonsensical questions.

  “We’re going to my sister’s home in the country. You’re going to work as a farmhand for her. The work will be hard, but you’ll be treated well. My sister is kind and fair, but she expects hard work and will punish those who don’t meet her expectations. Are you prepared to work hard?” He raises his eyebrows.

  “Of course,” I answer. Ewald nods and turns back around.

  “Very well,” he says and we slowly pull into traffic. “If anyone stops us, don’t make a sound and do not look at them. I’ll handle it.”

  I nod and look out the window as the beautiful countryside of Germany looms before us. Ewald and I are silent for some time before he speaks again.

  “You need to learn German,” he says quietly.

  “Why?” I ask. Ewald takes a deep breath and glances at me in the mirror that hangs in front of him.

  “You’re in real Germany now,” he says. “And you’ll probably be here quite some time. You should learn the language so you can function.”

  I sit silently, mulling over his suggestion.

  “Do you know any German at all?” Ewald asks, and I nod my head.

  “A little,” I answer in German, and I see his eyes crinkle at the corners in a smile. “I picked some up from the guards at the camp,” I continue in German. I know my grammar is poor, and I’ve used the wrong tenses, but I think he understands me.

  “Good,” he says. “Learn quickly. You’ll need it.”

  I sit back and close my eyes. We exit onto a wide, open highway, and the bustle of the city is fading behind us. I don’t want to talk anymore, and I don’t want to practice German. I don’t want to learn German at all.

  I want to go home.

  I wake up to the sound of the car hitting gravel. The small rocks pop and buzz all around, and I
bolt upright, my heart beating wildly. Ewald turns to look at me with a wide grin. “You missed the most beautiful part of the drive,” he says with a smile, and I look out the window. Mountains surround us, and a deep green countryside greets me.

  “Schön,” I murmur. “Beautiful.” Ewald smiles softly.

  “This is my home,” he says, and I take note of how his voice has changed. It’s softer and gentler. He has one hand on the steering wheel, and the other leans out the window, his palm held open as if he’s trying to catch the German air.

  “This is what we’re fighting for,” he says quietly. He says it in Russian, so I know he means for me to hear and understand. I look back out the window and sigh.

  “I miss my home,” I whisper, and Ewald looks back at me with eyebrows raised.

  “Smooth your hair,” he says. I run my hand over my head self-consciously. My hair hangs ragged and wavy over my shoulders. I haven’t seen a mirror in many weeks and have no idea how I must look to Ewald. Despite my lack of excitement to work for his sister, I want to look presentable. Ewald looks back and gives a quick wink.

  “Better,” he says. I blush.

  Moments later, Ewald turns into a gated drive, and I smell the strong odor of cattle. I look out the front windshield at the large white house sprawled at the end of the drive, and my stomach flips. We make our way up to the house and slow to a stop. Ewald hops out of the car.

  “Come with me,” he commands. I push open the door and stumble out. My head gets light, and I lean forward for a moment, then will myself to stand tall and stay upright.

  “Ewald!” I stand to see a young woman running down the front steps. She jumps into her brother’s arms with a small shriek, and he laughs and catches her, spinning her around.

  “Helena,” he says and he kisses the top of her head affectionately. They look at each other happily, and my heart aches as I think of Sergei. My eyes fill with tears, and for a brief moment, I forget where I am.