Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  Father Konstantin steps back and draws in a deep breath. “You’re wrong if you think I don’t have the same doubts as you, my friend,” he says softly. He looks at me from the corner of his eye. “Even I have to work out my faith,” he says.

  I look at him for a moment, studying his lined face. Then I turn toward the table with an impatient sigh. “But what does it all mean, Father?” I point to the icon in frustration. “Who was the Christ child? Why is His birth significant? How do I believe if I don’t understand?”

  Father Konstantin takes a deep breath and leans more heavily on his staff. “Ivan Kyrilovich, let me tell you as concisely as I may what I believe to be absolute truth. It’s this belief that helps me release the doubts and the fears, the captivity that wars inside my heart.”

  I put my hand under his elbow to steady him as the candle flickers in his tear-filled eyes. Then I wait, and I listen.

  “I believe in one God. I believe He is the Maker of earth, and of all things in it. I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, and I believe Him to be the Son of God, begotten of the Father before all worlds, Light of Light, Very God of Very God, of one essence with the Father, by whom all things were made.”

  Father Konstantin gestures toward the icon and I shift my eyes to stare at the infant, the Christ child. I feel a sweeping of my soul as I stare into His eyes—the eyes of the Son of God.

  “Ivan Kyrilovich, I believe that Jesus Christ came down from heaven for our salvation, to free our captive souls, and that He was born of the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary, and was made man.” Father Konstantin begins to cry in earnest, his voice now coming out in a gasp as large tears roll down his cheeks.

  “I believe Christ was crucified also for us under Pontius Pilate, and suffered and was buried, and the third day He rose again, and ascended into heaven. I believe that He now sits at the right hand of the Father, and He will come again with glory to judge the living and the dead.”

  Father Konstantin shifts his gaze to me, and I can see the yearning in his eyes. “Oh my dear boy,” he whispers. “Soon I will see Him face-to-face. Soon the veil before my eyes will be no more, and the suffering will pass behind me. But before I go, I long to know that you understand, and that you, too, believe.”

  I lead Father Konstantin silently to the small room in the back of the church where he lives. He has grown more frail each time I’ve visited. As I help him sink onto the bed, I feel tears well up in the corners of my eyes.

  “I understand it, Father,” I whisper. He looks up at me hopefully. “I understand, but … I don’t know yet if I believe.”

  Father Konstantin nods just before his eyes close. “Understanding is the biggest hurdle, my son.” He drifts to sleep.

  An hour later, I trudge up the stairs to our flat, each step weighted with the questions that plague me. Pushing open the door, I close it softly behind me as I breathe in deep the scent of fresh bread. After removing my shoes and pushing my feet into my worn tapochki, I trudge into the kitchen. Tanya sits at the table, her hands wrapped around a piece of paper. She looks up at me, and I see the tears.

  Rushing to her, I fall to my knees at her feet. “What is it?” I ask. Before she even speaks, I know. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the same look my mother wore the night we learned of my brother’s death.

  Tanya hands me the letter, her fingers trembling. I grab it and read slowly, trying to wrap my mind around the words on the page:

  WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON, SERGEI IVANOVICH PETROCHENKO, HAS DIED IN SERVICE TO HIS COUNTRY ON JUNE 25, 1943, IN THE GALICIA DISTRICT.

  I read no further, but let the paper slip from my fingers. Tanya slides from her chair to the floor and wraps her arms around my shoulders as we both dissolve into the bitter, heart-wrenching tears that can only belong to those who have suffered the ultimate grief.

  My son. My Sergei. I will, indeed, never see him again. I will never know his stories of the war. I won’t feel the strength of his hug, or see him maneuver through life as a man. My memories of him will forever end the day I dropped him off at the office of the registrar to enlist as a soldier of the Red Army.

  My son is dead, and the world is dark, and in the bitter hot moments of grief on the floor, I release my doubts. There is no longer anything holding me to this world; no semblance of control left in this wicked, wretched life. Now the only thoughts that float through my mind are the words of Father Konstantin: “Belief that there is a higher purpose and acknowledging the beauty of truth will carry you far through this tragedy.”

  I pull my devastated wife close. Utterly spent and destroyed, we stay there the rest of the afternoon until our eyes have gone dry, and we drag our numb bodies to the bed.

  Without evil, how would we know good? In the darkness, with my wife whimpering by my side, I confess my belief. There must be more to this wretched life. There is hope in the words that Father Konstantin so faithfully prayed.

  In the darkness I whisper it like a covering. “I believe in God the Father. I believe in His Son, Jesus Christ. I believe. I believe. I believe …”

  MARIA IVANOVNA

  September 24, 1943

  I pull myself slowly from my bed and stumble to the window. Looking out over the German countryside, I inhale deeply. The mountains are closer here than they were when I lived with Helena, and every day I wonder what it must be like to stand atop the very highest peak and look down on the world below. Does it look as bleak from up there?

  I turn and pull on my dress, then tie my apron around my back and put the kerchief in my hair. I’ve been living with Gerhard and Lisolette Mueller for four months. Just before I got on the train, Greta wrote down Herr Mueller’s address, and she scribbled a quick note on a scrap piece of paper asking Lisolette to look after me. Herr Mueller accepted me without question when I approached his shop with the letter in hand. He read it slowly then peered at me through his round glasses.

  “You speak German well?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m almost fluent,” I answered, and he nodded his head in approval.

  “The story we will tell is that you’re the daughter of our dear friend, come to help us run the shop,” he said, peering at me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. “Call us Gerhard and Lisolette.” I nodded in agreement, and have been working with him ever since.

  Every day, I open the shop and stand behind the counter. Gerhard sells everything imaginable from fabric to tools to food and animal feed. He’s a kind man and well respected within the community. Because of this, I’ve never been questioned or spoken to with anything less than respect. Though it’s obvious from first glance that I’m not German, the people that come into the shop treat me as one of their own.

  I walk downstairs to the shop and grab the wash pail and rag. Every morning before I open the doors, I wipe down the shelves and sweep the floors. Lisolette always leaves a plate of bread and cheese out for me to eat, and a small pitcher of milk in the icebox by the front door. Though they pay me very little in wages, they allow me to stay in the apartment above the shop for free, and they feed me two meals a day without ever asking for payment. I’m daily grateful for their kindness.

  After cleaning the shop and eating my breakfast, I check the clock by the door. At exactly 9:00, I push open the doors and let the crisp September air flow through the building. Another winter is coming, but this time I fear it much less. I have almost come to accept my life here. At least in this small town I’m far away from the war and from the constant fear of death.

  It’s a slow morning, as Fridays tend to be. Most people came yesterday and stocked up on their weekend rations. The only visitors who stop by on Friday mornings are older women looking for a few missing ingredients to that night’s dinner.

  I sit down on the stool behind the counter and lean forward, resting my chin in my hand. Looking down at my ragged and chipped fingernails I think about all that’s happened since I left home. At the sound of footsteps, I stand up straight and brush my hand over my
skirt.

  “Hello, sir, may I help—” I stop in shock as I look up and come face-to-face with Ewald. My heart beats wildly, and I glance at the open door, hoping at once that no one and everyone walks in.

  “Hello,” he says. My cheeks flush at the sound of his voice.

  “Hello,” I whisper.

  “You’re a difficult girl to track down.” I hear the hurt and anger in his voice, and open my mouth to reply, but no words come, so I close it again and wait.

  “Why, Maria?” he asks. He leans over the counter and grabs my hands. “Why did you leave like that?”

  I pull my hands away and tuck them into the pockets of my apron. “I had to leave, Ewald. I couldn’t see you again, and I couldn’t stay with your sister any longer.”

  Ewald stands up and narrows his eyes. “What’s wrong with my sister?” he asks, his voice full of accusation. “She gave you a place to stay and food to eat. She saved you from that pit at the armament camp.”

  “No, Ewald. You saved me. You gave me a place to stay. Helena hated me, and she hated that you liked me.”

  Ewald sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just because it upset her a little didn’t give you the right to sneak away in the middle of the night.”

  There’s no sense arguing with him; he will never believe me. “I couldn’t see you again, Ewald,” I say with a sigh. “You just don’t understand.”

  Ewald rushes around the back of the counter and before I can stop him, he sweeps me into his arms, his lips pressed hard against mine. I push on his chest, but cannot pull away from him, and finally I quit resisting.

  After a few moments, I manage to push him back. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I give him a small shove. “Please. Go to the other side of the counter. I cannot be caught with you here,” I whisper.

  “Can I see you tonight?” Ewald asks as he steps back to the other side of the counter. “Please?”

  Everything in my soul screams against this idea, but I nod yes. “Tonight is the only time you can see me,” I tell him. “Tomorrow you leave.”

  Ewald pushes away from the counter and walks slowly backward. “We’ll see,” he says. His voice is cool and clipped. I shiver.

  The rest of the day moves by with an agonizing lack of speed. In late afternoon, Lisolette stops by carrying a tray of hot tea and pastries. “You look tired, dear,” she says, setting the tray down in front of me.

  “I am a bit,” I reply. “Danke.”

  Lisolette pours the tea and sits on the stool next to me. “Maria,” she begins. She looks intently at my face, and I feel my cheeks grow warm. “You’re acting peculiar, my dear. Is something wrong? You can talk to me.” She places her hand over mine. It’s warm and soft.

  My hands quiver as I try to decide how much to share. What do I tell her? She is kind and good, but she’s also German, and I’m a Soviet. Lisolette senses my fear and sets her cup down. She reaches over and grabs both my hands.

  “My dear, I know that you come from the Soviet Union. It’s okay. You don’t need to fear. I can see that you’re a gentle and kind girl. I won’t judge you for your upbringing.”

  A lump forms in my throat, and before I know it, I’ve told her everything. I’ve told her of my parents and of Sergei and Anna. I’ve told her of my father surviving Babi Yar and coming back from the dead. I’ve shared the day I was taken from the store and of the months I spent in the armament camp.

  Then I tell her of my months with Helena and of Ewald. The words spill out of my mouth so quickly and with such force that I almost feel sick. I cannot tell the story quickly enough in German, and I make many mistakes. Lisolette doesn’t seem to notice or mind.

  Finally I run out of story. We’re quiet, our tea cold in the delicate cups.

  “That’s quite a lot,” she says after a moment.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “Perhaps I’ve spoken too much.” Lisolette shakes her head.

  “No, my dear. I’ve long wanted to know about you, but my husband feared asking too many questions. He wanted to protect us should anyone come looking for you.”

  “Someone has come looking for me,” I whisper. Her eyes grow wide. “Ewald came this morning. I don’t know how he found me, but he’s come and he wants to see me tonight.”

  Lisolette leans back and narrows her eyes. “And how do you feel about this?” she asks.

  “I think it’s dangerous,” I answer, “but I would also like to see him.” My eyes well up again, and I shake my head. “I’m very confused,” I tell her. She pulls me into her arms, running her hand down my head the way my mother used to do when I needed comforting.

  “See him tonight, child,” Lisolette says. “Be cautious and careful, and tell him good-bye.”

  I nod. “But what if he won’t accept good-bye?” I ask.

  “Then Gerhard and I will escort him from the property.” I hear the smile in her voice and it wraps me tight in a blanket of comfort. For the first time in nearly eighteen months, someone is protecting me.

  Pushing me back, Lisolette wipes the tears from my eyes. “Tell him good-bye tonight, my dear, and tomorrow you and I and Gerhard will discuss the matter of getting you home to your family.”

  Two hours later, I stand nervously in front of the shop, my arms wrapped around my waist in an effort to stave off the cool night air. I hear him approach, and when he finally steps into the light, I see that he carries flowers with him.

  “Hello,” he says, offering me the large bouquet.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, and I gesture him inside. “I thought perhaps we could just stay here this evening,” I say, stepping into the shop. It’s drafty, but warmer than the street. “I live upstairs and I’ve made up a spread of food that we can eat.”

  Ewald smiles and nods. “I’m honored that you would agree to meet with me at all,” he says, and he grabs my hand. “I’ve thought about you every day since we last met, Maria.”

  I look in his eyes and feel confusion and fear well up inside. I see in him a sense of possession. He feels entitled to me. This cannot be so. I drop his hand and walk toward the stairway at the back of the shop. We climb to my apartment, which overlooks the street below.

  Ewald sits at the small round table by the window, and I set out the bread, cheese, and assortment of meat that Lisolette gave me earlier. I remember our conversation and her promise to get me home, and my heart skips a beat.

  “What are you thinking right now?” Ewald asks. He watches me intently, trying to read my thoughts. I fear that he’ll see inside my head.

  “Nothing,” I reply.

  “Come now, Maria. Everybody is thinking something.”

  I set down our plates, and Ewald begins grabbing food from the tray, all the while his eyes are on mine. I don’t know when or how to begin this conversation. How do I say good-bye to a man who thinks he loves me? It seems too early in the evening to bring the topic up, so I simply offer a tentative smile.

  “I’m thinking that this food looks lovely, and it’s nice to have company for a change.”

  Ewald smiles. “Well, I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  For the next hour, Ewald fills me in on the last six months of his life. He still works at the armament camp, but he’s made it his mission to protect the girls who live there.

  “You changed my perspective on all of this, Maria,” he says. “You made me see that these girls are real people with real stories. Because of you, I’ve been able to see that they receive better treatment. We serve them good food, and I’ve issued strict orders against beating them. You have made life richer for many of your own people.”

  I’m quiet for a moment before responding. “Yes, but they’re still slaves,” I reply. “They’ve still been taken from their families and forbidden to return. I’m glad you’re treating them well, Ewald, but it doesn’t change the fact that your people have chosen to steal their innocence.”

  Ewald sits back and throws his napkin on the plate. His face clouds and his eyes g
row dark. “Well, I still have to obey my own orders, Maria,” he says. “I didn’t make the decision to bring those girls here. The best I can do is make sure they’re treated well while they’re in my charge.”

  “And I’m glad you’re doing that, Ewald,” I say as gently as I can, though I feel my cheeks flush in indignation. “But in so doing you cannot continue to condone and justify the actions of your leaders. It’s honorable that you’re looking after their well-being, but don’t pretend that it’s okay to have the girls in a slave labor camp at all. It’s a terrible thing.”

  Ewald sighs and runs his hand over his head. His hair is cut close in sharp lines around his face. He is so handsome, but I see how he has aged in the last few months. War is hard on everyone, even those in power.

  “What do you want, Maria?” Ewald asks. “What could I possibly do to please you—to show you that I love you?”

  “You could tell me good-bye,” I whisper without even thinking. Ewald looks at me, stunned, and shakes his head.

  “I don’t want to do that,” he says. “It took me a long time to track you down. I’m not going to let you go again.”

  “How did you find me?” I ask.

  “I knocked on the door of every house within fifty kilometers of Helena’s home. I finally came to the house of a young girl named Greta.”

  I suck in my breath. Could my friend really have betrayed my position like this? “Greta told you I was here?” I ask.

  Ewald narrows his eyes. “Yes. She wanted to protect her mother. Her Jewish mother. She told me in return for not reporting them to the authorities.”

  I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand. “You threatened them,” I whisper. Ewald stands up. He moves around the table to me and sinks to his knees.

  “I was desperate to find you, Maria. I didn’t even know that they were Jews. Greta’s mother told me, stupid woman. She thought I had come for her. She didn’t know who I was. So I simply played along and told her I was looking for a runaway house servant and in exchange for any information they could give, I would remain quiet. Greta told me about you immediately, but she didn’t tell me where you were. She told me you had come, and then fled, and she didn’t know where you’d gone. It took just a little bit of detective work for me to search out who Greta and her family might know that would be willing to harbor a runaway Soviet girl. This was the first place that made sense. I made a lucky guess.”