by Kelli Stuart
“Of course it is, but we’re happy to have you.”
Tanya leans forward on her elbows. “You knew our Sergei?” she asks, and Maxim nods.
“I knew him well,” he says. “He was a good friend and a good soldier.”
My head spins. “Can you tell us anything about his time in the war?” I ask.
“I can do better than that,” Maxim answers. He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out a small leather journal. “Sergei wrote inside this book several times a week. He told me that if anything ever happened to him, he wanted me to deliver it to you.”
I take the journal and run my fingers over it. I close my eyes and envision my son writing inside these pages late at night while others slept. I feel his presence near.
Tanya gently takes the book from my hands and opens it up. Together we read the first page:
October 30, 1942
My dearest Mama and Papa,
If you’re reading this without me, then I apologize. I know your hearts ache, and I hate that it’s on account of me.
I’m writing these pages to remember. War has a way of making you forget, and I don’t want that to happen to me. I don’t want to forget who you raised me to be.
These days are dark. I’ve seen and tasted and felt the horrible cold of death in a way that I never thought possible. Papa, remember the day you and I walked the streets of Kiev after the Germans first dropped their bombs? I was so scared that day—so scared of death. But now that I’ve seen it up close, I realize that death isn’t so scary, after all.
It’s the suffering I fear more. I hope you don’t suffer, Mama. Don’t suffer on my account. I’ve met a man here, a man who has become a dear friend. His name is Maxim. I hope you’ll meet him someday, too. He has helped show me a different way.
I’m not scared of death anymore, Papa. I’m not scared at all. Thank you for teaching me to be brave. I couldn’t do any of this if you hadn’t prepared me to face life like a man.
I hope I make you proud.
I love you now and always.
Your son,
Sergei
Tanya and I cling to one another and cry. My shoulders shake as I digest the words of my son, so wise and insightful. He was years ahead of me when he wrote this message two years ago. The man he became humbles me. I look up at Maxim, who sits uncomfortably across from us.
“Thank you,” I cry. Maxim nods.
“Sergei was the bravest man I’ve ever met,” Maxim says softly. “He died fighting against the most wicked men this world has seen.”
“The Nazis?” Tanya asks, wiping her nose with a soft handkerchief.
“No,” Maxim replies, shaking his head. “He fought against a group of nationalists—Ukrainian rebels. Not partisans, but guerrilla warriors bent on destroying everyone—the Germans, the Soviets, anyone who threatens their independence. They’re brutal and harsh, mean in every sense of the word.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Sergei made friends with a group of local partisans. Those were the good guys. He … helped them.” Maxim stops and looks closely at Tanya and I as though judging our reaction to this news.
“Helped them?” I ask.
“He helped people escape the country. Sergei transported Jews and other locals who were wanted for various crimes across the border. He worked with the partisans to protect the people he felt were innocent victims of war.”
I lean back in my seat and release a deep breath. Tanya grabs my hand and squeezes hard. “What happened to Sergei?” I ask.
“A large group of Jewish residents needed to leave the country. Sergei and a man named Kostya were working to find a way to transport them across the southern border, away from Poland. They had the residents hidden in an underground bunker outside the city. The night before Sergei died, he went to the bunker with Kostya to inform the Jews of the plan to get them out, away from the Soviets and the Nazis. But …” Maxim’s voice fades for a moment. He clears his throat.
“The nationalists had already found them. Sergei came running back to the bunker and told us that there was a group we needed to take care of. I’ve never seen him so furious. Sergei was always calm. I admired that about him.
“We followed him back to the bunker where the nationalists had lined the Jews up and shot each of them one by one. But … there was a little one—a small girl who they threw through the air, laughing every time she hit the ground. The plan for dealing with these nationalist traitors was always to attack by surprise, but Sergei grew so angry that he stormed toward them …”
“We tried to back him up. He managed to shoot two of the men before the others got him.”
Tanya lays her forehead on the table.
I cover my face with my hands, the vision of my son storming the gates of evil to protect an innocent.
“I’m sorry,” Maxim says. “I said too much.”
“No, my dear boy,” I say, reaching out and grabbing his hand. “Thank you for sharing this. I was proud of my son before, but I’m more proud now. You’ve given us a gift.”
Maxim nods his head and pulls his hand back. “Sergei didn’t suffer,” he says. “He died instantly, and he was a hero. We managed to finish off that particular group of fighters, but we lost two other men in our group that night.”
“I’m so sorry for what you’ve suffered,” I say. We’re all quiet for a moment, ingesting the weight of the memories. Finally, I speak again. “Tell me, Maxim,” I lean forward. “When Sergei died, was he lying in a field?”
Maxim looks at me uncomfortably, as if the details of that day are too painful to really conjure up. Tanya sits back up, her face spotted with tears, her eyes shifting first to my face, then to Maxim’s. He nods his head. “He was.”
I nod. Somehow I find comfort in knowing that the dream that haunted me for so long was really a gift. I was there the day my son entered into this world, and that vision, as horrific as it was, gave me the chance to be there when he left the world, too.
“Our group has been transferred to Kiev,” Maxim says, breaking the silence. “I’m staying in the barracks just outside the city. I wondered if it would be okay for me to visit you occasionally. My parents died right after the war began. Sergei always spoke so highly of you and I … perhaps it’s foolish of me.”
Tanya stares at Maxim. Her eyes are red and swollen. “You come any time you want,” she says. “You will always be welcome in my home. You can come every day if you’d like to.”
Maxim nods politely. “Spaseeba,” he whispers.
“You gave me back my son,” Tanya says, her voice wavering. “It’s I who must thank you.”
Maxim stands and reaches across the table to shake my hand. “I need to get back,” he says.
“Thank you for coming,” I say, as Tanya and I escort him into the foyer and give him his shoes. He laces them slowly, then stands up. He’s a full head taller than me, and his broad shoulders give him an imposing air. Leaning forward, he wraps Tanya in a hug, his long arms swallowing her.
“Sergei loved you so much,” he says as she breaks down again, wrapping her arms around him.
When she releases him, he straightens up and shakes my hand again.
“Come again, Maxim,” I say.
“I will. I’ll return very soon,” he says with a shy smile. I open the door, and Tanya and I watch as he trudges into the shadows, his large feet shuffling all the way down the stairs. Very slowly we step back into the flat. I’m utterly spent, my eyes heavy with emotion and fatigue.
I turn to look at Tanya, and she looks as exhausted as I feel. “How are you doing, my darling?” I ask, pulling her into my arms. She turns her head and presses in close to my chest.
“For the first time in many years, I feel peace,” she whispers.
So do I. I think of Father Konstantin, and all the words of wisdom he spoke over me this last year. I think of his prayers for Tanya and me to really know and experience God, and for the first time, I know pea
ce. In the still, dark moment of this frozen night, I embrace it. I think of our life before the bombs, the river of our days flowing so calmly in a direction that I thought would last forever. In a flash, that river was turned, unexpected and quick, dragging us along this unforeseen path. Like a river from its course, life has swirled away from all I expected or planned. Sluggish and slow, this river carves a new path. There are calmer waters that wait.
MARIA
April 30, 1945
I sit up and look out the window, swallowing hard against the lump that always remains present in my throat. It’s been nineteen months since Ewald came and Gerhard chased him away. Every day I’ve waited and expected him to come back, to drag me into the street and return the humiliation that I brought upon him.
It’s been a long year and a half.
Despite their promise to help me get home, Gerhard and Lisolette have done very little planning. In the first few weeks after the incident with Ewald, I asked Lisolette about the matter, and each time she urged me to wait.
“We’re working on it,” she said. “But these things take time. You’ll need to remain patient.”
I finally quit asking. In the last month, I’ve felt nearly helpless with the energy of a caged bird.
My eighteenth birthday is approaching quickly. In just a few weeks, I’ll officially be a grown woman. I’ve spent three years of my life in Germany, my days in Kiev seeming a lifetime ago. I try to remember the girl I was when I left—the impulsive girl with rough hands and wild hair.
I’ve grown taller, my hands smoother and somehow my hair has finally tamed itself. I’m scarred and emotionally beaten. The girl who left was swept away in the flood of war, but I think that girl is still somewhere inside. If only I could get back to find her.
A bright spot in the last nineteen months has been my regular correspondence with Greta. Every week we write to one another. She apologizes in every letter for telling Ewald about me, and in every one of my letters, I offer my forgiveness.
I stand up and pull my dress over my head. Today is another day, headed into another summer, and still I dream of home. I’m pulling the brush through my hair when I hear the door swing open and the pounding sound of someone running up the stairs.
“Maria! Maria!” Lisolette pushes open the door, which hits the wall with force. I jump, dropping the hairbrush. “Gather your things, dear. Only take what you can easily carry on your back. It’s time to go.”
I rush to my bed in the corner of the room and pull my box of belongings out from underneath. “What’s happened?” I ask as I hastily shove items into a small, brown sack, my hands trembling.
“We just heard it on the radio. This is sure to change everything. The whole course of life will take a new path,” Lisolette says. She paces back and forth in the room, wringing her hands as she speaks.
I stand and turn to her. “What’s happened, Lisolette?” She stops and faces me.
“Adolf Hitler is dead.”
The shock of her statement leaves me frozen. Hitler, the man behind all this pain, has ceased to exist. I’m equally sickened and thrilled to hear the news. Sickened by the fact that he escaped the fate of consequence so easily, but thrilled that his torturous ideology has found an end.
“We don’t know what this means for the war, my darling. It’s been suspected for some time that defeat is imminent. Berlin will soon fall, and the Nazi Party will crumble. Now is the time to move. While the country is in shock, we must transport you east. We cannot wait a moment longer.”
I rush forward into Lisolette’s waiting arms. “Oh my dear,” she says, stroking my head gently. “How I do love you as I did my own daughter. Now I’ll send you home to your mother so that her heart may be mended as you’ve helped mend mine.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Lisolette!” Gerhard stands at the bottom of the stairs. “You and the girl must come now.”
I turn to finish packing the few things I own. Carefully and gingerly, I pull out the dress that Greta gave me for my birthday two years ago. I roll it into a tight ball and push it quickly into my small sack. With a final glance around the room that’s given me shelter and safety these last two years, I turn to Lisolette with tear-filled eyes.
“I’m ready,” I whisper. Lisolette brushes the hair off my forehead.
“I’m glad for you, my dear,” she says gently. “Now, we must hurry.”
We rush downstairs to the car that waits outside the shop. I slide into the back seat while Gerhard and Lisolette take their places in the front, and we pull away. I turn to look back at the place that holds my sweetest months in Germany, and I blink against the tears.
“The first train that leaves will head through Czechoslovakia,” Gerhard says. “I have a contact at the train yard who’s going to help us get you into one of the storage cars. You must stay hidden from sight for as long as possible. We’re hoping that with the shock of Hitler’s death, the Nazis will be less vigilant about checking for stowaways, but if someone comes to check the car, you must be hidden well enough to evade them.”
Lisolette turns to face me. “We’ve discussed this option of sending you by train for many months, but felt it was too dangerous with the many border crossings. But now is the best time, you understand?”
I nod.
“How will I know where to go?” I ask.
“Stay on this train until you get into the Soviet Union,” Gerhard replies. “You’ll cross through the southern tip of Poland first. That will be the most dangerous part of your journey. Once you get into the Soviet Union, you have to find the train that leads to Kiev. You should be safe from there. But Maria, listen to me.” I lean forward.
“Don’t tell anyone in your country that you’ve come from Germany. I’ve heard stories that the Red Army may classify laborers as traitors. Don’t speak German in your own country and do not tell them where you’ve been for the last three years. If they ask why you want to go to Kiev, tell them you want to visit your sister. Do you understand?”
I nod, shocked at his words. Would my own countrymen really label me a traitor for my years of forced labor? I sit back and wonder at these words. The thought suddenly strikes me that I’m about to return home. My stomach flips with fear and excitement. What will I find when I return? Will Mama and Papa be there? Anna and Sergei?
“Lisolette,” I say, and she turns to face me. “Please write to Greta and tell her what’s happened. Tell her that when it’s safe, I’ll try to write her again.”
Lisolette nods. “I’ll do it,” she replies.
Five minutes later we pull up to the station. It’s eerily quiet and still. A group stands crowded inside the main building. As I step out of the car I hear the radio playing, the words running in a loop repeating the news of Hitler’s death.
We quickly walk past the mesmerized crowd and make our way to the far end of the platform. A man steps out from behind the building and motions us back. With no one nearby, we rush around the corner and follow him down the gravel walkway to the last car.
“Get in there, girl,” he whispers, his voice gruff and thick. “Hide well and make sure you cannot be seen or found easily. Go on. Be quick. The train leaves in ten minutes.”
I turn to Gerhard and give him a quick hug. “Thank you for everything,” I tell him and he kisses both of my cheeks.
“Be safe, my girl,” he whispers.
I glance at Lisolette who nods, her eyes sparkling with tears.
“I love you both,” I say, then I hoist my bag into the train car and step into Gerhard’s waiting hands. He boosts me up and I turn just before the man pulls the door closed, leaving me in the dark. There’s a row of small windows at the top of the car, and I wait a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the dim light that streams through them. The train car is filled with boxes and crates, most of them full of canned foods and cigarettes. I slowly make my way to the far back corner of the car and find a large, empty crate. Tossing my bag inside, I climb over the to
p and pull a board across the opening. In an instant, it is pitch black.
Hugging my knees to my chest, I remember the train ride that brought me to the country three years ago. The stench of vomit and feces and death still lingers inside that memory, as does Polina’s face, which always seems brighter when the lights go out. I close my eyes and lean my head back, reminding myself to breathe. As it began, so it shall end.
Within moments, I feel the train give a jerk, my head banging against the side of the crate. I brace myself as we slowly lurch and pull from the station, and I feel the train begin to gain speed, moving faster and faster until we’ve left the place I’ve called home far behind.
For several hours, I sit crouched inside the crate. When my feet go numb and my back pulls in sharp pains, I push the top of the crate back and slowly pull myself to a stand. Looking through the windows, I can see the sky stretched across each narrow rectangle.
I take several long, deep breaths to quell the fear that wars inside when the train gives a lurch. I catch myself just before I topple out of the crate and quickly crouch back down, pulling the board back over my head. As we slow to a crawl and finally stop, I close my eyes and pray for silence.
I hear the men just before the train door slides open. They yell over the hissing and groaning of the engines. I can barely make out their words, but I hear enough to know what they’re discussing. I imagine it’s what all of Germany, and perhaps the world, is talking about.
“But don’t you think they would give us a few more details?” one of them says as they hoist themselves into the train car.
“I hear that Goebbels will take his place. My grandfather told me today to expect him to follow the methods and ideology of the Führer without missing a beat.”
“Well I hear that this will end the war. Without Hitler, we don’t stand a chance against the Allies,” the other man says. I hear boxes scraping and sliding across the floor.
“Which of these are going and which are staying?” one of the men asks.
