‘I know,’ her mother shrugged and pressed her palms together as if in prayer. ‘Bozshe moye.’ Dear lord. ‘For twenty years. Same as always. Tired.’
‘Will she ever get better? Isn’t the older sister supposed to teach the younger one of life? Of boys?’ Julia blushed and laughed, her roman nose and sharp cheekbones jutting coyly, but then stopped herself as she saw her mother’s face. ‘Sorry, I just wanted to lighten the air.’
‘I know.’
Julia turned, as if looking for an answer past the door, in the bed where her sister lay, imagining her heart beating feebly.
The kettle boiled with a squeal, and Anna was grateful for the interruption.
‘Mama…’ Julia, now by the door, slid her foot into a boot.
‘Hmm?’
‘I love you.’
‘Little Julia, moya dusha, you are young. Foolish.’
Julia chuckled as she fastened her coat. Her mother still referred to her as her center. Her soul. ‘Fortune favors the foolish.’ She winked at her mother.
Anna wagged a finger. ‘You are impulsive. Be more wary.’
Julia leaned in and kissed her mother’s cheek, the soft skin flushing on impact, and then retreated with a smile.
Her mother waved her away with a cloth that sputtered flour off the ends and watched her move to the door. ‘Wait...’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Anna wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to the heavy wooden dresser that hulked against the wall by the door. On the surface was a deep crack, and on top of it sat a small brown paper parcel, addressed to Kharkiv prison, and wrapped in twine. It smelled of sausage. ‘Take this to the post office. But be careful. Keep--’
‘Yes, yes I know,’ Julia interrupted, tying her scarf around her hair. ‘Keep my head down and don’t draw attention to myself.’
Anna nodded, ushering her off.
Julia walked into the crisp morning and knew that her mother had longed for the faces of her sons.
2
Uzhorod was in the distance, the sky had bloomed in greys and pinks as the sun rose, and now the corners of Hungary and Poland were at their sides and under their cart as they progressed. The edges of the woods teemed with families on similar journeys, all quiet, none exchanging looks with anyone as they kept their heads down, their belongings on their backs. The flat wood rumbled beneath Julia’s hips, rattling her bones, her clothes not nearly enough to pad the space in between. She missed her bed, she missed the smell of her mother’s hair, she missed the sound of her mother’s knife thudding the wood of the kitchen table as she sliced crisp vegetables, or the scratch of it as she scraped the skin off potatoes. She pulled her coat down further on her hands, covering her fingers.
‘Maria?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want to go home.’
‘I know you do.’ Her voice was weak, but still brave. ‘But there’s no home left for us, Julia.’ Her voice faltered, even in its whisper. ‘We had to leave.’
‘I’m hungry. I wonder where that parcel went,’ Julia murmured absentmindedly. ‘We could have kept it. It smelled delicious.’
‘Oh. The one that Mama told you to send to— ‘
‘Yes. The prison.’
‘I know. Well, we have enough, for now.’
‘We could have kept it,’ Julia repeated. ‘It’s gone. They’re gone. And now— ‘
Maria sighed. ‘Stop. We didn’t know, Julia. We didn’t know then. Now try not to look back. We have enough at our feet.’
Julia’s eyes shone like tiny stars in the burgeoning light and she held her hand flat against her coat.
The parcel. She had clutched the it to her chest that day denting the stiff paper with the shape of her hand. She had been tempted to open it, the smell of sausage oil and spices under her nose. Her stomach grumbled at the memory now, her mouth watered.
The path to the post office that day had been as familiar as if it were her own skin, and yet the shaded trees held secrets and fear, the air was peppered with new sounds: unfamiliar trucks, new voices, horses and carts that had a wary urgency. Lviv was once beautiful, full of cafes with people spilling out into the streets, sat at tables, music wafting on the breeze through open windows, the smell of bread and honey and freshly fried sausage. Now, it was haggard and empty, like an old woman that had seen too much pain and had given more of herself than she had. Soldiers didn’t care. They took what they needed and left nothing behind.
Her brothers had been ten years older than her. They were her protectors, the ones that made her laugh, the ones that told her to always be strong.
The day of the brothers’ arrest, the NKVD splintered and scattered across the field, a broken wave of dark uniforms with silvery buttons glinting in the sunlight. Anna had covered Julia’s mouth before she could shout and pushed her and her sister towards the cellar, her father whispering go go, behind them. Before she climbed down into the dark room, she saw her brothers appear, standing next to their mother as she pressed her back against the wall, her hands clasped in prayer. Milo, Julia’s favorite—
the one who had taught her to read, the one who had counted stars with her— stood in his pyjamas with his arm through his mother. He had smiled at Julia before she sunk beneath the earth; she didn’t know it would be the last time she saw his face.
The soldiers pounded on the door to open it, demanding Milo and Bohdan leave the house immediately, as they had been tried and convicted of organizing against the government. They were a part of the young resistance, and they were to be sent to prison.
The sisters had huddled out of sight, underneath wooden planks that were covered by a wool rug, clinging to each other and barely breathing, as they heard footsteps above them, the voices growing louder. The glass and metal of family treasures crashed above them, the smell of cigarette smoke lingering as the officers searched the rooms, only to give up and retreat, threatening their return. She would always remember her mother’s voice, plaintive and raw. Please, she had said. Please not my babies.
Soon after, the family began sending parcels to Kharkiv, the prison they had been taken to— it was where most people were interned before they were released or deported. They sent them what rations they had left— cheese, bread, and small pieces of sausage— weekly, without fail, and had done for a year, waiting for news of their release in the form of a list, or a letter; they were a kind of currency in war.
The parcel, in the end, was useless. Julia had posted it, and had walked back home in the sunlight, her thoughts on the day of chores ahead, and her sister’s health. Those had been the innocent things she was doing when the letter arrived. They had been with their mother, collecting eggs, when her father had called them inside. She had seen it, sitting delicately in the center of the long kitchen table, black block letters on the front:
MISHIK
STRIY
LVIV OBLAST 82424
There had been no return address. They all watched it on the table as if deciding what to do with it, as if it had a purpose. Worry settled like rain.
Her father had poured a glass of vodka and clenched his teeth around the wood of his pipe as the smoke wafted against his face. He didn’t look up at them as they walked up to him, his face was lined and somber, and his hair shone its silver strands in the daylight. He kept a vacant stare at the center of the table, sitting on his chair slightly perched forward as if about to run off.
Her mother had pointed at the glass. ‘Starting early?’ Julia and her sister had chuckled softly.
He moved the envelope on the table with his fingertips and inhaled sharply.
‘Papa what’s that?’ Julia looked at him, and then at her mother.
‘I think he’s about to tell us.’ Maria rasped. ‘Papa? What is it?’
Anna sat down and ran her fingers through her hair. The two girls pulled up a chair on either side and sat down. The air was heavy.
‘So. What’s this, then?’ her mother leaned forward on the table.
‘You always have strange feelings.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Alright. What’s happened then?’
He gestured at the envelope, as if it was a bomb. ‘I don’t know, but I know I don’t want to open this.’
‘It’s a letter.’
‘Yes, but from whom? There’s no return.’
She suspected now, and looked at the girls.
‘Mama?’ Julia’s eyes drifted from her father to her mother. Maria took Julia’s hand and squeezed hard.
‘Oh, well, just open it then, it’s a piece of paper.’ She spurred him onward with a hand waving it away and then set her teeth and watched as he ripped the thin edge of the envelope, taking care not to damage what was inside. ‘No use fearing a piece of paper.’
‘Anna.’ He stopped, his eyes skimming the words and then drifting to hers.
‘Mmm?’
Before he went further, they both went quiet. The world, for a small second, was held in suspension.
Her father read the first line wearily.
‘I have seen your boys-- and I felt compelled to write to you.’
It was at this point there was a choice: her could read on and see where this would lead, or, he could close the letter and hide it away and never know; the latter option had a peculiar peace with it. He looked over at Anna, and then at Julia and Maria. Both girls had water in their eyes already.
‘Go on.’ Anna laced her fingers together.
‘I had a son of my own, he died when he was a boy, and I never had a chance to see how his face would be, as a man. You may be wondering how I came to see your boys. You see, I have been working at Kharkiv for the past three years, and I have seen many men, all ages, pass through these doors in my time here, very few surviving. Your boys arrived together, and they were put in the same cell along with three other men. They were afraid and proud, as most have been, awaiting immediate deportation or release. They had hope and would not silence it. It was dangerous for them…’
Mikola stopped, his throat thick and catching. The smoke seeped out of his mouth and nose in slow rivulets.
‘Keep going,’ Anna urged. ‘Truth is always a necessary pain.’
‘…because the struggle only makes the punishment come quickly. And now how do I tell you this, because this will be hard for a parent to hear. Your sons were brave Ukrainian boys. You should be proud.’
‘Were? I cannot do this.’ Mikola swallowed slowly. ‘No, Anna.’ He folded the letter. Julia walked up to him and embraced him, Maria following behind. ‘Oh, Papa,’ they whispered, over and over again.
‘You must.’ It was then that she realized that, despite the death of her sons, she was still a mother, not a widow, but a mother with dead children, and that would never be repaired.
Anna opened the letter and continued.
‘I am sorry to tell you that your sons died shortly after they arrived—‘
‘No! Oh God…’ Julia put a hand over her mouth, the color slipping from her cheeks, and Maria held her.
‘They were gathered in a group of 25 men, and all were promised their release that morning. They were fed thin soup and bread, and as they walked out past the prison walls, they saw the sun; for though the frost had been thick on the ground, the sky was clear and bright. And they were told to stand against the wall in front of them, and a few men tried to run. I cannot even send you any of their belongings, as the NKVD took everything that was of use and that could be sold. I know that this is not the peace you seek, but as a father myself, I could not spend another day thinking of your hope for their return. May they, and you, find peace with God one day.’
There was no signature at the end, no name to the small white death certificate that they had not been expecting on a day that was sunlit and beautiful. It was the last page of the story of two children that had been loved and lost, their parents and their sisters now sat staring at the walls of a small room that grew larger in their sorrow.
That evening, the sisters fell into a heavy sleep, lulled by grief. Anna and Mikola were free to speak, and they sat at the kitchen table, in the glow of a large kerosene lamp, the remnants of their day scattered on the surface: the bottle of vodka, glasses, a few plates and half a loaf of bread. No one had been hungry that evening.
‘Anna.’ Mikola passed a glass back and forth between her hands meditatively.
‘Kolya, please.’ She spoke through her hands, and then slowly dropped them from her face, looking at him. ‘I know what we have to do. Maybe just give me the time to grieve.’
Mikola sat back and nodded, withdrawing his pipe from his shirt pocket, tamping it with his index finger. ‘I know,’ he said sadly. ‘But we don’t have time. Don’t you see?’ He nodded to the letter, still lying on the table. ‘What is happening to this family is happening to all families now. The chaos is beginning. Russia has invaded Poland, and they are now clearing us all out— these are not standard arrests. They have cleared the prisons, they will clear the towns, and further.’
‘What can we do? Nothing.’
‘But there is.’ Mikola reached for Anna’s hand. She nodded, because she knew what he meant now. Instead of moving her hand to his, she moved her glass towards him, and nodded to the vodka bottle, now half full.
He poured. ‘I know, Anushka. This is too much. It’s anger and sadness in a dark cloud. It’s hovering over all of us.’ He moved closer to Anna. ‘We’re dealing with government, here. It’s pointless.’ Smoke veiled his face. ‘They’ll come back for the girls in the next round of deportations. They’ll check again. We’re on the census. We don’t have a choice— we have to save the girls.’
‘Choices are dangerous.’ She looked at Mikola, and her heart ached.
‘Mikola —’
His voice was steady, to hide the pain. ‘Bohdan and Milo are dead, so who will be next? Us? We have a farm that is useful to them so they will come back for it one day, and we will be left without any food, or they will shoot us. We are too old to leave now.’
Anna nodded, and ran a palm on her forearm, her lined skin marked with age spots.
Mikola rested his tanned on hers. ‘Both Germany and Russia seek out the children, they seek them out to put them to work, to work them to death. The girls can work.’ He saw Anna’s face settle into worry briefly. ‘Even Maria.’
‘I’m not sure I can imagine it.’
‘What?’
‘Seeing them leave.’
‘But we cannot watch them die.’
‘I know.’ Anna took a deep breath and held it, releasing it slowly before she spoke again. ‘So. What do we do?’
‘Right.’ Mikola felt the stubble on his chin and stared up at the ceiling. ‘West. West is obvious. I assume it’s the safest option. I’ve heard the alliance is better there— ‘He shrugged, and Anna winced at how helpless he looked.
‘Either has danger.’
‘We are in the middle of two wars, it seems.’ He rubbed his eyes and reached for the vodka; the bottle now almost empty. ‘To go East and join the Soviet army would be a short-lived life. They would surely get sent to Siberia and freeze at the edge of the world. Go West, and there would be work there, there is a displaced persons camp in Austria, near Mauthausen. They can stay there until it is all over, and then come back to us.’
There was a creak in the hallway beyond them, and they paused and turned to look, but saw nothing but darkness. The quiet settled again.
Anna continued, downing her vodka, her eyes searching Mikola’s. ‘Many have gone to Germany already. I’ve heard that trains leave Kiev and take people there.’
‘No, they don’t,’ Mikola shook his head. ‘That’s what they want you to believe.’
Anna didn’t question it. She trusted his instinct.
Mikola continued. ‘I’m not putting our daughters on a train; God knows where they’ll end up. They are old enough; we can help prepare them.’
‘Aren’t the t
rains to deport the Jews? We’re not Jews,’ Anna offered weakly. ‘At least that.’
Mikola frowned. ‘You think God will save us? It doesn’t matter now. We have friends that are Jews. This is a war against humanity. We’re all the same.’ Mikola sighed.
Anna set her teeth and her chest tightened. She clasped his hand, their wedding rings clinking together as their hands met. Mikola saw the sadness in her face and his heart was heavy.
‘Let’s prepare a horse, a cart, supplies. Maria knows how to ride well, they can both sleep in the covered wagon if they need or stay at a camp along the way.’
‘I worry for Maria.’ Her voice caught. ‘It’s as if we are casting them aside.’ The thought was devastating. ‘But we have to hope that God will protect us.’
Mikola’s face darkened. ‘You think God has any say in any of this? You think he listens when you pray? God has no part in this.’
‘Mikola. It is what we do when we hope and when we mourn. We bring God with us.’
‘Anna— ‘
Mikola raised his index finger, shaking it at her words. ‘Sometimes I think our God has betrayed us, Anna.’
‘Maybe so,’ she walked to him and took his face in her hands: it was so much older than the man she first saw so many years ago, as the slight, shy boy that she had met through friends in a neighboring village. She had seen him surrounded by friends, his unshakeable laugh piercing the air with so much promise. She saw him now, in the tenderness as he looked at her, despite their age.
The metal of her wedding band that had sunk deeper into her skin over time now glinted on his cheek as she looked at him.
‘But still, we must pray.’
Julia covered her face with her hands, listening to her sister’s thin coughs in the stillness of their room as she sat in her nightgown, the voices of her parents surrounding her in the dark. She slowly tiptoed back to her bed and pinched her nose to prevent the tears. She would pray, as her mother had said. It was the only thing she could do.
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