by Kelli Stuart
“No, I—” but she won’t let me continue.
“Ewald will be here for three weeks,” she says, her teeth bared, stretching her thin lips into an angry line. “When he leaves, I will make your life hell. So I suggest you watch yourself around here. Stay away from him, and don’t you dare speak of me to him again.”
I nod my head and grit my teeth hard. Helena stands up and runs her hand over her hair gently. It’s piled up high on her head today, giving her a much more mature and regal look. She’s a pretty girl when she isn’t glaring and seething with anger. I continue to blink hard as she walks back toward the couch.
“Now, tell me again,” Helena says. “How are you doing today?”
I take in a deep breath and shudder. “I am doing just fine,” I answer.
I manage to avoid speaking to him for one week. When he enters the room, I leave. I feign headaches whenever he pursues me and spend as much time as I can locked in my tiny, cold attic room.
On his seventh day, Ewald finally catches me on my early morning rounds.
“Why are you avoiding me?” he asks. The stable is dark, and the horses snort and paw at the ground at the interruption. I turn to face him. He stands in the shadows so I back up, giving him space to step into the lamplight.
“I—I’m not avoiding you,” I say softly, and he raises his eyebrows.
“You just spoke to me in German,” he says with a smile, then chuckles as I gasp in surprise.
“I did, didn’t I?” I respond, and despite my discomfort in his presence, I laugh. “I wasn’t even thinking!”
Ewald smiles and nods. “That’s the point,” he says, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “So tell me again. Why are you avoiding me?”
I open my mouth to speak, then close it again. I sigh as I grip the shovel in my hands and lean on it. “I think it makes Helena uncomfortable when we speak,” I say. Ewald throws his head back and laughs.
“You’re worried about what my sister thinks?” he says. “Helena may not like us speaking, but she’s perfectly harmless. She’ll get over it with time.”
I look down at my hands and can still feel the sting of the ruler. “I don’t think so,” I mutter and turn to finish shoveling out the stable. Ewald steps up behind me and grabs the shovel. He turns me around slowly, and I feel my heart begin to race.
“I like talking with you,” he says, his eyes searching my face. He’s so close. I take in long, slow breaths.
“I—I like talking with you, too,” I whisper, and Ewald leans in to me. I push him away just before our lips meet.
“But I can’t do this,” I say, this time in Russian. I need to communicate to him all that’s in my head. “We can’t do this. It isn’t right, and your sister is not harmless. She would be furious if she knew you were here with me.” I step back away from him, and he tips his head to the side curiously.
“I don’t really care what my sister thinks,” Ewald says. “But I do care about you. I can’t stop thinking about you. I came back here to see you, not Helena.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I reply.
Ewald sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “I know it doesn’t make sense,” he says. “But there’s something about you that fascinates me. You’re strong and vulnerable all at once. You say exactly what’s on your mind, though it always seems to surprise you when you do so. There’s something in me that wants to protect you. You’re just … magnetic,” he smiles.
It’s my turn to laugh, and I do so heartily. Ewald furrows his brow. “What’s so funny?” he asks.
“No one has ever found me magnetic,” I answer. “My sister, Anna, is the one everyone’s drawn to. She’s beautiful and sweet and proper and smart. I have never been the object of anyone’s attention.”
Ewald drops the shovel and steps toward me quickly. In one brisk movement, his mouth meets mine, and we’re locked together. At first I push and resist, but he draws me in tighter, and I finally give in. For several minutes I stay wrapped in his arms before finally pulling away.
Ewald looks at me, his eyes swimming with affection. I look down and try to clear my head. I have never kissed a boy before, never even desired to do so, and now there is this man here—a German man—and I’m confused and frightened by the conflicting emotions that course through my brain.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “But I just … I can’t do this with you. It isn’t right. You’re German. I’m Ukrainian. Our countries are at war with one another.”
“When is your birthday, Maria?” Ewald asks and I stop, looking up at him.
“I’ll be sixteen on May 14,” I answer. “How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-three,” he says, and he takes another step toward me. I step backward, my back against the stable wall. “You’re young, and I’m guessing you’ve never been in love before?”
I nod. “Yes, that’s true,” I reply. “And I am not in love right now,” I say. Ewald sighs and runs his hand through his hair.
“I don’t think I’m in love with you, either, Maria,” he says gently. “But I am fascinated by you.”
“I may be young,” I say with a wry smile, “but I’m wise enough to know that fascination with someone is not a firm base for love. Our worlds are too different, Ewald.”
Ewald smiles and reaches out, laying his hand gently on my cheek. I grow warm at his touch, and I lean into his hand.
“Can I kiss you one more time?” he asks. I don’t respond, but the look in my eyes gives him the freedom to lean in once more. His kiss is gentle and warm. He pulls back and searches my eyes. “Maybe I can meet you here in the mornings when Helena and the world are still asleep, and we can just … be together. I won’t tell her that I’m seeing you.”
I sigh and bite my lip as I look up at his handsome face. “Juwhal,” I answer softly in German, and he laughs.
“Now,” I say as we step away from one another. “If you’re going to be here, you have to help me clean this place up.” Ewald grins.
“It’s a deal,” he says with a wink, and together we finish the morning chores.
For the next ten days, Ewald meets me in the barn in the darkness of night. We talk and laugh, and in that time my German improves rapidly. I no longer have to think about verb tenses or stop to translate every word in my head. I simply speak, and I feel his pride at my improvement.
While I enjoy our time together, I also cannot escape the nagging feeling that this is very, very wrong. Ewald’s stares are sometimes tender and inviting. His intensity leaves me feeling warm and protected. But other times, I catch him watching me with an almost animal hunger, which makes me uncomfortable.
Tomorrow is his last day here with us, and as I rise early, I feel the knot inside my stomach settle heavily. Spending this time with him these last weeks was foolish. I’m aware that the physical nature of our relationship is crazy, but somewhere in this time that we’ve been together, I’ve grown to depend on his fascination with me. I also feel safer around Helena when Ewald is nearby.
I creep down the stairs to the kitchen, grab the milk bucket, and head out to the barn. The wind is biting, and my teeth chatter mercilessly. I slide open the barn door and grab the lamp, lighting it quickly. The barn is cold, but the walls keep the wind out, which makes it bearable. I sit down on my little stool and begin milking the cow, all the while listening for Ewald’s boots on the hay.
The door finally slides open, and he steps inside with a grin. “Sorry I’m late,” he says sheepishly. “I couldn’t quite wake up this morning.”
I laugh. “Well, I’m already finished milking. Want to come with me to the stable?”
“Of course I do,” Ewald says. He steps close and kisses me on the cheek. “I won’t have many more opportunities to do that,” he says, brushing my hair away from my face. I feel my cheeks grow warm, and I step away quickly.
“We should get moving,” I say, pushing past him.
We speak very little as we shovel the stable, brush the ho
rses, and fill the troughs. Finally, Ewald pulls me away from the work and engulfs me in a tight hug. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, kissing the top of my head.
“For what?” I ask.
“For leaving you behind. I’m sorry for forcing you into an impossible relationship. I’m sorry for a lot of things.” He pushes me back and looks deep into my eyes. “But I’m not sorry for falling in love with you.”
I look back at him in surprise. “How are you in love with me?” I ask. “You hardly know me!”
Ewald smiles. “I know enough,” he says. I lean into his embrace, my head tight against his chest. I know that I don’t love this man, but there’s something comforting in his affection for me, though I still suspect his feelings are more physical than they are emotional. I close my eyes and immediately my mother’s face appears before me. Her eyes swim with disapproval.
“We should head inside,” I murmur, pushing away and blinking hard against the vision. Ewald nods. He picks up the milk bucket, and together we trudge out into the blustery wind.
“It’s going to snow soon,” Ewald says. “I can smell it.”
We make our way toward the house. Just before we get to the door, Ewald grabs my hand and pulls me to him. He kisses me passionately, and I return the emotion, pushing away every notion of foolishness that chases me. I don’t know what love is, and I don’t know how I feel about Ewald, but I do wish that this morning didn’t have to end. Right or wrong, I cannot ignore the impulse of this one moment. Ewald pulls back and hands me the bucket.
“Have a good day, beautiful girl,” he whispers, and he enters the house. I stand frozen, allowing him the chance to escape to his room. I don’t know why I look up at the window above, but when I do, I see her staring at me. She holds a candle just below her chin, and it casts shadows across her face that send a shiver down my spine.
Helena glares at me for a second before floating away from the window, leaving me to stand in icy fear.
FREDERICK HERRMANN
January 20, 1943
“Herrmann!”
Leaping to my feet, I stand tall at attention next to my bunk. The other men in the room scramble up as well, all of us rigid as Sturmbannführer Hitzig strides across the room, his tiny eyes wild above his sharp nose. Tall and thin, Hitzig’s gangly frame makes him appear more comical than imposing and has quietly earned him the nickname “Giraffe” by some of the other men.
I raise my arm in salute. “Heil Hitler!” I say, my voice neither too loud nor too soft.
Hitzig stops in front of me, his hat tucked securely beneath his arm. He looks down at me, his mouth pinched in a tight line.
“Get dressed, Herrmann,” he says. His voice is strained as though he swallowed a desperate concoction of anger and fear. “You’re needed at the command center.”
I nod, and with a click of my heels, I turn and pull my clothes off the rack by my bunk, unable to hide my trembling fingers. In less than three minutes I’m dressed, and I walk sharply behind Hitzig out of the building. I hear the rest of the men murmur as I leave the room.
The air is crisp and bitter cold. This is my second winter in Kiev, and I find it more wretched than the last. I tug my thin coat up under my jaw and clench it to keep my teeth from chattering. The walk isn’t far, thankfully, and in a few minutes we’re out of the chill of the January air.
It’s been seven months since Father visited and read me the letter from Blobel. In those seven months, I’ve done all that has been asked of me. I fought when asked to fight—killed when asked to kill. I called operations, organized paperwork, ran errands, and answered every challenge placed before me.
I spoke to no one of my experience with the Ukrainian man on the hill. Though sometimes I hear Father’s voice in my head commanding me to find the man and finish what I started at Babi Yar, I can’t bring myself to comply. It’s a terrible lapse in German character, but the only way I can see atonement is to purge myself of all doubt.
I must pull the trigger. I’ve availed myself of all emotion, zealously accomplishing my work as a true and moral Nazi soldier. My passion for domination has turned my comrades against me. They look at me as I pass. I hear them whisper when I leave the room. They’re plotting against me. I know it. They see my weakness and plan to exploit it. My only recourse is to keep pulling the trigger.
Keep killing.
This will win Father’s approval.
This will make Germany great. It will make me great.
It’s only the darkness that betrays my resolve. At night, when I close my eyes, the nightmares taunt me, and every time I wake, I find myself longing for my mother and sister. I ache for the comfort of mother’s arms around me—arms that I spent most of my life pushing away. And I replay the sound of Talia’s laugh over and over, like the call of a muse. What a weak creature I am, indeed.
Though I’ve had no communication with Father since his visit, I know he hears of me. Standartenführer Paul Blobel has returned, his mission now to destroy all evidence of the killings at Babi Yar. We begin burning and burying the bodies this week. But there’s more to Blobel’s return. I know it. He’s been sent back to check on me. And now I am being summoned to his presence.
Things are happening in this war. I feel the charge in the air as commanders and officers bark out frantic orders. I’ve heard murmurs that our forces are losing their grip on key cities, and without doubt the leaders of our nation are placing great emphasis on the need to fully secure Kiev.
“Come inside, please,” Hitzig says, gesturing toward an open door. I step into the cold, drafty room and take in the sights. The walls are bare, gray cement, and a maze of cracks lines them from floor to ceiling, the veined markings of consistent shelling—war rained down. A small table stands in the center of the room with two chairs pushed in tight on either side. The rusted metal lamp in the corner casts an orange glow that runs downward along the gritty floor and shoots across the room. I walk to the table and turn to look at Hitzig, who stands erect at the doorway.
“Forgive me, sir, but is something wrong?” I ask. The building is eerily quiet, and I suddenly feel ill at ease.
Hitzig takes a deep breath, then lets it out in a low, raspy sigh. “He’ll be here to talk with you soon.” He turns on his heel and marches out of the room. I listen to the hollow sounds of his shoes clacking against the floor. A door opens, then closes, and the building is again silent.
I pull out a chair and sit down, then immediately stand. Pacing the room, I run through the events of the last few days, trying to decipher what I could have done wrong. It’s been a relatively quiet week. The New Year celebrations were quieter this year, less raucous than the last. Our influence on this area is waning, and our hold on the Soviet Union is less sure than it was a year ago. The Red Army managed to open a corridor to Leningrad last week. Just the thought of it leaves me ill. Leningrad—the city my father always dreamed of inhabiting—may slip through our grasp. I close my eyes and remember the way Father would wax poetic about all that Germany could do when we finally had the land of the Soviets in our grasp. Losing Leningrad would be a blow to his mission.
I freeze at the sound of boots marching down the hallway, two sets, both headed in my direction. I force my shoulders back and clench my hands to keep them from trembling. The knob turns, the door swings open, and he steps into the room as I blink in surprise. Father’s brow is furrowed, his back rigid. His hair has grayed, and his shoulders are thin and gaunt. He looks old and sick. I’m shocked at the sight of him.
Paul Blobel steps in behind him, the familiar glint shining in his eyes. I knew it. I knew he’d been sent here to watch me. I stand unmoving at the sight of the two men I fear most.
Father’s shoes clip across the hollow floor, and in three long strides he is before me, staring hard through narrow, sunken eyes. “Well, don’t just stand there, boy,” he barks. “Salute your father and this officer properly.”
My stomach flips. I throw my arm up in a stiff salute. “Hei
l Hitler!” I cry out. Father and Blobel return the salute. Father gestures toward the chairs in a command to sit, and I quickly comply, willing my heartbeat to slow and my breathing to regulate.
“Well, Frederick,” Father begins, still standing over me, his back straight and stiff, his eyes devoid of emotion. He places his hat on the table, and grasps his hands behind his back. “Hitzig tells me you’ve done everything he’s asked of you. He even says you have gone over and above the commands given you. He says you’ve been a model soldier.”
I return my father’s gaze and wait for the expected reprimand. Instead, Father nods his head, but I don’t sense any approval in his eyes. His gaze is steady, and the solemn nature of his stare accentuates the deep wrinkles that furrow his face, leaving him so very old.
“I trust you’ve enjoyed being reacquainted with my old friend here,” Father says, waving his arm toward Blobel, who grins at me fiendishly. I feel a hatred bubbling in my chest for this snake of a man, and I refuse to offer him more than a glance. Blobel gives a short laugh and bows slightly.
“I’ll leave you two alone to talk,” he says with a hiss. He spins on his heel and leaves the room, and I turn slowly to my aged father.
Grabbing hold of the chair, Father slides it out and sits down across from me. He folds his hands, places them on top of the table, and stares hard at me.
“Your mother is dead, Frederick,” he says. It takes a moment to register his words. I blink and let them bounce around inside my head before they finally take hold and sink down into my soul.
“I … What? When?” My head spins. Father doesn’t move, but instead watches me fight against my emotions with a look of shame and disgust.
“Calm down, boy,” he spits. I close my eyes, and the image of my mother’s face immediately fills the dark place—her eyes always so sad, so unsure, so filled with a longing to protect. I spent my entire life pushing her away, and now I long for her more than anyone in the world. I open my eyes and look back at Father, and I immediately resent his callous attitude.
