Dobryd

by Ann Charney

  I don’t know why Yuri was drawn to us more than to the other survivors, perhaps because of me, perhaps because my mother and my aunt were women without men. Yuri was very chivalrous. Although he fought side by side with Russian women soldiers without apparent constraint, with other women his attitude changed. He became very gentle and shy. Towards my aunt, in particular, he behaved with extreme courtesy and refinement. His manner with her seemed somehow incongruous with his usual tough behaviour. He was very appealing.

  Yuri’s arrival in our lives had seemed miraculous. One day we had been abandoned, starving, without hope. The next day we had acquired a kind and devoted protector. From the very beginning, he had a way of making people laugh, even my mother and my aunt. He was not alone in this. All his friends, the young soldiers he brought with him to visit us, had this characteristic. They had been fighting for months, some of them for years, against terrible odds, yet they had about them an air of gaiety and good cheer. Theirs was the care-free laughter one associates with casual pleasures, and not with fighting and dying.

  Soon Yuri began to come to us not only as our protector, but also as a friend. He was delighted with my aunt when she told him to call her ciociu, as I did. In a short while, they created a relationship in which she became his distant mother and he was her son who had left for the war. It was an expedient duplication, they realized. They were stand-ins for principals who never appeared. Yet there was genuine feeling between them, apart from the ghosts they sought in each other.

  Yuri spoke often of his real mother, whom he hadn’t seen or heard from in months. His father and his brothers had all been killed by the Germans early in the war. Then it had been his turn to go into the army. He was still an adolescent when he left his village, and although he had since grown into a man and witnessed all kinds of horror, his longing for home had never diminished.

  He showed us photographs he had carried with him during the battles of Stalingrad and Leningrad, when the Russians had at last succeeded in driving the Germans back. He described his village, the friends he had there, his favourite walks and pastimes when he was growing up. Any incident could precipitate the flow of his reminiscences. Perhaps this was something else he and my aunt shared. During the months of loneliness he had reworked his memories, expanded them, and kept guard over them. In normal times these would have been overlaid with newer experiences, but in the midst of war he preferred to hold on to them until they had flourished to such an extent that he could no longer contain them in his head.

  His meeting with us provided the necessary outlet. With great relief it all came spilling out. The age of his listener was not important. Many times when he and I were together, he would talk to me as he talked to my aunt or my mother, and I would feel flattered by this intimacy between us and hide the fact that I understood very little of what he said.

  One day, as a special treat, my aunt prepared a favourite dish of Yuri’s, made of mushrooms and cream. It reminded Yuri of the woods near his village, and the mushrooms that grew there in great abundance. My mother had also enjoyed picking mushrooms as a girl, and they began to compare their hunts and the special, memorable specimens they had discovered.

  As they incited each other through a mutual pleasure in this subject, Yuri became more and more excited, as if he were actually about to discover a rare, hidden growth. My mother, on the other hand, was affected in a different way. She grew sadder and quieter, and soon Yuri was the only one left talking.

  He noticed her changed mood and stopped, surprised.

  “What is the matter,” he asked her. “Have I said something to upset you?”

  “No, no,” she assured him. “It gives me great pleasure to listen to you, it’s only that.…”

  “Only what?” he persisted, and so, reluctantly, not wanting to ruin for him the pleasure of his reminiscence, she answered.

  “Well, you see,” she answered, “you will return to your woods one day. Mine will never grow again.”

  Yuri, who could not bear the thought that there were pains he could not alleviate, did not answer her, or so it seemed at the moment. He turned to me and picked me up. I saw that he had twisted his face into one of the funny masks that always delighted me. But this time I knew our game was different. We were not playing merely for our own pleasure. My mother was our audience and her laughter was to be our applause. I understood this as well as if he had whispered instructions in my ear, and I cooperated fully, going along with him in the pretence that the game only involved the two of us.

  III

  Yuri was now part of our household. He still slept in the army barracks, but he was with us every day. At night, an extra plate of food waited for him. When he arrived at last, he would unbutton his tunic, pull off his boots, and sigh like a man who had come home. There was no electricity then, and we often sat in the dark, talking. I would fall asleep listening, and then Yuri would help my mother put me to bed. Sometimes he managed to get fuel for our lamp. Then Yuri and I would play while my aunt mended clothes and my mother worked on her translations.

  After the first weeks in Dobryd, the Red Army established control over the town and its surrounding region, and there was little to keep the soldiers busy. Yuri, with time on his hands, would now be in and out of the house, like any member of the family. When he came, he was never idle. Often he would arrive early in the morning, just as my aunt set out for the marketplace, carrying bags of merchandise, odds and ends to sell, or to exchange for fuel or food. He would take the bags from her and carry them to the market. There he would help her to set up the little kiosk and spread her wares.

  Often they would meet soldiers along the way, friends of Yuri’s who found his attachment to us slightly ridiculous. They teased him and laughed at him when they met him like this, carrying bags of cast-offs for an elderly lady, but Yuri remained perfectly at ease. He laughed at himself as easily as his friends did and went right on doing what had to be done without any sign of embarrassment.

  Once, however, there was trouble. Yuri had just deposited my aunt, with her bags, in her usual place. Next to her, one of our neighbours sat in a make-shift shelter selling cigarettes. A Russian officer, one of Yuri’s superiors, bargained with the woman about the price. She refused to lower it. The officer became angry, especially when he noticed that my aunt and Yuri were witnesses to his haggling. In disgust, he threw down the handful of cigarettes he had chosen. They spilled everywhere on the ground. The woman began to berate him as she bent to pick them up, quietly, however, since her fear of him restrained her anger. Even so, he heard her. He turned around and came back.

  “How dare you insult a Russian officer? You’re lucky I don’t have you arrested for trying to rob our soldiers.”

  The woman muttered something, a plea perhaps, since she seemed ready to fall on her knees before him. Her submissiveness only incited him further. “That’s enough. Stop whining. You don’t fool me with your meekness. I know your kind. You were happy enough when we came and freed you from the Germans but already you’re robbing us. All you Jews are the same. You live for money. It’s no use expecting you to have honour or loyalty. You’d sell your own people if you had the chance.”

  The officer’s voice had carried, and now there was quite a crowd around him and the unfortunate woman. Her cheeks were as flushed as his, but her eyes were downcast, her lips pressed together. Silence remained her only defence.

  Yuri walked over to the officer and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Excuse me, captain, but you have no right to say any of the things you’ve been saying. You should apologize to these women.”

  “Apologize? Why, you little worm, who the hell are you? What right do you have to correct my behaviour? Do you know what I can do to you for this? You’ve been hanging around with Jews so long you’ve forgotten how to behave with Russians.”

  “No comrade, I have not forgotten anything. It’s you who need to be reminded of certain things. This lady”—Yuri pointed to my aunt—“has given he
r son to fight the Germans. All these people have lost relatives to our common enemy. They’ve suffered enough. It’s not right to abuse them any more.”

  The captain was speechless for a moment. Then, suddenly aware of the crowd, which was growing larger than ever, he turned to Yuri and ordered him to follow. We all watched as they walked away briskly. Some of the children wanted to run after them, but they were quickly and decisively restrained. As soon as Yuri and the captain were out of sight, discussion broke out all around us. Some accused the woman of bringing on new troubles. Others vented their anger on the captain. My aunt was certain she would never see Yuri alive again.

  In the evening, however, he showed up at our house at the usual time. He laughed and hugged my aunt as she poured out to him all the fearful situations her imagination had placed him in throughout this long day. Of course, he had been subjected to a severe tongue lashing; that was to be expected, but it really had not been very bad. The captain was hot-tempered and proud, but essentially a good man. In fact, Yuri warned my aunt, she should not be too surprised if the captain came to the market one day and apologized.

  As it happened, the captain never came again to the marketplace, either to apologize or to shop. Yuri had over-estimated him. Like many of the younger soldiers, Yuri had great faith in his countrymen, in their goodness, their kindness, their great potential for perfecting the world they lived in. When my mother and my aunt explained to him how they saw the incident, as an outbreak of a disease that was at the best of times merely contained and not eradicated, Yuri would never agree with them. The captain, he insisted, was really a good fellow, if a little foolish. In no way did he speak for other Russians.

  Their discussion about the captain went on for some days after the incident. It was dropped finally because they could not convince each other. But it returned in another form when we were preparing to leave Poland. Now, however, in the interest of preserving their friendship, the argument was pushed out of the way. The only reminder of the incident was the captain’s aide. He shopped in the marketplace for his superior, but he always paid promptly, and without hesitation.

  The next crisis went beyond mere insult. The captain may have disappeared from our lives, but Yuri’s role as our protector continued. One night we were in the kitchen where we usually sat in the evenings. My mother often worked there while we kept her company. She brought her work home with her, and in order to have some light to work by she received an extra supply of kerosene. The lamp was lit and her papers were spread before it. Nearby, my aunt sat sewing, while on the floor Yuri was teaching me how to play chess.

  Suddenly my mother jumped from her chair and it toppled over to our chess board. I looked up and saw that the papers were on fire. My mother was hitting the flames with her hands, but to no effect. Yuri was at her side quickly. Before my aunt or I had recovered from the shock of the fire, he had put it out. But he was too late. The papers had been destroyed.

  We were terrified. My mother’s employer was a capricious and irritable man who inspired fear in everyone who worked for him—soldiers and civilians alike. He was quite capable of handing out the most extreme punishment, for an act as inconvenient to him as the one that had just occurred.

  Again, Yuri was the first to recover. He walked over to my mother and took both her hands in his. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll go with you tomorrow and explain everything.”

  “You can’t do that, Yuri,” argued my mother. “You’ve already gotten into trouble because of us. I can’t allow you to get involved any further. I was responsible for those papers and I must tell the colonel what happened.”

  “That’s all right. You can do all the talking, but I’m coming along just in case. Your Russian is not all that good, you know. If you get excited or frightened, then the right words may not come. If I’m there, I can help you.”

  My mother smiled at Yuri and I felt the tension log lessen around me. It had become a frequent source of amusement among us that although my mother was not Russian, she often had to help Yuri with his reading. The war had cut off his education when he was still in his early teens, although, like most Russians, he retained a deep reverence for learning and books. When books from Moscow began to come through to the army base in our town, Yuri launched himself into a determined effort at self-education. Eager as he was, learning was hard work for him. His hands and his mind had grown used to other kinds of tasks, and he was very impatient with his own clumsiness. My mother helped him when she could, with encouragement and direction, and he often teased her about being a harsh teacher.

  His reason for going along with her now was so inadequate that it expressed his good will better than anything. My mother gave way. The next day they set out together, my mother carrying the charred, blackened papers, while Yuri held the kerosene lamp.

  The colonel, impassive, listened to their story and dismissed them without a word. Yuri and my mother did not know what to expect. Then, a week later, soldiers came to our flat and connected our electrical lines. That evening, while we were still marvelling at the change in our lives, the colonel himself arrived. He looked around, touched the new light and turned to leave. With the door open behind him he turned back again to look at my mother. “A translator for the Russian army cannot live like a peasant,” he declared. Without waiting for a response he left. Ours became the first civilian dwelling in town to receive electricity.

  IV

  I began to have nightmares about my mother. Night after night I saw her being captured by the military police and imprisoned. Whenever I had this dream, I would wake up shouting her name, but when she came into my room I couldn’t bring myself to describe the images that frightened me.

  I decided to tell Yuri about my fears. I was too young to realize that my confession might put him in an awkward situation. True enough, he loved us, but he was also an ardent Communist, devoted to the Red Army. Yet I was so sure of his attachment to us that it did not occur to me to wonder how he would react to the news that my mother was stealing from that army.

  We often went for long walks together. On one such occasion, when we were alone far from other people, I spilled out Elsa’s story, my mother’s answer, and the fear with which I now lived. Yuri heard me out with a serious face. He did not try to make me laugh about my fears. Nor did he seem surprised by what I told him. Had he known all along about my mother’s trips?

  We had come to a stone seat in the walls of the old fortifications. Yuri sat down and took my hands in his. Our faces were level. “You did well to speak to me, but now you must promise never to mention this to anyone else.” I promised quickly, impressed by his earnest expression and the sadness in his eyes.

  “What your mother is doing is wrong, but these are very special times. Today, right and wrong are not exactly what they are in times of peace. Your mother has to care for you and your aunt. Right now the army pays her very little—it doesn’t have more—so she does what she can to keep you warm and fed. In this way she is doing the right thing. Someday the state will take care of all its people and no one will have to steal. The war is not over yet, but it will be soon. Then peace and prosperity will come to all of us.”

  Yuri’s eyes were no longer sad. His face had changed into the familiar faraway expression that always accompanied his dreams about the future. It suddenly struck me that my aunt looked just like this when she talked of her summers as a young girl. The resemblance troubled me. What was the link between my aunt’s lost past and the future Yuri promised me?

  “Someday,” he went on, “everyone will be free and happy.” I wanted to believe him and soon all my doubts disappeared. My nightmares stopped. I waited, certain that Yuri would help us.

  He did not fail me. Without telling us, he began to work at getting us out of Dobryd. It was, of course, the only solution. As long as my mother remained in Dobryd, there was no way he could make it unnecessary for her to travel. She had obtained her job only through Yuri’s intercession. It paid very little, but there were
others, as qualified as she, who would have replaced her eagerly. The war had forced everyone to steal and use the black market. There was no other way.

  Somewhere else, however, where conditions were easier, we might have a chance for a more normal life. The town Yuri chose was in the newly acquired German territories. It was relatively undamaged, and it had seemed to Yuri that there were enough abandoned goods and property to assure our comfort.

  He arranged to be transferred, and when he had actually received his orders he rushed to our house to tell us the good news. To his surprise, my mother and my aunt listened to him with apparent dismay. For a moment, even Yuri’s enthusiasm seemed to falter.

  There were hardly any valid reasons they could offer Yuri to explain their reluctance to leave Dobryd. Under its present annexation to Russia, the town had lost its national and linguistic ties to Poland. It had acquired a new Russian name, and they could no longer use their native language in the streets of the town where they were born. Each day they were forced to walk through the ruins of their own past. But none of this mattered. Their attachment to this piece of land was intense and animal-like. They could not bring themselves to leave.

  V

  Then something terrible happened.

  My aunt’s son, Alexander, had been handed over to the Germans by the Ukrainian partisans with whom he had joined forces. The Germans had executed him.

  I was away when the letter arrived bringing this terrible news. I came home some time later and I heard my aunt’s cries even before I reached our floor. As I approached our door the screams increased and I heard other voices moaning. Terrified, I rushed in and headed for the kitchen. I never reached it. A neighbour grabbed me up and carried me out of the apartment.