Look at the sky, so clear and free,
Come out, come out sweet darling
Though you’re weary from work,
Come and spend a moment here with me.
Maria smiled. ‘I remember.’ And then she closed her eyes and reached for Julia’s hand.
And then they were in the fields of their memories, plucking handfuls of old leaves and throwing them into the air like offerings as they laughed and played. Julia spoke of their brothers, and of their childhood together underneath banners of blue skies, and how they would whisper secrets to each other about the world and where its magic lay.
‘You know, Mama used to always say that we were mother and daughter, not sisters, remember?’ Julia was tired, but she kept on, staring at Maria to see the shallow rise and fall of her chest. And then she remembered. ‘Let me show you something.’
There was a picture of them that Julia had found on the table beside her mother’s bed, a picture from four years ago, and she’d placed it in her coat pocket the day they left. She found it now, in the pocket of her coat, and withdrew it to show to Maria, but she was already asleep, so she looked at the faces staring out: it was a picture that a friend had taken of the two of them sitting in the fields, hair in plaits, dresses with shortened sleeves for the heat, palms up towards the camera to shield their eyes from the bright sun.
She remembered that it was summer that day, and they had gone flower picking, and that they had made chains out of the wheat and the wildflowers and secured the them in a kind of wreath, vinok, with blades of young grass. They wore them that day as they walked slowly home, and then when the wreaths dried and became stiff, they left them in their rooms as reminders of that one-day. She thought of the warm air, and how the insects hummed in the shadows. Their life was nearly what they wanted it to be, then; they’d possessed a sense of wonder still.
Julia took the photo and placed it next to Maria, within the blanket warming her suffering body. She looked at the woman who had promised to take care of her, the woman who was now small and childlike, and squeezed her alabaster hand as it lay limp, listening to her thin breath course through her lungs and gently out of her parted lips. ‘We’ll be alright,’ Julia whispered, and it was one of many times she would utter words that she was dreadfully unsure of.
Maria’s eyes flickered faintly, whilst Julia rested her head on the edge of the mattress, and they both fell asleep in the buttery glow of the lamplight.
Julia woke to the sound of gunfire and the all too familiar sounds of tanks on the ground. The walls of the barn vibrated with it.
They had both been asleep until late morning, their arms around one another, and when Julia woke, she had forgotten the events of the previous night. But only temporarily. She saw her sister’s face was still, eyes closed, her mouth slack and lips thin. Julia wept silently, and clutched at her, bringing her closer, feeling for any part of warmth that was still there. A part of her wondered if she would wake up, and if this had all been a feeble, feverish dream. Julia’s body curled towards her sister and stayed there, not caring of the world around her.
She stayed hidden in the far corner of that barn as the day brightened, her eyes pink and wide, listening as the soldiers approached, bellowing. She heard hurried footsteps and people shuffling outside, waiting to be counted, panic in their voices.
‘Raus! Schnell!’
She stayed a moment longer, and then she finally rose as the air outside filled with voices, her face red and swollen, and stood staring at her sister as if giving her the chance to wake up. Just one more minute. Wake up. Be brave.
Silence.
‘Komm raus, bevor ich schieße!’ All come out before I shoot.
She looked at the barn door and then back at the loose boards in the wall by where she now stood. She had two choices: she could risk making a run for it, carrying her sister, hiding in the shadows, making a path through the woods… or she could try and survive, and promise to stay alive to see her parents one day, or to have children and a family of her own.
Her hand reached for her scarf and turbaned it around her hair, and she wondered if within this decision, there would be grief either way. And she would have to take that with her, to a place where she might never survive, and the weight of that choice now lay heavy on her slim shoulders.
She did her buttons slowly, one by one, her hands trembling, smoothing the layers of her clothes. She remembered her father’s voice as she put her gloves on.
‘Papa. Will we see you again?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, all this madness will be over soon, and we will turn back and you and Mama will be here, and it will all be like before, yes?’
‘I need you to find your way, no matter what happens. Find the use in the broken things, the courage in the frightening things, and the joy in the sadness. There will always be sadness.’
They were at the door.
Steadying herself, Julia knelt by her sister, so small now. She saw that Maria had worn brown leather shoes; they were practically new. Julia looked down at her own, the battered lip of the sole undone at the front. They would slow her down. She whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Marioshka,’ and her tears wet the hay as she removed them swiftly and put them in her own duffel. She brushed a lock of hair off Maria’s forehead, and told her softly that she loved her. Her eyes creased at the corners and the few tears that came again, made her face shine as she steeled herself.
Julia covered her sister with the still warm blanket that they had both shared, took both of their duffels, and slowly walked through the barn door into the cold, hollow light.
‘Jetzt! In die Lastwagen!
Her legs trembled as she opened the door and walked into the cold, hollow light, two duffels in her hands. The black cattle truck waited for her.
4
Germany, 1941
On the afternoon of his twenty-second birthday, Henry stepped into his barrack on the far eastern corner of Neumarkt labor camp and emptied his pockets onto his bed. He had a tarnished lighter, cigarettes, a handful of coins, and the train ticket that he’d used to leave home. He was sure he’d made the right choice, despite the distance from everything he’d ever known. He shook his head. It was better this way. He had never remembered a birthday after his mother had died, and so he had been a stranger in his own home, just as he was here.
Henry had arrived in Germany in 1940, having used his own money to buy the train ticket, the rest of his money hidden in the linings of his shoes and sewed into the pockets of his thin wool coat. They’d had an argument the day before he’d left home, and it stung Henry deeply, as his father grew more impatient with a son he didn’t understand.
‘You just wait,’ Ivan’s voice had been dark. ‘Just wait until you have to understand what direction your life will go, during a war, during hunger, during pain,’— a fresh cigarette, sparks flying, punctuated his words— ‘trying to make decisions on life, decisions that no one will warn you about. You just wait until you have to pick up the pieces of a life that you never wanted but had to withstand. You have no idea who I am, son.’
‘But I don’t want to.’ Henry had said, and stopped, finding immense power in the moment. ‘You don’t make me want to understand. You don’t even try.’
‘Correct.’
‘But why?’ And then his voice had turned soft again. Young.
‘Because men don’t need to explain themselves to boys. Life is too complicated.’
‘So why did you become a father?’
‘Stupidity, if you ask me. Love. Nonsense. Feeling as though it was my obligation to your mother. Also…’
Henry had hoped for something kind. ‘What?’
‘Survival.’ Ivan stamped out a cigarette. ‘I had no choice but to teach you how to survive. That’s what parents do. Survival has nothing to do with love, and everything to do with purpose. Your purpose is to continue my life, and the name I gave you.’
‘And what if that’s not what I wa
nt?’
Ivan looked over at his son, and then away, scanning the fields. He turned back to him. ‘So, what is your plan, then? What will you do?’
‘The war is on our doorstep. Aren’t you afraid?’
‘I’m not afraid of anything.’
‘I don’t want to stay here. There are jobs, there is money, and there is work. Did you know, that I could work in Germany? Not as a laborer but as an officer? My friends have all said— ‘
‘Hironimus. You are so naïve.’
‘Am I? I think it’s smart to hope for something. And this isn’t what I hope for, for my life, Papa.’
His father had softened at the name that his son had only called him as a small child, but only briefly. ‘Hope is dangerous, son.’
When his father had turned his back to leave, it was then that Henry saw the first fleeting glimpse, which vanished almost immediately, of a man whose life had stripped him bare. Henry promised himself that day that he would vow never to carry his father’s legacy; he could never carry that much pain.
Henry took off his uniform and laid it carefully on the bed, changing into crisp, pale grey shirt and grey trousers, the only other clothes he now owned. There was a small mirror on the wall of his barrack, and as the sun filtered through the room, Henry watched his reflection, cigarette clamped firmly in the side of his mouth, leaving his shirt unbuttoned at the very top. He had been deciding what to do: after his shift of deliveries to the Nazi officers, he was given his papers to leave the camp if he wanted. He could walk into Neumarkt and eat and drink there with the other officers, because his role as an officer would mean he wouldn’t need to adhere to the rations that prison workers had. But today, he decided to stay at the camp and meet a friend.
He examined the wavy dark brown hair that was long at the crown and short on the sides, and the way his brown eyes and long lashes shadowed his cheekbones. He ran his long fingers through and swept it back, pausing to flatten his anemic mustache before placing the lighter into his pocket.
‘My father’s face.’ He mused, his flat lips lifting at the corners, but felt nothing.
The sun was sinking lower still, sitting on the metal tables in the common area, as Henry strode over, clapping Yuri on the back forcefully and sitting down next to him, drawing a cigarette out of a creased packet.
‘Well? What’s new? What’s work been like?’ he found a match and sparked it on the edge of his metal chair. He looked at his friend: young man, old body, hair the color of straw, face lined, blue eyes shining under a worried brow.
Yuri lowered his head, shaking it. ‘Germans. I mean, doesn’t it make you angry?’
‘What, exactly?’
‘Being...’ Yuri paused and looked up, limp hair drooping in front of his left eye. He looked hopeless. ‘Here. Here. Cattle to the slaughter.’
Henry felt a bead of sweat along his temple and wiped it with his arm, tapping the cigarette packet on the table, turning it over and over in his fingers. ‘What else is there? What other options do we have right now?’
He heard the cattle trucks approach in that moment, and saw groups of men, women and some children, piling out in groups and hovering far beyond where he now sat. He watched as they were herded and directed where to stand and when to stay silent.
‘Yes, fine, you’re right. But dignity, that’s what I mean.’ Yuri wove his fingers together and undid them slowly, over and over. ‘Animals. We’re animals in here.’
Henry turned back to his friend. ‘Dignity doesn’t feed us.’
‘Since when did you get so philosophical?’ Yuri wanted an answer. He was clinging to hope like fistfuls of sand.
Henry rubbed out his cigarette in the table and flicked it away with a finger. ‘Look. This won’t last forever. Wars aren’t forever, nothing is forever. We do what we can with what we have for now, and the only thing we can hope for is to survive this with some hope left.’
‘And who the hell left you the cock in charge of the hens?’
‘Ha. Well, I know how to manage a situation.’ He tapped his index finger to his temple. ‘Don’t let it get to you.’
‘So, this is a--’ Yuri stuck his hand in the air between them, cigarette aloft, and circled it as if he were conjuring ‘-- situation, you say?’
“Mmm.’
‘Death is everywhere, Henry. Don’t you think we could be next?’
‘Make yourself useful then. Play the game.’ Exhale of smoke. ‘Be smart.’
‘About...?’
‘About how you can make yourself useful to them.’ Henry looked up and saw a pair of officers striding across. He leaned on his elbows towards Yuri. ‘As soon as you look hopeless, weak, useless, they have you.’ And he made a fist with his hand and released it. He lit another cigarette and clamped it in the side of his mouth, his trimmed mustache grazing it lightly, as he rested both his hands on his friend’s forearm. ‘Survival.’
‘Sure.’ Yuri stood up to leave. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Wait. Just wait.’ He left his hands on his Yuri’s arm and his gaze was directed at something across the ground, past the fencing. It was then that he saw her.
He hadn’t noticed her before, and now he was curious. The small girl with the faltering, elegant walk seemed familiar. Yes, he knew her. He had known her, and had seen her before, he realized, but couldn’t place where. He’d seen her once before (or was it twice), as she sat with someone (her sister? a friend?). Her hair was careless, thin wisps flying around her face getting caught in her eyelashes and lips. Today she was in her dark uniform with plain skirt that grazed her knee ever so gently, flat black shoes making it easier for her to manage the hours she was expected to be on her feet. Her head was covered in a scarf, and her nose was sharp on her face, softening slightly when she smiled.
Looking at her felt sobering, like cold water in stifling heat. He wanted to see her hands: a ring would tell him more, though she could have hidden it, or sold it. She moved as if she had music at her feet, but her body looked painfully aware that it was in a crowd. She was smiling as she was walking.
Yuri’s head turned behind him and he understood as he followed Henry’s gaze.
‘Yeh, a good girl, that one. Bit plain.’ A cat slinked over to Yuri and he kicked it away, distractedly. He leaned in and studied Henry’s face. ‘Surely you know her. Sister of that kid from school. Milo. Lived on the selo, not too far from Stryi.’
Oh, right, Henry thought, and nodded, inhaling his cigarette smoke slowly, squinting as it passed around his lips and dissipated into the air. Sure. No one of status. He bristled as he heard the voice of his father in that moment. Don’t waste time with anyone you can’t get anything out of, he would often tell him. He shook it off.
‘Well, interesting anyway.’ He rubbed out the stub on his boot. He looked at Yuri and smiled. ‘We should go.’
Yuri sighed. ‘Finally. Thought you’d never let me leave. I have a party to attend,’ he said with comedic tone, and loped off, waving his hand in departure. Henry watched his friend, watched the curve of his back tighten his shirt. The boy was a hard laborer. His hands were chapped, his shirt had dust in the creases, mirroring the lines that had gathered around his eyes as he spoke. He was tired, like all of them.
Henry sat staring at the road ahead for a moment-- a road separated by barbed wires and concrete blocks on either side—and wondered where he was. He was hungry, but he was safe.
Yuri’s voice suddenly bellowed out in front of him as he walked away. ‘Julia! Ey, Julia!’, Yuri pointed across the filtering crowds. Henry looked to where he was waving to, and as saw a face in the distance that smiled in recognition as she saw Yuri. She waved back briefly, and then followed Yuri’s hand as he gestured to Henry. She stopped waving as their eyes met, and then the crowd closed back in around her like a dream, vanishing.
And then a memory descended on him: a mere seven years ago he had seen Julia, and it was when she had gone to church on Christmas Eve, for their lives had interse
cted often as they lived only 30 minutes apart as the crow flies, and Lviv was small (small enough where people didn’t forget faces). And he had gone with his father, and crowds stood silent and cold to listen to the sermon underneath the vacant stares of the gold icons surrounding them. And he had watched in a daze as she smiled the kind of broad smile that someone does in private, without awareness of others. Her hair surrounded her in a kind of dark halo, beneath her headscarf, her cheeks flushed from the cold, and her body was tall and lean, newly softened into its adulthood, and he felt a kind of longing to walk to her; it caught in his throat and he kept it in his memory as he walked away that night, hoping to see her again.
Henry left the embers from the other cigarettes burning in the ashtray and walked back the way he had come, thinking about her, as he would do every moment until he saw her again.
Julia carried the grief of her sister’s ghost with her, like a shadow, as she stood at the brick and iron gates of the labor camp with a few hundred others, two duffels in her hand.
She had placed herself in the lion’s mouth: rows of identical grey-hued wooden buildings, made to look like barns; long, narrow houses plain and square. They were squat and wide, and seemed to go in an endless line towards an empty distance. A metal fence wrapped around tall wooden posts— and with what looked like sharp metal teeth adorning the wiry tops— bordered the perimeter as far as she could see, displaying flat, deserted earth; this place looked like it had risen up from the ground just to be used, sucked dry, and eventually swallowed up by the very ground that had given birth to it. The camp was far away from town. It was separated by forest, isolated and vanishing. An afterthought, this life, and it would be extinguished.
‘Welcome to Neumarket. One stop before Hell,’ a woman spoke as she drifted by, yellowed teeth and sunken eyes. Julia fisted her hands and held them to her sides.
She was shuffled into a group and then into a building to be disrobed, examined, standing in front of concrete walls, bruised orange and brown from rust and paint. Their eyes were stretched open, thumbs prized open their mouths to check teeth and throats. Hair was checked for lice and skin for disease, and then they were to bend forward, exposing their spines to further checks for stability and strength, their body cavities were searched. When she was allowed to dress again, she was given a dark uniform made of stiff cotton that hit at her calves, a blue armband brandishing her as an OST (Eastern Worker), and they all walked to an allocated a building where they would be given their work orders.
Motherland Page 4