by Kelli Stuart
A moment later I hear a rhythmic rap at the door. “That’s Sergei,” the man murmurs to Kostya. I stand up and pull my bag over my shoulder, adjusting Sasha on my hip. The door opens, and a man steps in the room. His face is young, his eyes soft and kind.
“Ready?” he asks. I nod in return. I follow him out the door, which closes behind me with a soft click. The sky is now dark, and the air has cooled down considerably. I wish Sasha had warmer clothes.
“We must move quickly,” the man says. I slide into the back seat of his car, which is much nicer than the one that Valeri and Kostya transported me in. The seats are plush and made of smooth leather. The car is dark and sleek.
“My name is Sergei Ivanovich,” the man says, sliding into the seat in front of me. I nod.
“I’m Luda. This is Sasha,” I reply.
“Luda, we’re going to the train station in Lvov. We’ll probably be stopped somewhere along the way. I am going to tell them that you were visiting your grandmother in the countryside and were late on returning so I offered to give you a ride. When we get to the train station, I’ll escort you to the platform of the train that will take you to Germany, and I’ll leave you there. I cannot risk being captured by the German guards on duty there. Another contact will join you for the border crossing.”
Sergei glances back at me, his eyes confident, yet kind. “The man escorting you out of the country is German, but do not fear him.”
I nod. “What if we’re stopped inside the train station or on the train?” I feel panic stirring inside as I think of all the ways this could go wrong.
Sergei shakes his head. “The story we’ve devised says that you have been commissioned by Sturmbannführer Brambott to escort his child to safety in Germany.”
I look quizzically at Sergei and he shakes his head. “The less you know, the better. This story was concocted by our German counterparts, and they believe it will work, so it’s all you need to accept.”
For several moments we ride in silence as I mull over my next steps. I don’t understand how I can possibly get from one point to another without being caught and interrogated. I don’t understand why a Red Army soldier wearing plain clothes is currently driving me in a car. I clear my throat, and Sergei glances back. “Yes?” he asks.
“Forgive me for asking,” I begin, “but how is it you’re working with the partisan group? The partisans in Vinnitsya that I know hate Red Army soldiers almost as much as Nazi soldiers. Why do they trust you?”
Sergei is silent, and I immediately regret asking such a bold and personal question. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s fine,” Sergei replies. Sasha lets out a squeal, and I see Sergei’s head duck in surprise. “It’s a good question. The man who drew up the passport and papers for you is really the only one who trusts me. Late last year I saved his daughter when a group of my fellow soldiers tried to—” Sergei stops short, shaking his head. “Well, they were trying to hurt her,” he says, and I wince. I know what he means. I have evidence of his implication in my arms.
“I’m not like many of my comrades,” Sergei says. “I wanted to fight to protect my country from the enemy. I was naive when I joined. I didn’t realize that the enemy could easily be dressed just like me.”
“Where are you from?” I ask. I don’t know what it is about this man, but I find myself longing to speak with him. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that once I leave his presence, I’ll be accompanied by a foreigner to a strange land, and I may never return to my own country again.
“I’m from Kiev,” Sergei answers. “And you’re from Vinnitsya?”
I nod.
“How old are you, Luda?” Sergei asks.
“Seventeen,” I answer.
“I have two sisters,” Sergei replies. “One is eighteen and the other just turned sixteen. You remind me very much of my youngest sister.”
“What’s her name?” I ask.
“Her name is Maria,” he answers. “She’s brave and spunky and full of life.”
I blush, knowing that he must think similar things of me. “Do you ever hear from her?” I ask.
Sergei shakes his head. “No. I haven’t heard from my family since I left for the war two years ago. I send letters when I can, but I don’t know if they’ve received them. I have no idea …” His voice trails off.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
I feel the car slowing, and I look out the window to see what’s going on. We’re still some distance from the city. Peering out the front glass, I see a man standing in the middle of the road, his hand held up.
“Luda, sit back into your seat and hold the child close.” Sergei says, his voice strained. I quickly sink into the plush leather and pull Sasha into my chest.
“What is it?” I ask.
“These are Red Army soldiers,” Sergei says. “Don’t say anything to them unless they speak to you first. Just go along with my story. Try to look confused.”
That won’t be hard, I think.
Sergei slows the car and rolls down the window. “Dobrei vyechr,” he says.
“Evening,” the man replies. He leans down and peers into the car, looking back at me with narrow eyes. “Kto eta?” he asks, jerking his chin toward me.
Sergei turns and looks at me, then looks back at the man. “I found her wandering on the streets outside the city. She said she was lost.”
The man juts his chin out toward Sergei. “Who are you?” he asks. Sergei reaches into his back pocket and hands the soldier his identification papers. The man studies them for a moment, then looks over the seat at me.
“What’s your name?” he asks sharply.
“Ludmilla Michaelevna,” I answer, almost in a whisper.
“I need your identification papers,” he says, reaching his hand over the seat. I rifle through my bag, my hand firmly wrapped around Sasha. I pull out both sets of papers and hand them to the man who holds them under a small flashlight and studies them closely.
“You’re from Vinnitsya?” he asks, and I nod. “What are you doing here?”
My eyes dart to Sergei who doesn’t move. He shows no emotion and gives no signal for how I should answer.
“Uh … I needed to get away,” I answer. “My father is abusive. I had to leave him. I was afraid he would kill me or the baby.” It isn’t really a lie, and I hold my breath as he looks from me to the baby and back to the papers.
“Why would you come here?” the man asks. “You know we’re at war, don’t you, stupid girl?”
I suck in a deep breath. My hands are sweating, and I feel nauseous from the pressure of his stares. I nod. “I do know,” I answer. “My grandmother lives in the city. I hoped I would find her here.”
The man throws his head back and laughs. “How did you get this far?” he asks. “And with a child?” I feel my cheeks heat up at his mockery.
“I found rides,” I answer with a little more confidence.
The man laughs again and hands my papers back to me. “Take her to town and drop her off near the center, then leave,” he says to Sergei. “She’s no threat. She’s just stupid. Don’t put yourself in danger just to save her from her own idiocy.”
Sergei nods and starts the car again. The man waves us past, and as we slowly roll by, I see him laughing and shaking his head. I swallow hard over the frustration of being mocked as I stuff our papers back inside my sack.
“Sorry about that,” Sergei says quietly.
“You could have been more helpful,” I mutter.
Sergei shakes his head. “No, I couldn’t,” he says. “If they found out what I was really doing, we’d both be killed.”
“But they’re our soldiers. They’re on our side, right?” I ask.
Sergei sighs. “I used to think so, but now I’m not sure. The leadership of the Red Army is tricky, especially in this region. There are many who are fighting the good fight. But there are others who’ve made it their mission to fight against our own country
men. The brutality with which they fight one another is—” Sergei stops short and glances back.
“Well, it’s hard to explain,” he murmurs.
“I don’t understand,” I say quietly, leaning forward. “Why would we fight our own men?”
Sergei pauses for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “There’s a group of people here who think of themselves as partisans, but they aren’t like the partisans you likely encountered in your town. These men are more than underground fighters—they’re a guerrilla army that’s sprung up in this region. They’re nationalists—angry men who believe in fighting for the independence of Ukraine. They’re prideful and ugly.” Sergei’s words are laced with frustration and bitterness.
“What’s wrong with being a nationalist?” I ask.
Sergei glances up and over his shoulder, his eyes wide. “You must never ask that question around here,” he hisses. “These men are not nationalists in the protective sense of the word. They’re brutal in their quest for Ukrainian independence. They’re fighting against the Germans, yes. But they’re also fighting against the Red Army, against the Soviets.”
“But aren’t you fighting against the Red Army by helping the partisans?” I ask.
“Well, perhaps technically, but I’m doing so in a way that promotes peace rather than making the war more terrible. The men and women that I help aren’t part of this guerrilla army. They’re simply partisans who want to see our country survive—they’re not hoping to usurp all power and build their own nationalist movement by force.”
I nod. “I see.”
“We’re close to the train station,” Sergei says after a moment of awkward silence. I look out the window to see buildings slowly rolling by. Some are crumbled and war torn, but others remain intact, tall against the backdrop of a dark night.
Moments later, Sergei parks the car in front of a dark building, and we quickly get out. “This is it,” he says. “Stay close to me, keep your eyes down, and move quickly.”
We walk into the building and through the lit halls. Sasha sleeps on my shoulder, and I’m grateful for his fatigue, though the weight of the child in my arms leaves me panting.
I don’t look up to see how many others are in the building with us, or to meet the inquiring eyes of strangers. I stay a step behind Sergei, matching two steps to every one of his clipped steps.
In less than ten minutes, we’re on the platform. Sergei’s eyes shift around nervously.
“I must leave you now, Luda. I can’t stay here long.” He looks over his shoulder. “The station is quiet tonight, but I can’t risk confrontation with a Nazi.” I look around, but don’t see anyone on the silent platform.
“Wait here. Your next contact will be in shortly.” Sergei smiles and bows his head slightly. “It’s been an honor to bring you this far, Luda. Good luck. I wish you all the best in your new life.”
“Thank you, Sergei Ivanovich,” I whisper, my words choked. “You’re a good man. Your family must be very proud. I hope you get to see them again soon.”
He ducks his head again, then spins on his heel and walks out, leaving me alone on the cavernous platform.
I shift Sasha, who dozes on my shoulder, and I close my eyes for a brief moment. Fear and fatigue have left me nauseous. I open them back up at the sound of footsteps. A small German man in a gray army uniform stands before me.
“Who are you?” he asks. He speaks sharp German, and I’m momentarily stunned, unable to find the words to answer his question.
“I asked you a question, girl!” he barks. I open my mouth to speak, but am interrupted.
“She’s with me,” a man’s voice speaks from behind. The uniformed man in front of me glances over my shoulder at the voice.
“Heil Hitler!” he says. The two men salute.
“Who is this, and why is she here?” the soldier asks.
“This is the woman transporting Sturmbannführer Brambott’s child back to the homeland,” the officer, my escort, says. The soldier nods, but his face bears the marks of a man confused.
“Who is Sturmbannführer Brambott?” he asks.
“He’s the commanding officer in Chernivtsy,” the man by my side replies, as if the soldier is a simpleton.
“Ah,” the soldier says, nodding his head knowingly. “I’ve heard of the problems that some are having with fathering Soviet children. I’m surprised he would really want to send the child back to Germany. Seems too risky.”
My escort shrugs his shoulders. “I agree,” he says. “But I simply follow orders and my orders are to get this girl and his child safely into Germany.”
The man nods. “Well then,” he says, and nothing more. His eyes probe, and I lower mine to break the gaze. “Heil Hitler!” he says again. He spins on his heel and marches away, glancing back at me once with a quizzically amused look.
The officer steps in front of me and adjusts his hat on his head. “Are you Luda?” he asks, looking down at me. I nod.
“Well then,” he says with a grim smile. “My adventure begins.”
IVAN KYRILOVICH
August 29, 1943
I stand in front of the door and take in a long, deep breath. In the months since Tanya and I began visiting this hidden church, I’ve struggled with a sense of doubt, of fear and shame.
Today I visit alone. I need to speak with Father Konstantin by myself, to pose my deepest questions. Now that I’ve arrived, however, I can’t seem to take the step inside, so I stand here, staring at the cracked, wooden doorway.
I jump when the door swings open. Father Konstantin emerges from the dark interior, his bent frame leaning heavily on the stick by his side. I lean forward in a slight bow. “Good morning, Father.”
“Ivan Kyrilovich,” he says with a smile. “I sensed I’d find you here.”
I tilt my head to the side with a curious glance. “Did you?” I ask. He nods, his eyes sparkling bright.
“Please, come in,” he says. I step past him into the dark, drafty building where the three tables stand lit by candles beneath the odd, yet comforting, icons. When Tanya and I come together, she immediately rushes to the tables and kneels. She has embraced the prayers of this old man and repeats them over and over.
I, on the other hand, cannot utter a word. I still don’t know if I believe.
“Tell me, Ivan Kyrilovich,” Father rasps, his words echoing through the hollow room. “What is it that holds your soul captive?”
I fold my arms up over my chest to stave off a sudden chill, and I look into the gentle eyes of this man who confounds me. Father Konstantin leaves no room for gradual development in a conversation but rather dives right into the heart, wasting no moment. Time is precious, after all.
“I—I don’t think that my soul is held captive,” I sputter.
Father Konstantin leans in, his eyes boring deep. “Ivan Kyrilovich,” he whispers, “we’re all held captive by something.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what to think of all this, Father,” I tell him. “I don’t know if I can believe, if I can accept the idea of God. It just all seems so …” I stop, and my cheeks flush. I feel like a child standing exposed, entirely unsure of myself.
“It all seems so Western?” he asks. I nod and offer an apologetic smile.
“It’s a terribly judgmental thought, is it not?”
Father Konstantin shuffles toward the tables as I follow. In the short time since we first met, I’ve observed the way he’s slowed. He is sick.
We stop before the table that lights the icon of Mother Mary and her Christ child. “It’s natural to be confused, Ivan Kyrilovich,” Father says. “For many, many years, the message of the Church has been darkened and snuffed. I would not expect one who has never been taught the tenants of the faith to embrace it wholly and without question.”
“My wife does,” I answer, and he nods.
“Yes. Women tend to embrace more quickly. By nature their souls are more pliable to the spiritual realm, particularly when they have experienc
ed the loss that your wife has experienced.”
“But I worry about that, too, Father,” I reply. “Do I allow my wife to follow a useless path based only on the emotions of these dark days? How do I protect her?”
Father Konstantin looks up at me in surprise. “You trust her,” he says. “Though women tend to embrace God more quickly based on emotion, they’re not so naive as to be completely fooled. Your wife’s emotions allow her to embrace faith more readily and wholly. Your pragmatism and doubts will allow you to embrace it fully, but only if you allow yourself.”
I turn to look at the icon, the pious face of the young girl igniting a host of conflicting thoughts and feelings. “My whole life has been lived upon the principles of practicality,” I say quietly. “I’ve so carefully orchestrated my fate, because I was told by all of society that God and religion were dead and useless. I believed in the idea of Utopia, Father. I had faith that if I just carefully planned and worked, that my life would go according to the plan I laid out.”
“And has it?” he asks. “Has your life gone according to plan?”
“No,” I whisper, blinking hard.
Father Konstantin grabs my hand and leans forward until his eyes meet mine in the thin stream of candlelight.
“Ivan Kyrilovich,” he says, his voice weak and tired. “Your questions are good. They’re honest and real. Thank you for asking them. Unfortunately, my dear man, I cannot tell you what to believe. But I will encourage you with this: that which man has left you with is darkness. The belief that a utopian life can be created through hard work is false. Utopia is unattainable. Can it even be defined? What is utopia to you? Would it be the same for me? You don’t have the power to create perfection. Vladimir Lenin didn’t have the power to do that. Josef Stalin doesn’t have the power to do that.
“Life is a series of trials, all strung together by moments of beauty. But when the string of joy and beauty breaks, what is left to hold life together if there is no God? That’s the question you need to be asking.”
