Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  “The first five boxes come off here. The middle section will be unloaded at the next stop. The final shipment goes to the Czechoslovakian border.”

  The men jump out of the car and pull five crates off the train, then slam the door shut again, all the while discussing the various facts they had heard throughout the course of the morning. It’s finally quiet, and I stay huddled low. I now know how long I have before I must figure out a new strategy.

  For what seems an eternity, the train is parked in the station. My knees and back scream in pain, but still I sit, quiet and unmoving. I finally doze off, only to be jolted awake almost instantly by the train’s lurch.

  This time I climb out of the crate and move around, my feet numb and burning. I move my hand along the back wall of the train car and realize that there’s a door on this side as well. Locating the handle, I pull just slightly to see if it’s locked. It moves easily and I stop before accidentally swinging the door open.

  A plan begins to form in my mind. It’s dangerous and ridiculous, and I can’t begin to understand how I’ll possibly survive, but I must. I must survive. I’ve come this far.

  I will not die today.

  It’s several hours before the train slows again. I’m now famished, having packed no food or water for my journey.

  “How could I have been so foolish?” I whisper several times as the hunger gnaws at my inside and leaves me fatigued and struggling to navigate the train’s rocking. The sky has gone from blue to gray and is now a husky black. I see no trees or clouds, no stars or moon. I’m disoriented and utterly exhausted.

  As the train slows, I rush to my crate and quickly fold into it. In less than ten minutes we’ve rolled to a stop. Once again, the door slides open. This time only one man climbs aboard. He whistles a low, quiet tune as he shuffles and moves boxes. I hear him grunt under the weight as he lowers them to the ground. Leaning my head against the side of my crate, I wait for the sound of the door closing.

  I’m stunned when I feel my crate move. I brace my hands on either side of the box and bite my lip to keep from crying out as I slide across the floor. The wood covering me slips and falls to the ground and I look up in horror to meet the wide, surprised eyes of an old man.

  His face is covered in dirt, the whites of his eyes illuminated by the twilight hour. There’s enough light streaming in for me to see wisps of gray hair that peek out from under his sideways cap. His hands are covered in black filth, nails caked with soot.

  I shake my head slightly, trying to form a word but he holds his hand out to me, and his head snaps up. He waits for a moment, then looks back at me and puts his finger to his lips. I nod. He disappears, and I remain frozen in my tomb. My eyes look up and out of the open train door. There’s little moonlight this evening, and fear closes in on me with the darkening sky.

  Moments later, he peers back over the side of the box and gives me a gentle wink as he lowers down a small handkerchief. With a grunt, he slides me back into the corner and pulls the wood back over the top of the crate.

  In the darkness, I fumble to unfold the handkerchief. My fingers brush against something cold, and I close my fist over an apple. Underneath it is a thick slice of bread. I shove the bread into my mouth and chew slowly. My stomach growls impatiently until I swallow, nearly choking on the large bite.

  The train lurches once again, and we’re on our way. I bite into the apple, the juice spilling down my chin and dripping off my hands. With each bite, I feel strength return, and my head clears. As we pull forward on the rails to home, I think about the nature of this world. For all the evil, there is an awful lot of good. I’m thankful for the sweetness of the good.

  We sputter down the rails through the night. Despite the unknown of my next stop, I sleep fairly well, lulled by the gentle rocking and melodic knocks. I dream of many things tonight. I see Sergei sitting by the summer dacha and Anna baking bread on an open stove in the trees. I see Greta walk from behind a cherry tree, and I hear Alyona laugh over and over. As I walk closer to the scene, all of them seem to slip further away until I’m left with darkness. It’s then that I hear Polina’s voice. It’s a whisper that feels like a breeze over a glassy lake.

  “Keep living. Don’t let them win.”

  I snap up to a sitting position and look around wildly. As the reality of the moment pushes the dream away, I realize that the train is slowing. I must make my move now. I rush to the empty crate and reach inside for my sack. Pushing it on my back, I make my way to the back door and reach for the handle. With a sharp turn, I slide the door open then quickly duck to the side.

  I peek around and look out. Day dawns. It’s gray and misty outside, the very early morning covered in a foggy haze. I face a large, open field but can’t see far due to the low-lying fog. I lean out and immediately notice the ladder within arm’s reach. It’s as though it was placed there for me.

  Reaching over, I try to ignore the spinning wheels beneath my feet. I hoist myself onto the ladder and climb quickly to the top of the car, where I lie flat on my stomach between the slats. They are just high enough to hide me from anyone standing outside if I press tight enough against the metal roof.

  The air is cold and wet, and my teeth begin chattering immediately. I hold on as the train slides and slips into the station. It’s quiet, early. I remain still and wait.

  When the door slides open below me, I hear the boy speak. He curses and leans out, his voice cutting through the air as though he were standing right next to me.

  “Harald!” he calls. “That crazy old cat left the back door open again!”

  I hear another curse as a man’s boots stomp down the gravel path. They both climb in, and I can hear their muffled words below me.

  “Someone needs to tell that idiot it’s time to quit,” the older man, Harald, says.

  “Yeah. Time to die, fool!” the younger one says. They both laugh.

  “Is everything here?” Harald asks.

  It’s quiet before the younger one answers. “Yes. Wait … Harald, look at this.” I strain to listen through the metal roofing of the train car. Their voices drift out into the still air, and my heart sinks when I hear the next words.

  “Where did this handkerchief come from? There’s an apple core in here.”

  They’re silent a moment before their words float up again, this time clearer. They’re hanging out the back door.

  “Stowaway?” the younger boy asks. I hold my breath as I wait for Harald’s answer.

  “Nah,” he says finally. “It was probably just that crazy old owl. He really does need to quit working. He can’t do anything right. All the same, we should probably inform the local police. They may want to search along the rails to see if they find anyone.”

  The two men take about ten minutes to unload the rest of the crates as I remain frozen on my stomach just above. I’m soaked, now, and faint from the cold and fear. Fighting against a sneeze, I pinch my nose so hard that my nails dig into the skin. Finally they get all the crates unloaded and placed on a cart to be picked up later in the day.

  I don’t move as the sun slowly rises. We’re in the station most of the morning, and as the fog burns away, I grow increasingly fearful of being caught. After what seems an eternity, I hear shouts issued up and down the platform, and the train begins to hiss and cough. Moments later, we pull out again. I grip the slats of raised metal on either side. The train gathers speed quickly, and I decide it’s safer to remain up top now that the car is empty of boxes.

  For hours, I cling to the top of the train, my hands numb and my head pounding from tension, fatigue, and hunger. I have no idea that we’ve crossed the border into Czechoslovakia until we stop at the next station. There is chaos at this stop as people run around, shouting and yelling about the end of the war being near and the necessity to get home as quickly as possible. I hear some German at this station, but more Russian.

  My heart skips as I recognize the tongue of my motherland for the first time in years. It’s as th
ough a part of my soul, which has long lay dormant, is reawakened. I prepare myself for a long night ahead, knowing it’s at least another day-and-a-half journey into the Soviet Union.

  It’s cold this second night, and we stop frequently. It seems that the air is charged more and more with a tense energy at each stop we make. Though no one comes to the empty final car, I still hang on top, too afraid to take the risk of being caught. I know that I cannot trust anyone, even if they speak the language of my birth.

  By the time the sun breaks the surface the next morning, I’m in tears. My fingers slip, and I doubt my ability to hold on much longer. As we roll to a stop, I keep my head pressed to the frigid metal, warmed only by the hot tears rolling down my cheeks.

  My ears perk as I hear his voice calling across the dimly lit platform. The sun has not yet fully lit the morning sky. Has it really been two mornings since I left Germany? Or perhaps it’s been three. I can no longer remember how long I’ve clung to the top of this train car.

  “Chernivtsi to Kiev! Chernivtsi to Kiev!”

  I raise my head just slightly, my neck burning from holding the same position for so long. The man calling across the station is small and round. He’s a Soviet, his round face framed by a thick mane of dark brown hair.

  I lay my head back down and feel my chest heave at the weight of his words. We’re in Chernivtsi. We’re half a day from my home.

  “Gerhard was wrong,” I whisper, raising my head again to watch the man stroll to the other end of the platform. “This train is going all the way to Kiev—it’s taking me home.”

  Home. My throat is dry and raw, but I whisper the word over and over, each time feeling a little more strength and resolve return. I lift my head again and look up to see the man walking away. A young couple rush toward the train and jump into the door three cars up. The train shudders. Seeing no one else on the platform, I quickly slide up and over the rail, swinging my legs over the side.

  My fingers slip and fumble, and my arms seem to have forgotten how to function as I sweep my legs from side to side looking for the ladder. The man has reached the end of the platform. He’ll turn back this way at any moment and he will see me. I finally find the first step of the ladder, and I slide over the side, catching myself just before falling. I stumble down the ladder and reach for the train door. The handle is stuck. I push hard against it. The train jolts, and I nearly fall.

  I grip the ladder and my chin and chest slam hard onto the side of the train. My feet swing just above the rails, the wheels of the train beginning a slow, groaning turn. I pull myself up, every muscle in my body screaming and aching. I reach for the handle of the door once more and push as hard as I can. It falls, unlatches, and the door slides open.

  With a quick swing, I throw myself into the empty train car and wrestle with the door, finally pulling it closed just as the train begins to pick up speed.

  It’s warmer in the car, and I stay on my feet, pacing and stretching with nervous anticipation. I look down at my tattered, muddied dress, soaked and soiled by the days spent atop the train car. Pulling my bag off my back, I open it up and grab the dress Greta gave me. It’s damp from so many hours in the elements, but it’s clean. I change quickly, bunching up my dirty dress and stuffing it in my bag. I run my fingers through my tangled hair and sigh, realizing how dreadful I must look.

  For hours I pace. I try to sit down, but cannot remain still. I’m scared and anxious, filled with anticipation. When the train slows, I’m surprised. I look out the small windows and realize the sky has grown dark again. Perhaps this is good. I can evade the stares easier in the dark.

  In less than thirty minutes, the train moves almost at a crawl. With a grunt, I push the back door open and glance out at the station. I know this place. I’ve been here before. The platforms in Kiev are a bit more sophisticated, and the back door offers me less protection as it opens to another waiting dock for passengers.

  Thankfully the platform is empty. Before the train even finishes rolling, I jump off and run as quickly as I can away from the lit areas. I jump off the platform and head into the trees, where I wait a few moments to catch my breath and make sure no one is following me before turning toward the outlying road.

  When I emerge, I’m struck with an immediate sense of familiarity. It’s been three years since I last saw home, but it smells just the same. The sense of remembrance is so strong I almost forget Germany altogether. For a brief moment, I allow myself to imagine that I never left—that I’ve been here all along.

  It’s a long way to the flat of my youth, but my heart beats so quickly that I run most of the way. I don’t think about the possibility that Mama and Papa might not be waiting for me. I don’t even consider the idea until I pull open the door of our building and stand at the bottom of the stairs. Looking up, I’m flooded with emotion. My chin trembles violently as I think of the hundreds of times I walked these stairs with my parents, with Anna and Sergei.

  What will I find when I reach the top?

  “Please be home,” I whisper as I take the first step. My legs are heavy, and fear mounts the higher I climb. But so does hope. I never really noticed how closely those two emotions were linked.

  I finally reach our door and stop. I have no key. I don’t know who I’ll find when the door swings open. I raise my hand and knock once, twice, and a third time, then step back. My whole body shakes and trembles with violent expectation.

  I hear the shuffling, and I think my heart may burst. I can’t breathe. Slowly, the door opens, and he steps into the doorway. Behind him, a small woman with delicate features looks at me, her mouth open in a silent scream. I know them. They’re older, but I know them.

  “Papa? Mama?” My voice is small, timid. “I’m home.”

  EPILOGUE

  MARIA

  June 22, 1947

  It’s been two years.

  Pushing myself up, I walk to the window and lean against the rim, the golden sun warm against my face. I close my eyes and turn my face up, hoping that today, like every other day, I’ll feel a sense of peace in a world that no longer feels safe.

  I open my eyes and watch the birds flit across the blue sky, and I try to remember the girl who once dreamed of flying like the birds. I lost her somewhere in the hills of Germany. I’m not sure she’ll ever return.

  Sergei is gone. Though I’ve been home for two years now, I still have to remind myself that he’s never coming back. Some nights I just watch the door, waiting for him to open it and bound into the flat, but the hallway remains quiet, the door shut tight.

  Sighing, I push away from the windowsill and wander to the other side of the room, falling back into the chair. Picking at the edge of my sleeve, I let my mind drift back to Germany, to the years of captivity that gave birth to unspoken dreams—unrealistic desires of the heart.

  I imagined so many things about my return while I was in Germany, but I never expected it to be like this. In my dreams, Sergei was here joking and laughing, teasing me in that good-natured way that always made me feel loved and seen. Anna was always in the kitchen with Mama, the two of them bent over fresh bread, slicing cucumbers and tomatoes, and discussing the proper procedure to make the perfect borscht. When I dreamed of home, I saw Papa in the corner smoking his pipe and reading the paper, his face fresh and relaxed.

  My dreams were of a life that didn’t include war. I never really embraced the idea that Sergei might not come back. I had no idea that Anna would choose to remain in Germany. I thought life would flow seamlessly back to normal.

  I was a fool.

  I didn’t once imagine that my own country might look down on me scornfully for my forced service of the enemy—that I would be a traitor for leaving. This alone has made it nearly impossible for me to find a job since my return, so I’m left with long, quiet days that offer far too much time to think—too much time to try to outrun the past.

  Why didn’t I consider that I would come home to find my parents forever altered? They speak free
ly of their pain, and passionately about their newfound faith, but they share very few details of the last two years. But then, there are many details I have left out as well.

  I’ve never again spoken of Ewald. I don’t mention his name, and every night before going to sleep I remind myself to forget the terrible error in judgment I made regarding his affections. When I think of him I feel intense shame, hoping that someday I may be able to erase him from my memory completely. When speaking of Germany, I talk only of Greta, and of the kindness shown to me by Gerhard and Lisolette.

  I’ve told Mama and Papa about Polina, and I shared the precious memory of my friend Alyona. I thought Papa would retreat back into the darkness and holes of his past when I mentioned my interactions with Polina, but he only nodded slowly, and a peace washed through his dull gray eyes.

  “It’s good that she died with you, my dear,” he said softly. Knowing the end of the story gave my father the missing piece of a puzzle that still produced dark dreams. I’m glad I told him.

  I tried to hide the scars on my back so I wouldn’t have to speak of Helena at all, but Mama walked in on me changing not long after I returned home and demanded the story. I edited the details and left out Ewald. I simply told her the woman I worked for after the armament camp was cruel and beat me. Mama cried for days after that, desperate to turn back the clock and protect me.

  I want to turn back the clock so I can make one more memory with my brother.

  My Sergei will not return, but in his absence we have the gift of his words. The journal that Maxim gave us has become a lifeline to the past, and we all draw in Sergei’s words like cool air on a hot day.

  Papa sits in the corner each night, his hands wrapped tightly around Sergei’s journal. The smoke from his pipe wafts through the flat, and he rocks to a melody of life and loss. There’s a sense of peace that has washed over Papa that I long for. He isn’t shattered, though the twinkle in his eye is softer than it used to be. He speaks to me daily of his God, and I’m beginning to sway under his faith, to accept that maybe these things he tells me about God could be true. His words constantly remind me of Greta, and the ease with which she also spoke of God. The longing for this peace makes me curious to understand.