by Kelli Stuart
“Would you teach us?” she asks. “Would you teach us how to believe?”
He smiles and looks at me with eyebrows raised. He’s waiting for me to agree, and I hesitate. I feel Tanya’s eyes on my face, imploring me to agree, and I nod my head. I won’t deny my wife the opportunity to hope.
The old man gestures toward the floor, and Tanya and I both kneel before the table. I stare at the icon above the candles, the dancing flames blurring the picture, making it seem less sinister and more comforting. The old man chants a prayer over us. His words come out almost as a song, and I try to understand it all.
I finally give up and let the prayer fall onto my head, soothing like the balm of a warm summer day.
MARIA IVANOVNA
April 11, 1943
I’m lonely.
My days are slow and isolated as I move through each passing moment in a fog. There’s little light, and hope has long since faded away. Hope died the day Ewald left town and Helena beat me so severely I didn’t think I would walk again.
I close my eyes and try to block out the horror of that morning when she dragged me out of bed and into the barn. She tied my hands to the door and horsewhipped me. I can still hear the sound of the whip as it moved through the air and landed with a crack on my shoulders, back, and legs.
Since that day, Helena and I have moved through the house in measured silence. She doesn’t speak to me, and I do everything in my power not to cross paths with her.
My only reprieve comes on Sunday mornings when Helena takes the baby into town, and I’m left alone. Now that the weather has warmed and spring pushes into the German countryside, I make use of the gift of Sunday morning.
Today, I walk a little farther than before until I find a small lake nestled in a sprawling green meadow. I sit down, and for the first time in a week, I release the air that feels trapped in my lungs.
Turning my face toward the sun, I breathe in deeply. Life isn’t quite so scary in the daylight. At night, the dreams chase me, and I find myself wrapped in terror. The loneliness doesn’t subside in the daylight, but I feel less entangled.
I don’t hear her footsteps.
“Hello,” she says quietly.
I scramble to my feet. Standing behind me is a young girl, perhaps my age or a little younger. Her long blond hair is combed and tied neatly in a bright blue ribbon. Her dress is made of fine fabric, and her shoes glint in the morning sun. She smiles at me as I step back.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, turning to walk away.
“Wait!” she calls. I stop, turning back to face her.
“Why are you sorry?” she asks. Her eyes are concerned, and her face wrinkles in confusion. I search for the right words in German to answer her.
“I didn’t know I was intruding on your land,” I say, my face flushed.
She smiles and waves her hand at me. “Oh don’t be silly,” she says with a laugh. “This isn’t my land. I just like to come here and sit. Kind of like you. It’s peaceful here.” She turns and looks out over the lake. In the distance, the mountains loom large and dark against the brilliant blue backdrop of the sky.
“Yes, it is,” I murmur.
“What’s your name?” she asks, taking a step toward me. I step back and narrow my eyes.
“Maria,” I answer.
“I’m Greta,” she replies. She reaches out her hand toward me. Warily I place my hand in hers, and she gives it a firm shake. I drop my hand back to my side and stare at her awkwardly.
“So … where are you from?” she asks.
“Kiev,” I answer. “Soviet Union.”
She takes in a deep breath and looks at me more intently. I shrink back. “Oh, don’t be uncomfortable,” she says, her words tumbling out. “It’s just I’ve never actually seen a Soviet before. My father talks about your people a lot, but I didn’t know …” Her voice trails off.
“Didn’t know what?” I ask.
“I didn’t know you would look so much like us,” she answers.
It’s quiet for a moment before I finally speak up. “Well, I should be going,” I say, and she nods.
“Can you meet me here again sometime?” she asks. I look up in surprise. Her face is eager, her eyebrows raised in hopeful expectation.
“Why?” I ask.
Her face falls, and she shrugs her shoulders. “Well,” she says with a small sigh. “I’m terribly lonely. My sister died a year and a half ago, and my parents are still so wrapped up in her passing. I’m alone all day every day.” She looks at me with wide, round eyes. “I just want a friend,” she says.
I hesitate a moment, unsure of whether I can trust this strange girl standing before me. Her willingness to share something so personal right away frightens me, but her face is so hopeful and expectant that I finally give in and nod.
“I have free time every Sunday morning,” I say softly. “I’ll meet you back here next week.”
Greta grins, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. I can’t decide if I like her or if she annoys me, but as I take in her obvious joy at the prospect of friendship, I find it impossible not to offer a small smile in return.
“Until next week,” I say with a nod, and she bounces up and down, clapping her hands in front of her chin.
“Yes. See you then!” she says with a laugh.
I head off down the path back toward the prison that houses my sorrow. For the first time in many months, I find myself smiling almost involuntarily, though truthfully I can’t decide if I really intend to come back and meet this girl. I’m conflicted, a sense of both dread and hope swirling inside of me like a funnel.
One week later, I make my way back to the lake. I vacillated back and forth every day over whether I should and finally came to the conclusion that I had the power for the first time in over a year to make a decision for myself. I choose companionship.
Greta is already at the lake when I arrive. Once again, she’s dressed superbly, her hair loose and long down her back. She sits at the edge of the water tearing the petals off a flower, and tossing the torn pieces into the still water.
“Guten Morgen,” I say, my voice soft and shy. I jump when she lets out a squeal of delight. She jumps to her feet and hugs me hard.
“Oh you came!” she says happily. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t.”
I chuckle as Greta claps her hands. “Oh I made you laugh. That is wonderful,” she says. “You’re very pretty when you laugh.”
I shake my head in disbelief at this girl’s peculiar cheerfulness as I turn to look out over the lake. The water is still, and the surface glints in the morning sun, making it look like a thousand crystals dancing in the light.
“So, Maria,” Greta says, nudging me with her shoulder. “Tell me about yourself. If we’re going to be friends, then I simply must know all there is to know about you.”
I look at her, then look away again, trying to decide how much I really need to share. How much of my life can a girl this happy really understand?
“And don’t worry if you don’t know how to say everything in German. I’ll help you out if you make any mistakes.”
I smile and nod my head. “I’m fifteen years old,” I begin, and Greta immediately interrupts me.
“Oh that’s wonderful! I’m fifteen years old, too! When’s your birthday?”
“May 14,” I reply. Greta squeals again.
“Oh that’s so soon—only a month away!” she cries. “You must let me spoil you on your birthday, Maria. You just must.”
I laugh again, and shake my head in amusement.
“Okay, tell me more,” Greta says shaking my arm.
“Well, I have an older brother and sister,” I continue. My voice gets soft. “I haven’t seen them in a long time.”
“Where are they?” Greta asks.
“My brother, Sergei, is fighting for the Red Army. I don’t know where he is. He left almost two years ago.”
“And your sister?”
“Anna is here in Germany, I think
,” I answer. “We were both forced to leave Kiev on the same day. She was put on a different train, though, so I really don’t know where she landed.” I blush at my obvious poor choice of vocabulary, and Greta shakes her head.
“I understand what you mean,” she says. Her face is solemn as she looks at me closely. “I’m sorry for what my countrymen have done to you and your family,” she says.
I look at her and feel the tears begin to well up in my eyes. “Dankeshön,” I answer, and before I can stop myself, the tears begin to fall freely. Greta pulls me into her arms.
“Shh … it’s okay,” she says, running her hand down my head. “It’s alright.”
After a moment, I quit crying and sit up. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. Greta smiles gently as she shakes her head.
“Don’t be sorry. Friends are supposed to comfort one another, aren’t they?”
I smile and give a slight nod. “You’re a very positive person,” I say. Greta shrugs her shoulders.
“I guess. I don’t know.” She smiles at me. “So where do you live now?” she asks.
“I live back that way.” I jut my head in the direction of Helena’s home. “I live with a woman named Helena Daucher. I work for her.”
Greta nods her head. “Is this Helena Daucher good to you?” she asks. I fall silent, my eyes shifting out over the glassy lake. I don’t know how to answer, but my silence seems to be enough for Greta.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to answer me,” she says with a wave of her hand, and I smile gratefully. I look up at the sun and realize it’s time for me to head back.
“I should be going,” I say. “Helena will be home soon, and she likes her lunch to be prepared when she returns.”
Greta’s smile fades as a look of disappointment crosses her face. “Oh. Alright,” she says.
“But I’ll be back next week,” I say with a smile. “And I want to hear all about you when I return.” Greta grins again. She leans in to give me an excited hug.
“It’s so good to have a friend,” she says as we embrace. She has no idea how much I agree with her.
We meet every Sunday, and I find myself looking forward to those meetings with greater intensity every day. I’ve never had a friendship that felt quite as unique and so much like a kinship as the relationship I share with Greta. Each week it seems we find more that we have in common with one another.
I roll to my side and look out the window at the morning sun. Another blessing of my Sundays is the rest I receive after the milking and breakfast. Helena takes the morning to prepare herself and the baby for their morning excursion, so I go back to my room and lie down until she leaves. If it weren’t for Sundays, I don’t know if I’d make it through this confinement.
I stand up and stretch, my muscles sore and tight from another restless night’s sleep. Peeking out the window once more, I watch Helena climb into the car, setting her small son on her lap before pulling away from the house. She’s dressed in a lovely blue dress that hangs to just below her knees. Her blond hair is piled high on her head. She looks regal and elegant.
As she leaves, I drink in the gorgeous day. It’s May 16. My birthday was two days ago. I quickly put on my own tattered dress and pull a comb through my hair. I lace up my shoes and rush down the stairs and out of the house in less than ten minutes. I run all the way to the lake, eager to share the morning with the friend who has become like a sister.
When I step out of the trees, I see Greta standing at the place where the water meets the sand. Her gorgeous blond hair is twisted in three long braids, which have been wound and woven together to form a fascinating knot at the base of her neck. She stands tall, her back to me, and I again pull my hand self-consciously over my own straggly mane.
When she hears my footsteps, Greta turns and greets me with a wide, happy grin. “Happy birthday!” she shrieks, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. I laugh as she races to me, throwing her arms over my shoulders.
“You’re sixteen now,” she squeals. “That’s a grown woman. Oh, I just can’t wait to turn sixteen.” I grin at her gushing, and she grabs my arm, propelling me forward. “Come,” she says, smiling so broadly that I fear her face will split in two. “I have a surprise for you.”
I follow her around the high grasses to a clearing just before land falls into the crystal clear water. There she has prepared a beautiful spread of food, which sits on a light pink quilt in the sand. Fruit, pastries, breads and jams are all laid out, and my mouth immediately begins to water. In the center of the blanket is a large box tied tight with a red bow.
“Let’s open your gift first!” Greta says with a hop. She grabs my hand and drags me toward the blanket. I’m stunned by this gesture of kindness, and I blink hard against the tears that pool in my eyes. Greta leans down, grabs the box, and thrusts it toward me.
“Here,” she says. “Open it!”
I pull the box to me and sink down onto the blanket. Tugging on the ribbon, I let it fall by my knees as I pull the lid off. I gasp as I peer into the box. Inside is a beautiful dress made of the finest material. It’s bright blue and trimmed in lace. I pull it out and hold it up. It is the finest piece of clothing I have ever seen.
“Do you like it?” Greta asks, her eyes dancing. I nod my head slowly. “I know you won’t have much occasion to wear it right now,” she says. “But I wanted you to have it for the day you’re given the freedom to leave. I want you to have the finest dress to wear when you arrive home.”
I swallow hard as I run my hand over the soft fabric. “Can I try it on right now?” I ask and Greta smiles wide.
“Of course!” she says with a happy giggle. I quickly slip off my tired, dirty dress and pull on the gifted item. It feels soft and light and sweet against my skin. I spin around once as Greta squeals with glee and gushes over me in such girly fashion that I find myself laughing hysterically. We sit down to eat, and I lean back in the warm grass as Greta tells story after story of her younger years when she and her sister would dance through life in a frolic of simple happiness.
Lost in her stories, I suddenly notice how high the sun hangs in the sky.
“It’s late!” I cry, jumping to my feet and pulling the dress off. I quickly change and delicately fold the dress up, placing it back in the box. Turning to Greta, I hold out the box. “This is the finest gift I have ever received,” I say. “Would you please hold it for me for now? I fear what Helena would do if she found it.”
Greta takes the box and nods with a concerned look. “Are you going to be okay, Maria?” she asks. “Do you need me to come back with you?”
“No, thank you, Greta. I must go back alone, but I have to go quickly.” I lean forward and give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “You are the dearest friend I’ve ever had,” I say. “Thank you for giving me the grandest sixteenth birthday.” Greta smiles, her face flushed.
“Go,” she says. “You’re late!”
I nod and spin on my heel, running as fast as my legs will carry me through the forest. In less than fifteen minutes, I burst onto the dirt road just a few meters from the house. I see Helena’s car sitting in the front, and my heart sinks. I slow down and wipe the sweat from my brow, taking in deep breaths to calm myself.
I reach the house and walk quietly up the front steps, easing the door open. Stepping into the foyer, I hear Helena upstairs in the nursery singing to her baby. For all her faults, I must admit Helena is a wonderful mother.
I tiptoe to the kitchen and pull on my apron, then quickly set to making lunch. As I chop up vegetables for the salad, I hum quietly, a smile spread across my face. I don’t hear her walk into the room, and I cry out when her boot makes contact with my backside.
Whirling around, I grasp the knife tight in my hand as I steady my breathing. Helena’s eyes are wide and fierce.
“Where were you today?” she asks. I don’t reply. “Where were you!” she screams.
“I went for a walk,” I sputter. Helena laughs ruthlessly.
“Were you out there whoring yourself out to another man?” she asks, her words dripping over my soul like venom.
“I—no! No. Of course not!” I say in shock.
“Is Ewald here now? Is he back? Are you meeting him in secret, you little tramp?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I reply, my voice raising to a shout. “I went for a walk. I sat beside a lake. That’s all!”
Helena leans back on her heels and narrows her eyes. “My brother sent a letter,” she growls, her voice angry and low. “He should be here any minute now. What a coincidence that you were out alone somewhere on the very day he is to arrive.”
My hands begin to shake and the knife slips, falling to the floor with a clang. Helena wipes her hands on her skirt and stares at me steadily. “I’m watching you, girl,” she hisses.
My blood runs cold as she leans forward and picks up the knife. She holds it out to me, her hand steady and unmoving. I reach for it, my own hands quaking. Her eyes flash with hatred, her anger moving through the air like the smoke of a blaze. I pull the knife from her grasp, and she turns to leave the room.
“Watch yourself,” she says icily just before walking out.
I stand in stunned silence, my heart constricted and lungs heaving. I must leave. I cannot see Ewald again. I have to escape before he arrives.
I put the knife down and pull off my apron. Wiping my hands on a nearby towel, I quickly make my way to the back door. Grabbing the milk bucket, I step out into the bright afternoon sun. I walk toward the barn, swinging the bucket by my side. I step inside the barn and wait a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light.
Rushing to the bales of hay in the back, I dig through them and grab the bag that I hid away months ago, after Helena whipped me. I knew I’d need to leave eventually, and I’m prepared now to make a hasty exit. I push open the back door of the barn then make a mad dash toward the cover of the trees. It won’t be long before Helena notices I’m missing.
I run until it feels as though my lungs will burst. When I reach the lake, I drop to my knees and drink deeply from the cool water. Sitting up, I try to remember which direction Greta points when speaking of her home. She points toward the mountains. I grab my shoulder bag and take off running again, heading in a straight line toward the horizon of mountains.
