Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  “Maria!” I jump and focus back on Ewald and Helena. I quickly swipe my hand across my eyes and give a brief nod.

  Helena narrows her eyes and studies me. She murmurs something to Ewald, and he chuckles. I push my shoulders back and force myself to stand taller. After a moment of study, she nods her head. Pointing at my sack, she urges me to follow. She grabs Ewald’s arm and begins speaking quickly. I strain to understand, but cannot pick up even the subject of which they speak.

  Once inside, Ewald grabs my elbow. “Come with me,” he says, and he guides me away from a watching Helena. We climb a steep staircase, and just as we reach the top, I hear an infant wail. My eyes widen, and I look at Ewald.

  “My sister had a baby two months ago,” he says. “Her husband died three weeks before the baby was born. He died in the Soviet Union.” Ewald looks at me, and I take a deep breath. “She feels the sting of her husband’s death, especially with the baby around,” he says. “But she’s a fair-minded girl, and she knows that you can’t be to blame. She’ll treat you well.”

  “Are there other farmhands here?” I ask. Outside of the baby’s cry, I haven’t seen or heard another living soul. Ewald nods.

  “A few who come help for periods of time during the day. Our parents ran this farm. Helena and I grew up here, and we have a faithful group of people who help keep the house and the business running.”

  “What happened to your parents?” I ask.

  Ewald stops and turns to me. “They were killed in a car accident four years ago,” he says. “No more questions.”

  We start walking again as Ewald leads me to the far end of the house and opens a door that leads to yet another staircase. He motions me forward, as I clutch my bag and tentatively climb the stairs. We reach the top, and I look around the small attic room. It’s dark and musty, and the ceiling hangs so low that I duck to move around. In the corner sits a narrow bed, a chair, and a small table with a lantern on it.

  “This is your room,” Ewald says. I move to the bed and sit down. A lump forms again, and I take long, deep breaths to stave off the fear. Ewald senses my rising panic and grabs the chair. He sets it in front of me and sits down.

  “It’s okay,” he says with a gentle smile. “This is a good thing that has happened to you. You’ll be safe here, and you’ll have food. The work will be hard, but not as hard as the factory.”

  I nod and blink hard against the tears. “Yes, I see that,” I answer. I clear my throat against the quavering. I get the sense that Ewald wants my appreciation, but I can’t help but question his motives.

  Ewald looks at me intently, and I suddenly feel a little uncomfortable. “Why did you do this?” I ask. Ewald takes a breath. He leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees.

  “How old are you, Maria?” he asks.

  “I’m fifteen,” I answer. Ewald nods.

  “I did this for you because you’re young and you deserve a chance to live.”

  I narrow my eyes, the lump in my throat dissolving. I feel a building confidence with Ewald, but I don’t trust him. I’m confused by the way he treats me.

  “Alyona deserved a chance to live, too,” I say. “So did my friend Polina. I held her in my arms when she died inside the barracks that you help run. They deserved to live as much as me. So why am I here, and why do their bones lie buried in a hole in the ground?”

  Ewald pushes up and runs his hands up and down his legs. I’ve made him uncomfortable. He opens his mouth to speak, and I wait. His kiss happens so fast I don’t have time to react. His lips press hard against mine as I sit paralyzed and terrified. Ewald’s hands grasp the back of my head, pulling me in close. I squeeze my eyes tight and pull back.

  Ewald leans back. “I’m sorry,” he says after an awkward pause. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He pushes up from the chair, bumping his head on the low-lying rafter.

  “I’ll go now,” he says, and I see his cheeks turn a deep crimson. I sit stunned and silent on the bed, my stomach tied in knots.

  “I’ve never met my nephew,” Ewald says. “I’ll stay a few days with Helena and the baby to make sure all is settled, then I’ll leave. I will go back to the factory … back to Helga.” He flushes again as a look of shame washes over his face. Then he turns and ducks out of the room.

  He closes the door behind him, and I’m left in the room, my head spinning, my heart thumping, and my world dark and mad. I wipe my mouth with trembling hands.

  I’ve never felt more alone.

  LUDA MICHAELEVNA

  July 9, 1942

  I feel this night will never end. I’m not even sure I want it to. Morning will bring the truth. Light will burn out hope, and I’ll be left with reality. Will that reality include my Hans?

  The men set out hours ago to rescue Oleg. Alexei was nervous when he left. I watched from around the corner as Baba Mysa and Katya hugged him good-bye. My heart constricted and pulled as I watched this family—my family—cling to one another. I felt the depth of their fear, and the realization that I was the one who caused all this heartache left me physically pained.

  Just before leaving, Alexei turned and caught my eye. In two long strides, he was in front of me. He pulled me into his arms tight, and I buried my head in his chest.

  “I’m sorry, Alexei,” I whispered.

  “Shh,” he answered, and he kissed the top of my head. Pulling me back, he wiped my face and gave me a smile. “We’ll be back soon, dorogaya,” he said. Moments later, he was gone, and we were left alone with our fears and heartaches, each of us battling an individual grief.

  That was four hours ago. Baba Mysa brings tea and sets it before me. “You should try to get some sleep,” she murmurs, and I nod.

  Katya sits on the other side of the room, her hands folded tightly on her lap. Her eyes drift from the window to Baba Mysa’s face, but never to mine. Sasha stirs, and I rock him gently. As he sleeps, his brow furrows before he breaks out in a happy, slumber-induced grin. I smile despite my fear.

  Baba Mysa leans over and looks closely at Sasha. She, too, breaks out in a grin. “There’s nothing more calming than an infant,” she says as she reaches up and gently strokes his soft, tufted, blond hair. She glances over at Katya. “You should come watch him sleep, Katyusha,” she says. Katya shifts in her seat and shakes her head one time, her lips pursed together. Baba Mysa sighs.

  “Katya,” she begins, leaning forward to stare hard at her granddaughter. “I understand you’re hurt. You feel betrayed by your friend. You feel as though we’ve welcomed the enemy into our midst, and you’re heartbroken over Oleg, am I right?” Katya nods, her eyes filling with tears.

  “Okay, so you’re hurt and angry,” Baba Mysa continues. “So what? We’re all hurt and angry.” She gestures toward me. “Luda has a father who doesn’t care about her, who left her to be attacked and abused. I lost my father as a child and never again had the privilege to grow up in a home where there was laughter or love. You’re hurt and sad, you say? Well so am I.” Baba Mysa thumps her chest. Katya can no longer contain her tears. They fall freely onto her porcelain cheeks.

  Baba Mysa stands up and walks to her granddaughter, wrapping her shoulders in a tight hug. “There’s so much to be hurt and angry about, dorogaya,” she whispers as Katya leans into her, sobs racking her shoulders. “But there are things to love, too. Like that tiny, beautiful, innocent baby over there.”

  Katya looks up and wipes her eyes. She takes a deep, halting breath before pushing herself up and walking to me. Sitting down on the couch, she looks over at Sasha. His mouth looks like a delicate pink bow, and his small hands are tucked beneath his chin.

  Katya reaches over and lays her hand gently on his head. He stirs briefly, then settles again. “Do you want to hold him?” I ask. Katya doesn’t look at me as she nods her head. I slowly pass my sleeping son to her.

  “He’s warm,” she whispers, and she looks at me for the first time. Our eyes lock, and in a single look I say everything I’ve wanted to say. I’m
sorry. I need you. I love you. Forgive me. Katya nods, and just like that, the spell of anger is broken. We’re together.

  Baba Mysa stands in the corner, smiling at both of us. “Okay,” she says and lightly taps her hands together. “We must celebrate this moment right here. I have honey and a few chocolates hidden away in the cabinet. We’ll have chai and remember the good thing that happened this day.”

  I look at Baba Mysa and find myself offering a genuine smile, because she’s right. This is a good moment.

  The chai and sweets are exactly what we need to get us through the night. They’re a necessary distraction, along with Sasha’s nighttime needs, to keep me from drowning in fear. In the very early hours of the morning, we all begin to drift in and out of sleep. For me this is fitful and frightening, filled with the images of my imagination. Waking up is the only thing that chases away the demons, so I fight hard to keep my eyes open.

  Just as the morning light begins to push its way over the horizon, we hear a click at the door. All three of us stand and rush to the front room. The door opens with a loud creak, and in walks Alexei with Oleg tucked firmly under his arm.

  Katya yelps and rushes forward to help Alexei with her brother while Baba Mysa murmurs thanks to God. I push the door closed, and together we move into the room where we lay Oleg on the floor. He trembles and shakes as we lay blankets over him. I stand up and back against the wall, a mountain of fear pushing against me.

  I thought he’d come back with them. I thought I would see him right away.

  Katya notices the look on my face and turns to her father. “Papa,” she says quietly. “Where is Hans?”

  Alexei looks at her, then turns his head to catch my eye. His face is drawn and laced with fatigue. He licks his cracked lips before speaking. “Hans didn’t come out of the woods with us. I … I don’t know what happened, Luda,” Alexei says.

  Oleg moans, and Baba Mysa grabs his hand. “Katya,” she says firmly. “Go put the kettle on the burner and prepare the mugs. We need to get these boys warmed up and fed.” Katya nods and pushes to her feet. I take a step toward Oleg and study him closely. He’s very thin and dirty. His cheeks have sunken into his face, and his shoulders protrude from beneath his shirt. He looks old.

  Oleg opens his mouth and moves his lips, trying to form a word.

  “Shh, don’t speak my darling boy,” Baba Mysa whispers in his ear, but he shakes his head and clears his throat. Alexei moves in and leans over Oleg.

  “What is it, Sinok?” he asks.

  “He saved me,” Oleg croaks. Katya walks in and stops to listen to her brother’s sick, tired voice. “He came in and pulled me out of my bunk. I thought he was another one of them coming to beat me, but he put his hand over my mouth and pulled me outside. He told me to walk toward the forest and to not make a sound.” Oleg’s shoulders shake as Baba Mysa rubs his arms gently.

  “I thought he was taking me to the trees to kill me, but just as we reached the edge of the camp, another soldier came around the corner and stopped us. They argued, and I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but finally the man who woke me was waved on. We got to the woods, and he told me to run in a straight line. He said he couldn’t come because he’d been seen and they’d be looking for him. He told me to run and not stop so I did. I ran until Father stopped me.” Oleg leans to the side and falls into a deep, chesty coughing fit. I wince as he heaves and chokes. Alexei rubs his son’s back.

  “I heard a gunshot,” Oleg gasps. I slide to the floor, my hand clutching my chest, willing myself to take a breath. Everyone is still for a long time before Baba Mysa breaks the silence.

  “How are the other men who helped?” she asks.

  Alexei gives a short nod. “They’re safe,” he says, and I hear the relief in his voice.

  Sitting down, I turn to Alexei. “Did they kill Hans?” I ask. Alexei looks at me, his eyes full of sorrow.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Hans is smart and very capable. If he can save himself, I believe that he will.”

  “Who was the man who saved me?” Oleg croaks from the floor. We all freeze. How do I explain our relationship with Hans to Oleg right now?

  The kettle in the other room whistles. “I’ll get it,” I murmur, pushing to my feet. I’m eager to escape this moment. Katya moves in to sit down in my place. She grabs her brother’s hand, holding it tight between hers.

  “You’re going to be okay, Oleg,” she whispers. She leans over to kiss his forehead.

  I rush to the kitchen and stand over the steaming kettle, willing the tears to stay away. My throat burns as grief and rage push down. Just as I open my mouth to scream, I hear a knock at the door. My hands drop, and I step cautiously into the hall. Baba Mysa and Katya stand behind Alexei, who motions me back out of sight. I listen from the kitchen.

  “Kto tam?” he asks quietly.

  A deep voice replies, and before I can stop, my feet have launched me into the foyer where Alexei yanks open the door. I fall into Hans’s arms with a cry.

  I look up at Hans. “I thought they killed you. I didn’t think I’d see you again.” My throat closes as he pulls me into him. He smells like the outdoors, a mixture of dirt, smoke, and the fresh morning air. Alexei claps him on the back and motions him into the kitchen.

  “How did you get away? How did you explain Oleg’s disappearance?” I ask as we all settle down. Baba Mysa rushes back to the kitchen to prepare the chai and to stir up a healing drink for Oleg to sip.

  “I told them I’d been sent to monitor the situation at the camp, given Hitler’s impending visit, and I caught Oleg eating stolen food in the bunkhouse,” Hans said, his mouth set in a grim line. “I acted like I took Oleg into the forest to shoot him.”

  “That’s why Oleg heard a gunshot,” I whisper. Hans brushes the hair from my forehead.

  “Yes,” he says. “I shot my gun in case anyone was listening.”

  Alexei leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “But you don’t have a body to prove it,” he says. Hans nods.

  “I had to find one,” he says quietly. “They’ve killed a lot of men out there these last few weeks. There are piles of bodies waiting to be buried or burned just beyond the line of trees. I found the body that was the least decomposed and told them it was Oleg. By luck, I managed to pull it off.”

  I lean into Hans’s shoulder and grab his hand. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I whisper. In the room behind us, Sasha lets out his high-pitched wail. He’s hungry.

  “Let me get him,” Alexei says as I begin to rise. He rushes to the room and emerges a moment later cradling Sasha gently in his arms. He coos and smiles at my squirming boy, and I’m overwhelmed.

  I look at the faces surrounding me, and despite all that we’ve been through, I feel a deep sense of comfort and belonging. Alexei lays Sasha in my arms, then Hans leans in and wraps his arm around both of us.

  Baba Mysa walks back in with a tray full of steaming mugs, and we all sit together in a circle. We’re somber, but content. Though the world feels as though it’s spinning out of control and Oleg coughs repeatedly in the other room, I relish the peace of this moment. Looking down at Sasha, I smile and lean forward, pressing my lips very lightly against his ear.

  “We’re going to be okay,” I whisper. His eyes are big as he studies me, his little hands and feet kicking up and down. He stares, and in that moment, his face lights up in a wide-awake grin.

  I look up, hoping someone else saw the glimmer of joy in my boy’s face. Instead I lock eyes with Oleg, standing in the doorway, and my heart sinks. Shock and horror have replaced fatigue, and I feel all of his pain in one momentary gaze.

  FREDERICK HERRMANN

  August 1, 1942

  It was the laugh that made me look up. She rounded the corner, her arm tucked tight into a friend’s, and they both froze at the sight of me sitting on the bench. Though she quickly shifted her eyes to the ground, I could not keep mine from staring, studying her face. How was it possible
for her to sound so much like the laughter of my past?

  She bore no physical resemblance to Talia. Her hair was a light brown, where my sister’s had always been a deep red. And of course, this girl was a Soviet. Talia had been a proud German. Had been.

  I looked closely as she and her friend turned, quickly making their way back down the path away from me. I wanted to see if there could possibly be any other resemblance of Talia inside this Soviet girl. But it was only the laugh, the way it seemed to be tangled up in the back of her throat and then fought its way out into the open in raucous delight. That was the way Talia sounded when she wanted to withhold her humor, but simply couldn’t resist the delight. Turning away from the Soviet girl, I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees.

  For an hour I’ve sat still on this bench, head bent low. I’m trying to chase the images away—all of them. The gas van filled with bodies covered in vomit and excrement. The spirited redheaded girl with her death eyes glazed over. Children screaming and the smell of burning flesh.

  It’s all inside me, and the noise from the sounds and smells all work together to keep me dizzy and wrapped in darkness. But now I’ve heard her laugh, and all at once I fall back into the memory of our last trip to Berlin together as a family of four. It was the last time I heard Talia laugh like that, the open delight of youth that so defined her younger years. I close my eyes and fall back into the memory as effortlessly as if it had occurred yesterday.

  Father, Mother, Talia, and I walked along the streets amidst the bustle of the bright city lights. Mother had her arm tucked into Father’s. Even then, I knew that they shared no love or even conviction of purpose. It seemed Mother was as compelled as Father to project an image that demanded respect, though why I never quite understood. Mother had always been a source of genuine comfort for me, but it was only in public that Father allowed her near to him.