Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  Sergei wrote to each one of us in his book, the words scrawled across the page in a way that indicates how fast his hand worked to keep up with his thoughts.

  His letters to me still produce tears, though they no longer leave an aching sadness. Reaching down, I pull the worn book out of the basket that sits by my chair. I run my fingertips over the cover, trying desperately to feel Sergei’s hand in return. I flip open the cover and turn the pages to my favorite letter:

  Masha Pasha,

  Do you remember that summer when you and I sat by the lake at the dacha? Do you remember what you told me you wanted to be when you grew up? You said you wanted to be an acrobat. I wanted to laugh when you said that, Masha. Just the night before, you tripped walking from one end of the room to the other. You, with the clumsy feet and wild energy, wanted to be an acrobat in the circus.

  But I didn’t laugh because you were so sincere. I heard the hope in your voice. Thank you, Masha, for sharing that secret with me. You probably don’t even remember that conversation, but I do. I remember it because that was the day you taught me what it means to love someone so much that you want the impossible for them. I knew then, as I know now, that you probably wouldn’t be an acrobat in the circus. But I believe more than anything, my darling sister, that you’re going to do great things because you aren’t afraid to try anything. You deserve to reach the highest mountain, Masha. Oh how I hope this war doesn’t steal your tenacity for life. Don’t let it, Masha. Don’t let these dark days change the essence of who you are.

  My Masha, you must know that you deserve love, and I hope you find it. Every time I walk into a battle I think of you, and I remember why I’m fighting. I’m fighting so you can live and dream and do anything you want to do.

  Although I do hope, Mashinka, that you learn to walk in a straight line before you audition for the circus.

  I love you, my dear and precious sister. I wish for nothing more in this life than to know that you’re well and happy. I hope to tell you these things in person someday, but if I can’t, and you must instead read this letter, hear my heart. You’re my inspiration. Live life, Masha. Live it fully and wholly and without an ounce of fear.

  With love,

  Your (very handsome and wickedly clever) brother, Sergei

  I’ve read that letter so many times I know it by heart, yet still I continue to read it again, always fluctuating between tears and laughter. Today is no different.

  I look up when I hear the key in the door. The door swings open, and I rush forward to help Mama with the bags of food in her hands.

  “Thank you, darling,” she says as she kicks the door closed behind her.

  “How was work today, Mama?” I ask. Mama got a job at the local supermarket, and in exchange for her work she receives a small salary and a few bags of groceries every week. This is good, as Papa has been unable to find work since the war ended.

  “It was good,” Mama answers. “I went by the post office on the way home. We got another letter from Anna. Papa will be here in a minute. I saw him on my way home. He and Maxim were talking around the corner.”

  My heart skips a beat when Mama mentions Maxim’s name. I feel her look up at me with a twinkle in her eye. My cheeks flush, and I turn and move to the kitchen, depositing the grocery sacks on the table.

  Mama walks in behind me and sets her sacks beside mine. Together we pull the items out and put them away.

  “You seem a little flushed, dear. Is everything alright?” Mama’s voice is casual, but I hear the meaning behind her question. I just don’t know how to respond.

  “Da,” I reply. “Just fine.”

  Mama raises her eyebrows, then shrugs her shoulders. “I’ll make some chai so we can all sit together and read Anna’s letter,” Mama says. I stand mute, unsure of what to do or say. Finally, I turn and make my way back to the front room to wait.

  Anna is still in Germany. I miss her. Each time a letter arrives, I feel my heart constrict with a longing for life the way it once was, when we were together and whole. Anna is now married to Boris, a Ukrainian man who was sent to the same farm in Germany and who worked as a farmhand throughout the war, sparing him the worst of Germany’s wrath. Because tensions are so high between our countries, and due to the mistrust of all who were forced to work in Germany during the war, Anna and Boris chose to stay in Germany. She writes as frequently as she can, and each letter gives Mama and Papa such a boost of good cheer that I find myself wishing she could write every day.

  The lock on the door turns, and Papa pushes it open. He shuffles inside, closing the door behind him. He turns and sees me waiting.

  “There’s my Mashinka,” he says with a smile. I stand on my toes and give him a soft kiss on the cheek.

  “Hi, Papa.” He kisses the top of my head and puts his arm around me. Together we walk into the sitting room. Mama is there setting out the chai and a loaf of bread.

  “Tanyushka,” Papa says, and Mama rushes into his arms. He kisses her forehead gently. “How was work today?” he asks.

  Mama pulls back and waves her hand in the air. “Oh, work is work,” she mumbles. She reaches into her front pocket and pulls out the small envelope. “We got a new letter from Anna,” she says with a wide smile.

  Papa grins when he hears of the letter. He holds out his hand, and Mama places the paper into his palm.

  Papa sits down as he slowly opens the letter and begins to read:

  “My dear family,

  “I hope this letter finds you well. I will open my letter with the best of news. Mama and Papa, you are grandparents! Boris and I had a son on April 10. His name is Sergei Borislavich. He’s beautiful and wonderful, and how I hope you will meet him. Our German host family says they believe someday we’ll be able to travel back and forth between our countries safely, perhaps sooner than many of us realize. But until that time, know that I speak of you daily to my darling Seryosha.

  “Boris still works as a farmhand for the German family who we’ve worked for since we were brought here. Though I still sense their suspicion of us due to our heritage, they’re kind and good, and they pay us fairly for our work. I have gone back to work as a kitchen hand just this last month, and Seryosha joins me each day as I work. He’s really a delightful little boy. He looks a lot like you, Papa!

  “Boris talks daily of his desire to meet you. He’s said that the first chance we get to come visit, we will do so. I’m so thankful to have married a man like him, Papa. He’s such a good worker, and he loves Seryosha and me desperately.

  “Please write back. I received your last letter. It took four months to arrive, but I got it, and I was so happy to hear from all of you. And Masha, please write me separately and tell me all about you.

  “I miss you all and love you desperately. With all my love from Germany!

  “Anna”

  “Oh Ivan, we have a grandson!” Mama claps her hands, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks. Papa sits back in his chair with a small smile.

  “She named him Sergei,” he whispers. I try to think of something to say, but when I open my mouth I simply let out a hearty laugh. Mama and Papa look at me in surprise.

  “What is it, Masha?” Papa asks. His eyes shine bright, and I snicker again.

  “I just can’t believe Anna has a baby, and she named him Sergei!” I laugh. “It’s wonderful and … I don’t know why it’s funny,” I say with a snort. Mama smiles, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek.

  “It’s funny because it’s happy,” she says. “This is something to be happy about, and laughter is a good thing.”

  Papa opens his mouth to speak when we’re interrupted by a knock at the door. “Ah, speaking of happy, that’s probably Maxim,” Papa says. “Masha, go let him in, please.” I stand up slowly, unnerved by the twinkle in my father’s eye and the mischievous grin that flashes across his face. He looks at Mama, who busies herself with the teacups.

  Walking quickly to the door, I pull it open to face Max. He’s dressed i
n a crisp shirt and clean pants, but dirt still clings to his hands, caked beneath his fingernails—the residue of a long day’s work.

  “Hi, Masha,” Max says lightly, and I blush. I look up at him with a shy smile.

  “Hi. Please come in,” I say softly.

  Max follows me into the sitting room and quickly walks over to Papa, who stands up to shake his hand. Max leans forward, kisses Mama on the cheek, and sits down in the chair next to her. Mama grabs his hand, giving it a tight squeeze.

  In the two years since I’ve been home, Max has visited with us at least five evenings a week. He regales us with war tales of Sergei, and despite the fact that we have heard every story more than once, Max continues to retell each experience because he knows that we just can’t get enough.

  Max has become a balm to my own shattered soul. In recent months I’ve realized more and more that my love for Max goes beyond that of friendship. Just thinking of it leaves my cheeks flushed.

  “Masha, are you alright?” Mama asks.

  “What?” I jump, startled from my thoughts.

  “Your face is quite red,” Mama points out. I look at Papa and see the smile again, and I feel the heat grow on my cheeks.

  “I’m fine. I’ll go make some more chai,” I mumble, grabbing the tray of empty mugs and hustling from the room. I settle the teakettle over the small flame on the stove, then turn around to find another mug and stop short at the sight of Max standing in the doorway. He watches me with a soft, gentle look in his eyes.

  “Is everything okay, Masha?” he asks. Every time he says my name, my knees shake, and I have to swallow hard. I don’t trust my emotions—they betrayed me before, so how am I to know if what I feel is genuine or misguided?

  “Fine,” I say, but my voice comes out a whisper. My heart thumps, and I feel entirely swept up in this powerful emotion.

  Max takes a step forward. I look up at him, feeling quite small next to his tall, broad frame. He clears his throat, and I notice that he, too, appears nervous and unsure.

  “Masha,” he begins. My heart flutters at the way my name rolls off his tongue. “I—” Max stops and chuckles, shaking his head.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “If Sergei were here, he would probably hit me for what I’m about to do.”

  My heart jumps as I gaze steadily at his handsome face. His eyes are dark and kind, his mouth turned up slightly in a mixed look of nervousness and amusement. He runs his hand through his thick, black hair, and I notice that his fingers tremble slightly.

  “What are you about to do?” I ask, my voice quaking.

  Max takes a breath and steps closer to me. He reaches down and grabs my hands in his, pulling them up to his chest. I can hardly breathe.

  “Sergei loved you so much, Masha,” Max whispers, and my eyes fill with tears. “He talked about you every single day, and he longed for nothing more than to know you would be protected and happy and free to live your life.”

  A single tear escapes my eye and rolls down my face. Max lets go of my hand and reaches forward, brushing his thumb across my cheek.

  “I’m in love with you, Masha,” Max says. “I want to be the one to protect you and love you and make you happy.”

  I take a deep breath and search his face. “Why?” I ask. “Are you just doing this because you think it’s what Sergei would want, or are your feelings genuine?”

  A brief look of disappointment flashes across Max’s face. He tips his head to the side with a quizzical look, like that of a puppy dog hoping to receive approval. “Masha, I have loved you for over a year now, but I knew you weren’t ready for this. I could see your conflict, and I knew you needed time to mourn and grieve the life you lost.” I take a step closer, now almost fully leaning into his broad chest.

  “So why are you telling me this now?” I ask. “What makes you think I’m ready?”

  Max pulls me all the way in, and I lay my head against his chest. My whole body grows warm as he kisses the top of my head gently. He wraps his arms around me tight, and I slowly release the fears and doubts, abandoning them to this love that suddenly feels real and right and good.

  “Your father told me you’re ready. He’s given me his blessing.”

  I push back and look up at him in surprise. “Papa told you that?”

  Max smiles and nods. “He told me he thinks you’re ready to love and be loved. Is he right?” Max’s eyes search mine, and for a brief moment, the fears try to resurface. Ewald’s face flashes through my mind as the shame of my poor judgment constricts.

  But Max pulls me back. I blink and the image of Ewald melts away. All that’s left is Max and love. I nod my head.

  “He’s right,” I whisper. “Max I … I love you, too.”

  Max smiles and leans forward. He puts his forehead against mine and looks at me gently. “I’ll make you happy, Masha,” he says, and I smile.

  “I’m happy right now,” I answer. “I’m happy for the first time in a long, long time.” I fall back into Max’s embrace, and together we stand united until the teakettle begins to sing. As I gather the mugs and sugar and load it all onto a tray to take into the sitting room, I look over at the man who’s brought color into the world again, and I smile.

  This moment is the end and the beginning all rolled into one. “This is Sergei’s wish come to life,” I whisper. Max smiles.

  “Dreams can still come true, dorogaya,” he says with a wink. He picks up the tray, and together we walk into the sitting room. Max crosses the room and sets the tray in front of Mama and Papa, who both look back and forth between us with eyebrows raised and questioning eyes. I throw my head back and laugh, and Papa jumps out of his chair, clapping his hands.

  He grabs Max by the shoulders and reaches out his hand to me. I walk forward into my father’s waiting embrace, and Mama stands up to join our united circle. Together, we are finally complete.

  LUDA

  July 10, 1947

  Leaning forward, I whisper my prayers over his soft, clean head. Brushing the strands of sandy hair off his forehead, I cover him with my wishes and all my hopes for his future.

  “Mama,” he says, and I sit up, surprised.

  “Sasha,” I whisper with a smile. “I thought you were sleeping. Were you tricking me?” I tickle him under the chin, and he giggles.

  “I’m never sleeping when you come in here at night,” he says with a mischievous grin. I throw my head back and laugh. My son, now five, is so full of spunk and life that I can hardly stand to be away from him. He breathes life and laughter into a room, and I’m unendingly grateful for the gift I’ve been given in him.

  “Mama, why do you talk funny when you come in my room at night?” Sasha asks. His eyes are wide, framing his soft, round face all dotted with freckles.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “You don’t talk real,” Sasha says. “You talk funny.”

  I smile and lean over him. “I’m speaking a different language,” I tell him. “I am praying for you in the language of my father.”

  I speak only German to Sasha. I don’t want him to stand out in this adopted country of ours for any reason, so I haven’t spoken directly to him in Russian since we first arrived so many years ago. I save my native tongue for the stolen whispers uttered in the night. Whispers and prayers that I thought were a sacred secret.

  “Who is your father?” Sasha asks. I sit up a little straighter and study him closely. He’s still so young and innocent. I don’t know how much to tell him and how to help him understand.

  “My father’s name is Alexei,” I answer, and I swallow over my lie, over the secret that I cannot bear to utter. I will never speak of that other man to my son.

  “Where is he?” Sasha asks.

  “He lives in the Soviet Union,” I answer. “In a town called Vinnitsya.”

  Sasha rolls to his side and yawns, then turns to look up at me. “Mama?” he asks.

  “Yes, sweet boy?”

  “Who is my father
?”

  I suck in a sharp breath and run my hand over his cheek again. His eyes are drooping, and I know he needs only a simple answer. “Your father is a good, good man who’s protecting us all from harm.”

  Sasha smiles and closes his eyes. In less than a minute, his breathing evens out, and I lean forward to kiss his soft cheek. Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I stand up and tiptoe out of the room, making my way downstairs.

  Sophia sits on the couch, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. She looks up at me with a smile. “Is he sleeping?” she asks. Then she stops and turns to look at me more closely. “What’s the matter? Your face is white!”

  I walk to the couch and collapse beside her, burying my face in my hands. “He asked,” I murmur. Sophia doesn’t speak. She simply waits. I turn to look at her. “Sophia, he wanted to know who his father was,” I say. I hear the conflict in my own voice.

  “What did you tell him?” she asks quietly.

  “I told him his father was a good man,” I answer, and Sophia nods.

  “But you aren’t satisfied with this answer, are you?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to lie to him, but how could I ever tell him the truth, Sophia? How could I ever tell him that I don’t know who his father is—that he was conceived in the worst and most horrific way possible?”

  Sophia sets her mug down and grabs my hand. “Luda, you don’t have to tell him any of that,” she says. “Especially not now. He’s too young to comprehend that sort of … evil.”

  “I know, but do I ever tell him the truth?” I ask, my voice quaking. Sophia drops my hands and sits back on the couch.

  “I don’t know,” she answers.

  I lean back on the couch and close my eyes. It’s been four years since I arrived in Germany, and we’ve heard nothing at all from Hans, yet somehow I still believe in my heart that he’s alive. Sophia is less convinced.