The Blackbird Girls

by Anne Blankman

  Together, the girls moved Valentina’s junk onto the balcony. In the courtyard below, a couple of cats yowled.

  “I didn’t know your grandmother has friends in Uzbekistan,” Oksana said to Valentina.

  Valentina shrugged. “I guess she does. I wonder what the drawing of the bird meant.”

  After Valentina had gone inside, Oksana rested her cheek on the balcony railing. It had to be nearly nine o’clock, but the sky was still blue and flooded with clouds.

  It had hurt to think of her father, but there had been good times with him, too. On summer holidays, they had gone to the village where her parents had grown up, and drunk juice from birch and maple trees and picked mushrooms and sorrel. Papa taught her to gather stinging nettle and goosefoot. They always celebrated Ivan Kupala, the night of the summer solstice. They searched for ferns, for it was said that ferns grew in places where the earth’s treasure was buried. Her father had leapt over a bonfire with her in his arms, when she had been too frightened to jump on her own.

  She didn’t understand how he could have been both wonderful and terrible. Why couldn’t he have been one or the other? Then she would have been able to love or hate him.

  Instead, she felt stuck.

  28

  SOMEWHERE IN THE SOVIET UNION

  SEPTEMBER–DECEMBER 1941

  Rifka

  ALL NIGHT THE barge floated down the river. Rifka huddled beside some crates, shivering in her wet clothes. Eventually, the bombs stopped falling. The sky became black again. Maybe the warplanes had run low on fuel and had to fly back to Germany. Or maybe they had set up an airfield in her own country. She didn’t know.

  Some passengers talked in whispers. The only other sound came from the splash of water against the sides of the barge. Rifka looked back. She couldn’t see the shadows of the navy ships anymore. Had they been sunk? Or had they stopped, for some reason?

  She should have stayed in the woods. Then she would have been able to walk home to Kiev. She wanted her mother so badly her chest ached. She didn’t care what would happen to her if she went home; she could survive anything, as long as she was with her family. But now, alone, and not even knowing where she was . . . She pressed her fingers to her eyes, forcing the tears away. She’d go home. As soon as the barge docked. She’d find a way back.

  “Only if you wish to die,” said the man who’d pulled her into the water, when she told him her plans. “The Germans have surrounded Kiev. They may have already captured it. That’s why we were running.” He waved a hand to indicate the other people sitting on the barge.

  “Why do you want to escape the Germans?” Rifka asked. The man had blond hair and blue eyes—surely he was a Ukrainian, not a Jew, and had nothing to fear from the German army.

  The man sighed. “When they reached my village, they burned many of the farms. They shot some of my neighbors. Those of us who were left ran to the woods to hide from them. One of us had heard there might be a barge coming down the river, and so we ran to the water, hoping to board the barge and get away from here.”

  Rifka looked around. Even in the darkness, she could tell there couldn’t be more than fifty people sitting on the deck. “What about the people who were left behind?”

  “I don’t know,” he said softly. “Some probably drowned. Others may have been killed by a bomb. I hope many made it back to shore.”

  She shuddered. All those people, women and babies and children and men, dying in the dark. “I hope they all swam to shore, too,” she said fervently.

  The man fell silent. After a while, Rifka decided to try to sleep. She curled herself into a ball, holding her satchel tightly. If she could find a way to return to Kiev, should she go?

  Then she thought of the last time she’d seen her mother. Mama had said she was sending her away because she loved her so much.

  Because she wanted to give Rifka a chance to survive.

  The thought tightened Rifka’s chest. Did that mean her mother and brothers might die after the Germans conquered their city? Surely the Germans wouldn’t kill a woman and her babies.

  She stared up at the night sky. It looked like a pool of black ink. It was the same sky Mama and her brothers saw from their apartment; the same sky Papa saw from the battlefield.

  She could still feel close to them, even if she was far away. And she would say the prayers her father used to say to her every night, when he tucked her into bed. She would pray, and she wouldn’t forget who she was, and she would escape, for her family’s sake.

  Closing her eyes, she felt tears seeping out from under closed lids. She didn’t think she’d fall asleep, but eventually she felt her body relaxing and her mind drifting off.

  The next thing she knew, someone was jostling her shoulder and saying, “Wake up, child.”

  Her eyes flew open. An old woman was leaning over her. “Come,” the old woman said. “The barge has docked. It won’t be traveling any farther.”

  Hastily, Rifka scrambled to her feet. While she had slept, her clothes had dried, but her woolen coat and layers of heavy skirts felt stiff and smelled of river water. Her trousers, which she wore under the skirts, itched her legs.

  But she was alive. And the sky, which was wide and gray, was filled with clouds, not airplanes, and the air smelled of hay and grass, not smoke or burning wood. She didn’t know where she was, but it hardly mattered—the Germans weren’t here.

  “Come along,” the old woman said. “We must move quickly.”

  We? Rifka saw some of the barge’s passengers stood on the grassy bank, waiting for her and the old woman. She had thought she would have to go on alone.

  The man who had helped her last night beckoned to her. “Hurry!” he called. “We want to find a route well before nightfall.”

  And that was how Rifka found herself part of a group of Ukrainians—Ukrainians, who she had always thought hated Jews!—and how she and her new friends began to make their way southeast, away from the Germans. Even though the Ukrainians were kind to her, when they asked her name, she said Yelena, and she prayed only in her mind, so no one would hear the Hebrew words.

  Sometimes Rifka and her companions hitched rides on hay carts, from farmers who were traveling to market. Most days, though, they walked. The dirt roads took them farther and farther away from Ukraine, and Rifka saw the land change from the flat steppes she knew so well to hardened, dusty plains. No trains were running. They had all been bombed or recommissioned by the Germans, Rifka was told.

  There were days when she was so hungry she could think of nothing but food. Other days, she was so tired each step was agony. Her face was chapped from the wind, and her skin itched everywhere from wearing the same dirty clothes all the time. Her blisters burst and filled her boots with blood. Eventually, her boots fell apart, and she had to rip pieces of fabric from the hems of her skirts, to wind around her feet and pray they kept her safe from frostbite.

  So far, it had not snowed. The sky had turned the color of pewter, and the temperature had dropped to about forty degrees, but nothing had fallen from the clouds except rain. Surely, though, the first snowfall was coming, for they had been on the road for weeks. Then what would they do? How would they survive?

  “You mustn’t ask yourself those questions,” said the old woman when Rifka asked her. “You’re only borrowing trouble.”

  “All right.” Rifka shivered in the cold. It was night, and the group was preparing to lie down in a field and sleep. Some of the grown-ups were draping their coats over their children, while others were resting their heads on their satchels, which they used as pillows.

  She lay on the ground, cushioning her head on her knapsack. It was time for her to say her nightly prayers in her head. First, she asked God to keep her like Sarah, Rachel, Rifka, and Leah, the mothers of her religion. Her chest felt warm when she reached her namesake, Rifka. This was the prayer her father used to sa
y at bedtime. He would place his hand on her head and say the words in his deep voice. She used to feel so special.

  Slowly, she felt herself drifting off. The next thing she knew, hands had seized her shoulders and she was being yanked to her feet.

  “She’s speaking Hebrew!” shouted a man’s voice. “She’s a Jew!”

  Oh God, what was happening? Eyes blinked at her in the darkness. The others were waking up—they would hear the man!

  Panic swamped her chest. “I’m not a Jew! I wasn’t speaking in Hebrew; I was asleep.”

  “She was talking in her sleep,” said the man to the others. “Muttering about wanting Adonai to protect her. Adonai is the name of the Jewish God. She’s a Jew!”

  One of the women—Rifka couldn’t see who it was in the darkness—stood up. “You never told us why you were alone in the woods, when we found you,” she said slowly. “Or why you had to leave Kiev. Those were mostly Jews escaping Kiev, that’s what I heard.”

  “Leave us,” said a man. “You’re on your own now.”

  “No! Please!” Rifka gasped. “I’ll die out here if I’m by myself.”

  “Go,” said the man gripping her shoulders, and he pushed her forward so hard she nearly fell. He marched her toward the road as she tried to appeal to the others.

  “You’ve known me for three months,” she cried. “We’ve become friends! Don’t turn me out, please!”

  They looked away from her. She called out to Anatoly, the man who had helped her onto the barge, but he only hung his head, not meeting her eyes.

  “Please!” she shouted, even though she already knew it was useless. “I’ll die out there!”

  The man holding her dragged her onto the dirt road. Then he released her. Another man shoved her satchel into her arms. “Go now, and count yourself lucky this is all we’re doing to you.”

  She understood what he meant: she was lucky they hadn’t beaten or killed her.

  Clutching the satchel, she began to run. She didn’t know which direction she went, east or west, only that it was away. She ran until the strips of fabric around her feet came loose. Her breath hitched in her chest. She looked around. There was nothing in sight except a dirt road and fields. No buildings, no people.

  She would die out here on her own once the snows came.

  Her religion had destroyed her life. It had convinced her mother to send her from Kiev. It had been the reason the Ukrainian farmer had taken Nathan. And now it was the reason she was alone.

  She began walking. She would never worship again. God had left her in the wilderness to die—why should she praise Him?

  She walked until she could walk no longer, and then she slept until the sun was high in the sky. The thermos in her satchel was half-full of water, and she had a piece of bread, but those would run out soon. Then what would she do?

  Trying to conserve her supplies, she ate only a mouthful of bread and drank a sip of water. Her head felt so light, as though it might fly away.

  She got to her feet and kept walking. She didn’t know why she was trying to live. She ought to lie down and give up.

  Something inside her, though, wouldn’t let her. She plodded along. The way the sun moved across the sky told her that she was heading southeast, away from the fighting.

  For three days, she survived on the water and bread. When she had nothing left, she walked for another day. Sometimes, she saw cottages in the distance. She didn’t dare go to them and ask for help. The people here probably hated Jews, too. And it wouldn’t matter that she didn’t worship anymore. They would say her Jewishness was in her blood and bones.

  On the fourth afternoon, snow began to fall. The ground turned white, and her feet grew wet and cold. She had to clamp her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Every part of her cried out for her mother.

  She didn’t want to live anymore. She couldn’t go on like this. Life was too hard. And lonely.

  She sank to her knees. The snow was so cold. Gritting her teeth, she lay down. She closed her eyes. Snowflakes fell on her face.

  Oh God, oh God, she thought over and over. She didn’t know why she was calling out to God now, but she couldn’t help it.

  Gradually, she became warm. The snow was a blanket, cocooning her. She felt herself floating up into the sky.

  Dimly, she heard the tramp of footsteps in snow. Someone touched her arm. She wanted to open her eyes and look at the person, but her lids felt too heavy.

  “Ona, she’s alive!” called a girl’s voice in Russian.

  “Quickly, help me carry her inside.” It was a woman’s voice.

  Hands hooked under Rifka’s armpits and legs. She felt herself being lifted into the air. She couldn’t bear it. She had to see what was happening to her.

  With her little remaining strength, she opened her eyes.

  A girl was holding her legs and struggling forward in the snow. Someone else was holding Rifka’s armpits—she couldn’t tilt her head back to see who it was.

  The girl looked worried. “Good, you’re awake,” she said. “We’re almost home.”

  Rifka had never seen anyone before who looked like this girl. Her black hair was gathered into dozens of tiny braids that rained down her back. She wore a tight-fitting cap that was embroidered with colorful designs. Her skin was tawny beige.

  “Don’t fall asleep,” the girl said urgently. “Or you might not wake up.”

  Rifka’s eyelids shut. It hurt too much to keep them open.

  “Don’t fall asleep!” the girl shouted.

  “I won’t,” Rifka tried to say. The words, though, stuck in her throat, and she sank into a welcome blackness.

  29

  LENINGRAD, RUSSIA, SOVIET UNION

  SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER 1986

  Valentina

  SEPTEMBER FIRST WAS the start of sixth grade. Before the bell rang, Valentina and Oksana waited in the yard with their friends Lyudmila and Yulia. Valentina could scarcely wait to go inside: this year they were supposed to begin algebra.

  “Sixth grade at last!” Yulia exclaimed. “Next year we’ll finally be the oldest in the middle school.”

  “Yes, and the boys will be as hopeless as ever.” Lyudmila sighed.

  “Ugh. Who cares about them?” Valentina rolled her eyes.

  “They aren’t so bad,” Yulia said.

  The girls stared at her. Yulia blushed. “Why are you all looking at me?” she asked, and Valentina and Lyudmila burst into laughter. Oksana looked away.

  Later, when they were lining up to go inside, Valentina whispered to Oksana, “Are you all right? You looked upset when we were talking about boys.”

  A flush crept up Oksana’s neck. “I don’t like being around boys. They’re so rough on the playground.”

  Now that Valentina thought about it, she’d never seen Oksana playing with boys. She cringed when boys raced past on the play yard or in the communal kitchen. She shrank, too, when she and Valentina bumped into one of the men from their apartment building in the stairwell. Valentina had thought Oksana was shy, but she didn’t act that way with girls. Valentina thought of how Oksana’s burned shoulder had looked, and she squeezed Oksana’s hand. “I won’t play with any boys if you don’t want to.”

  One of the boys in their class turned around. He pretended to pick his nose and flicked the imaginary snot at them.

  Valentina made a gagging sound. “Besides, why would I want to?”

  This time, Oksana laughed.

  Their new teacher picked up right where their fifth-grade teacher had left off. They were expected to study the periodic table in chemistry, memorize portions of Pushkin’s poems in literature, and learn about the Great Patriotic War in history.

  The best part, though, was listening to the teacher talk about the statue of Peter the Great, which was called the Bronze Horseman. Valentina remembered seeing it
with Oksana in Decembrists’ Square on May Day, when Babulya had let them wander the city.

  “The statue,” the teacher said, “is now on top of a granite boulder known as Thunder Stone. The story behind this boulder is fascinating. Many years after Peter died, Catherine the Great decided to have a statue erected in his honor. For the pedestal, she wanted to use a boulder from Lakhta. This was located over two hundred kilometers away, off the Gulf of Finland. According to legend, the boulder had been hit by lightning. In order to use it, however, engineers had to transport it to the city. Your task is to write an essay explaining how you would have sent the boulder to Leningrad. Remember, no cheating and finding out how the engineers truly did it!”

  That night, Valentina and Oksana spent hours drawing diagrams, trying to figure out how it could have been done. Valentina came up with a complicated pulley-and-lever system, while Oksana decided the stone should be rolled to the sea, then set on a ship’s deck and sailed to Leningrad.

  The next day at school they found out what had truly happened: a road was cut through the forest to the stone, which was then lifted with levers onto a log platform. It took about five months to pull the stone nine kilometers to the sea, where it was placed on a raft and towed to the place that would eventually become Decembrists’ Square.

  “Brilliant,” Valentina told Oksana. They spent that evening drawing the platform and the raft, debating how many levers had been used and how wide the raft had been.

  On their way to recess the following day, their teacher drew them aside. She held their assignments in her hand. “Valentina, have you considered becoming an engineer?” she asked.

  Valentina nodded. “Yes, or an inventor. I’ve always wanted to build things.”

  “And how about you, Oksana?” the teacher asked. “Your drawings are very good.”

  Oksana turned red. “I want to be an artist,” she said softly.