The Story of Us

by Lana Kortchik

  And the Red Army was retreating further and further east, retreating irrevocably and irretrievably, away from Kiev and its inhabitants, away from the Smirnovs.

  Occasionally, Natasha would notice German soldiers with cameras. They photographed the civilians, the burnt-out streets, the bombed-out buildings. She had never seen cameras such as the Nazis possessed. In fact, everything they had, their machinery, their equipment, their weaponry, was unlike anything she had ever encountered in her Soviet life.

  ‘Look at that truck, Babushka,’ whispered Natasha. ‘Could you imagine anything more sleek and shiny?’

  ‘That might be so but they won’t get to Moscow in their sleek and shiny truck. We’ll push them back where they came from before you even know it. Remember, we have what the Nazis don’t.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We have the heart. And soon they’ll learn that. They’ll learn the hard way.’

  ‘Not soon enough,’ whispered Natasha.

  At the gendarmerie, the queue spilled all the way down Kreshchatyk. People were clenching their food and their radio receivers. One man brought a machine gun, one woman a live goat on a rope. Grandmother and Natasha joined the hushed group of people at the back of the queue.

  A few hours later, a grim Natasha passed her radio to a grim German officer who barely glanced in her direction. Without the radio, there would be no more news from the front, no more connection to the outside world that still remained free from Hitler’s clutches, no more hope. Natasha felt more isolated than ever as they made their way home, down the streets that were teeming with grey uniforms.

  ‘I can’t bear the sight of them,’ said Grandmother, glaring at the German soldiers. ‘Let’s walk through the park.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s such a good idea, Babushka,’ said Natasha. It was getting dark and the park looked deserted.

  ‘It’s quicker that way. The sooner we get home, the better.’

  ‘But…’ Natasha stopped. She had never seen that look on her grandmother’s face before. It was as if all her strength had suddenly left her.

  They walked through the park.

  Chestnut trees that were so festive and jolly in summer now stretched their skinny branches in their direction, silently swaying in the wind. Electricity hadn’t been restored yet, and the sky was ominously black with heavy cloud. Natasha felt the hairs at the back of her neck rise in fear. She sped up, pulling her grandmother by the hand.

  They’d almost reached the other side of the park when a German officer approached them. He was wide and stout, and his face was round like that of an owl. He seemed unsteady on his feet. When he spoke, his breath reeked of alcohol.

  ‘Hold it right there,’ he barked in his guttural voice.

  Natasha’s knees shook under her, and she avoided looking at the Nazi officer. There was not a living soul in the park, no one but Natasha and her grandmother, who were glancing at each other in fear, and the German, who was smirking in the dark.

  ‘Where are you headed?’ he demanded. Natasha’s German was good enough to comprehend the gist of what he was saying.

  She struggled for breath. No matter how hard she tried, she failed to fill her lungs with air. Finally, she pointed in the direction of the gendarmerie and muttered, ‘Radio.’

  He said something fast, motioning at his watch.

  Grandmother took Natasha’s hand. ‘What? What’s he saying?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Something about a curfew.’ All the while, Natasha’s eyes darted around the park for a way out, for someone to help them. Please, God, she thought. Don’t let us face him alone. But the park remained empty.

  A lecherous smile spread over the officer’s face, and his eyes focused on Natasha’s lips, slowly travelling downwards, as if drinking her in. She could sense his gaze, and it made her queasy. She recoiled, covering her chest. The soldier slurred his words, leering suggestively. His arm went around Natasha’s waist and he pulled her closer, stroking her hip. Natasha felt his putrid breath on her cheek. She was unable to struggle, unable to speak, unable to scream.

  Grandmother yanked the officer’s arm away from Natasha. ‘Get your filthy paws away from her, you Nazi pig. Go back to wherever it is you came from and leave us alone, you hear? You disgust me, all of you.’ Natasha was grateful that the German couldn’t understand Grandmother’s words. Unfortunately, the expression on her face, her gestures, her tone of voice left little doubt as to her meaning.

  The officer pushed Natasha aside and turned towards Grandmother, who wailed, ‘There’s a curse on all of you. You’ll pay for everything you’ve done. You hear me? Everything!’

  Grandmother stepped in front of Natasha, shielding her from his eyes. The soldier swore under his breath, roughly pushing her aside. Grandmother stumbled and fell. ‘Babushka!’ cried Natasha. But before she had a chance to help, Grandmother was up, shaking her fist at the officer.

  ‘Babushka, no!’ cried Natasha, but it was too late. Enraged, Grandmother raised her hand and slapped the officer hard across the face. He was too intoxicated to stop her, and for a second he just stared, blinking uncertainly. Screaming obscenities, Grandmother spat in his face. The soldier swore and reached for his gun.

  ‘No!’ shouted Natasha but her voice was weak, and it was lost in the gunshot. As if in slow motion she watched her grandmother fall. She screamed louder. Then she was no longer screaming, she was howling. Everything went dark and she barely knew where she was. She kicked and shrieked, and through the haze of her tears she saw the Nazi raise his gun and point it at her. She shut her eyes, wishing she knew a prayer. When the second shot sounded, Natasha was still for a moment, anticipating a sharp pain. But she felt nothing.

  Slowly she opened her eyes.

  The German officer was lying motionless in a pile of leaves, his unblinking eyes staring, the drunken smirk frozen on his face. Without looking around, Natasha hurried to her grandmother’s side. ‘Babushka! Wake up,’ she whispered, nudging her. ‘Please, wake up.’ Silently she cried.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she heard in Russian. A second later, she felt a gentle hand touch her shoulder. She raised her head.

  A dark-haired soldier was looking down at her.

  In the light of the torch he was holding, Natasha noticed he was wearing a uniform, but it wasn’t the grey German uniform that she had come to loathe so much, nor was it light green like the ones she had seen on Red Army soldiers. His trousers and tunic were khaki brown, his helmet a murky green.

  Natasha opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t get the words out. It was as if something was obstructing her throat, making it hard to breathe. Mutely she pointed at her grandmother.

  The soldier kneeled and searched for Grandmother’s pulse. Then he touched her forehead. ‘I’m no doctor but she’s still alive. She’s breathing, faintly. I can help you carry her home. Do you live far?’

  Natasha hesitated. Although he had just saved their lives and although she desperately needed to get her grandmother home, how could she accept help from a soldier wearing a uniform she didn’t recognise? But then she thought she could hear German voices and the sound of boots steadily approaching. She looked around but couldn’t see anyone yet. It was just her, Grandmother and the stranger in the park. But what if the sound of gunshots had attracted the attention of the German patrol? ‘Not too far,’ she said, glancing at him.

  He lifted Grandmother gently, supporting her head as if she was a baby. ‘Show me the way.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Natasha thought she said. She could feel her lips move but couldn’t tell if any sound came out.

  She touched his sleeve and he smiled. ‘You’re welcome.’

  As they walked side by side in silence, the soldier in long measured strides, Natasha in short hurried ones, she stroked Grandmother’s hand, begging her to hold on. Her face, her hands, her jacket were covered in Grandmother’s blood. Tears were blinding her, and twice she tripped and almost fell. The soldier towered over Natasha. To see h
is face, she would have to lift her head. Lowering her eyes, she watched her grandmother instead, straining to hear if she was still breathing.

  There was about half a kilometre separating the park’s gate from her building. Six hundred long strides for him, a thousand shorter ones for her. And on every stride, on every breath, she prayed to God to keep her grandmother alive. ‘Please, God,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Please, God.’ A thousand strides, a thousand please-Gods.

  It was the longest walk of Natasha’s life.

  But when they finally reached her building, Natasha found herself reciting a different prayer. Please God, she thought, let the yard be deserted. She didn’t want to be seen walking side by side with an enemy soldier. The thought left her feeling uncomfortable and guilty – he was only trying to help. To her relief, there was no one in the yard. The soldier carried Grandmother up the stairs, and Natasha followed, her heart beating fast. The landing was dark.

  ‘Reach into my pocket and get a torch,’ said the soldier. Natasha blushed but did as he said. The torch gave a flickering circle of light, bright enough to illuminate the drab walls of the communal corridor.

  Before she knocked on the door, Natasha said, ‘My family should be home by now. They’ll help me with Grandmother.’

  She imagined her father’s reaction if she turned up with an enemy soldier by her side. It didn’t bear thinking about. But she didn’t know how to tell him she didn’t want him to come in with her. She didn’t have to say anything. The soldier seemed to understand. Gently he placed Grandmother in her arms and said, ‘Be careful walking outside after dark. The curfew is at eight. And the streets aren’t safe.’ He spoke Russian fluently, and yet, Natasha could swear that he wasn’t Russian. His voice carried a hint of something foreign.

  ‘Thank you,’ whispered Natasha. She noticed that his eyes twinkled in the dim light of his torch. They were kind and deep, the colour of chocolate. His hair was dark and his smile was wide on his face. It was a smile that inspired trust. She couldn’t help it, she smiled back – and felt her cheeks burning. She thought he was the most handsome young man she had ever seen. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘You are welcome. Shall I send a doctor to look at your grandmother?’

  Natasha shook her head. ‘Our family doctor lives nearby.’

  The soldier saluted Natasha.

  She watched him go, her eyes wide, her mouth open, as if she was about to say something. When he disappeared down the stairs, she realised she hadn’t even asked his name.

  *

  Petr Nikolaev, the Smirnovs’ family doctor, lived in a six-storey building across the road. After she told the family what had happened, Natasha and Mother set out in search of the doctor, leaving Grandmother in Grandfather’s loving care. The two of them crossed the road, walked through the front door of the doctor’s building and up the stairs, finally stopping outside Petr’s apartment.

  The smell of roast chicken permeated the communal corridor. Natasha could hear the high-pitched chords of a guitar and a rowdy song. ‘Ein, zwei, drei,’ came slurred words from behind the solid oak door. Natasha hesitated, but Mother shrugged and knocked on the door, a determined expression on her face. A German soldier, bare-chested and inebriated, opened the door. He stretched his hand out as if for a handshake, but before he had a chance to touch them, the two women turned on their heels and flew down the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

  Natasha and her mother walked all the way to Podol, searching for another doctor they knew, but they were as unsuccessful there as they were on Tarasovskaya. Exhausted, they hurried back. Natasha prayed that her grandmother hadn’t taken a turn for the worse.

  Lisa was by Grandmother’s side, crying softly into her hands, while a bedraggled looking Olga Kolenova was stroking her back and telling her everything would be alright.

  Natasha sat next to her sister, her face wet from tears, her eyes sore. The Germans had only been here one day, and already someone she loved dearly was hurt. Was it a sign of things to come? A chilling thought ran through her mind, paralysing her. It was the same thought she hadn’t been able to shake ever since the incident in the park. What if something happened to her grandmother? What if she didn’t get better? What would it do to Grandfather, to all of them? Natasha couldn’t imagine a life without her beloved Babushka, who had always been there, taking her to kindergarten and to school, cooking for her and teaching her how to cook, reading to her and teaching her how to read. One day, when a four-year-old Natasha had begged her to read more – one more paragraph, one more page, one more chapter – Grandmother had said, ‘Why don’t I just show you how to do it yourself?’ And then she had shared her favourite books with Natasha, and they’d become Natasha’s favourite books. Everything she was, Natasha realised, was thanks to the people she loved. How did she go on with her life and not feel her grandmother’s soft hand on her forehead, and not see her reassuring smile? Natasha’s heart was heavy with fear. And something else, too. A blinding, scorching anger. How dare that despicable Nazi try to take her grandmother away from her, in a split second, with a careless movement of his hand, as if her life meant nothing, when to Natasha it meant everything?

  ‘How is Babushka?’ asked Natasha, placing her hand on Grandmother’s forehead. It felt warm and clammy.

  ‘Your Babushka is not too good. She’s burning up. Don’t worry, a doctor is on his way,’ said Olga.

  Olga was Natasha’s best friend in the whole world. They had met at kindergarten when they were three and had been inseparable ever since. They had read the same books, passionately discussing the love life of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and the incredible adventures of Dumas’ musketeers. They had learned to play piano together and joined the chess club together. And because Natasha and her sister were so close in age, Olga was Lisa’s friend, too, even though Lisa couldn’t play the piano, had no interest in chess and was incessantly bored by Tolstoy.

  ‘You found a doctor? Oh, thank God.’ Natasha looked her friend up and down. Olga was wearing what looked like an old sack, her head was covered with a tattered kerchief, and there were smudges of something dark all over her face. Soot, decided Natasha. Soot or dirt. ‘Olga, why are you dressed like that?’

  ‘I’m just trying to make myself less noticeable,’ said Olga. ‘The Germans won’t leave me alone. Can’t walk down the street without getting harassed.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ said Lisa, wiping her face and sniffling. ‘No one in their right mind would approach you looking like this. You scared me when I first saw you.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Olga. ‘Every time there’s a knock on the door, Mama makes me hide in the wardrobe. This morning I was in the wardrobe for an hour.’

  ‘That’s your own fault for being gorgeous,’ said Natasha, hugging her friend. Olga was strikingly beautiful with her heart-shaped face, dark hair that ran all the way down her back and large brown eyes. ‘I’m glad you came.’

  For a few moments the girls were silent. Finally, Olga said, ‘I’m sorry about your babushka. She’ll feel better soon, you’ll see.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Natasha quietly.

  Lisa interrupted, pulling her sister by the sleeve. ‘Natasha, I haven’t told her yet! I was waiting for you.’

  ‘Told her what?’

  ‘About me and Alexei!’

  Natasha pushed her sister’s hands away and said, ‘Lisa, honestly. I have other things on my mind right now.’ Lisa’s eyes filled with tears, and Natasha felt bad. ‘Tell her now,’ she said softly.

  ‘Tell me what?’ Olga demanded.

  But before Lisa had a chance to say anything, the girls heard voices in the corridor. The loud sounds were unmistakably German.

  ‘Oh no,’ whispered Lisa. ‘What do they want now?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Olga. ‘It’s probably the doctor.’

  ‘Olga! Is he German?’ asked Natasha, horrified.

  ‘Yes, but he’s not so bad. He moved in with us yesterday, too
k my cousin’s room. He’s quiet and polite. Keeps giving me biscuits.’

  A short, chubby German doctor soon appeared in the doorway, trailed by Mother, who hopped around him, trying to push him out of the way. ‘You can’t just march in here. Leave us alone. You aren’t welcome here.’ The doctor swatted her hands away and muttered something in German.

  Olga looked flustered at the commotion in the room. She waved her hands at Mother. ‘Don’t worry, Zoya Alexeevna. This is Hans. He’s the doctor for the German regiment who is living with us.’

  ‘Let the man look at Larisa,’ demanded Grandfather, gently pulling Mother away.

  Mother left the room but came back two minutes later, carrying a thick candle. ‘Borrowed it from Zina,’ she explained.

  All eyes on him, the doctor examined his patient in the flickering light of the candle. He said something in German, and Olga translated. ‘Your grandmother is very lucky. The bullet got lodged in her shoulder. She’s lost a lot of blood and has a fever. She needs plenty of fluids and rest.’

  The doctor removed the bullet, administered something for the pain and bandaged Grandmother’s shoulder, covering her with a blanket. Grandmother looked whiter than the pillow she was resting on.

  ‘I’ll come back to check on her tomorrow,’ said the doctor.

  Mother embraced him and shook his hand, tears streaming down her face. ‘Thank you, thank you so much,’ she repeated.

  Later that evening, after everyone had gone to bed, Natasha curled up on a small folding bed in her grandparents’ room, watching the candle that was living out its last seconds on Grandmother’s bedside table. ‘Dedushka,’ she whispered to her grandfather. ‘Why did the German doctor help our babushka? He doesn’t seem like the rest of them.’

  ‘There are Nazis and there are Germans. Big difference,’ replied Grandfather, his voice nothing but a hushed murmur in the shady room. ‘Just like us, most of them don’t want any part of this war.’

  ‘Dedushka, what is going to happen to Kiev?’