The Story of Us

by Lana Kortchik

  But it was too late.

  ‘How dare you?’ he roared. His voice quivered. ‘How dare you talk to me like that? I’m your father.’ He raised his hand as if to strike Natasha but seemed to change his mind at the last moment. ‘And where is this food you bring coming from? You think we are stupid? Or blind?’ Natasha blinked and averted her eyes. Father went for her once more, shaking her like a kitten.

  ‘Vasili, please, don’t,’ exclaimed Mother, touching his hand. Natasha squinted, waiting for the storm to pass. It wasn’t the first time her father had hurt her. She knew it wouldn’t be the last. He cursed under his breath and pushed her so hard that she careered onto the floor, knocking into a chair.

  Natasha cried out. Rubbing her throbbing ankle, she looked up at her enraged father, then crawled away from him to the nearest wall. She felt sad, ashamed and angry. But angry most of all. She couldn’t control herself as she shouted, ‘Maybe if you were the father you were supposed to be, Babushka would still be alive. It should have been you. You should have gone to the gendarmerie that day and not us. But you refused to go. You refuse to lift a finger for your family. And maybe if you didn’t tell Olga that going to Babi Yar was safe, she would have stayed and lived.’ She saw the colour drain from her father’s face. He made a move in her direction, but Mother restrained him.

  Natasha dashed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. She expected her father to follow, but he didn’t. When she reached her room, she collapsed on the bed, sobbing. Lisa held her, stroking her hair, ‘Don’t cry. It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.’

  ‘How?’ cried Natasha. ‘How will it be okay? Babushka is gone, and Olga too. Alexei—’ Natasha felt her sister’s body flinch as if in terrible pain. Lisa continued stroking her head without saying a word.

  Soon Lisa left, but Natasha stayed in the room, listening to her parents’ raised voices. She had never heard them argue before, but now they were screaming at each other, and it was all her fault. Natasha had always hated confrontations. In most situations, even when she was upset, she’d preferred to say nothing, because once something was said, it couldn’t be unsaid. What had come over her? Standing up to her father didn’t make her feel better, quite the opposite. All the hurtful things she had said to him ran through her mind, and she wished she could take every single one of them back, even if most of them were true.

  *

  Natasha didn’t know how long she stayed in bed, hidden away from the world under Olga’s blanket. Soon her parents’ voices faded away and all she could hear was the old clock on the wall counting down the seconds, the minutes, the hours. Natasha tried to find peace in the measured pulse of the clock and failed. There was no peace inside her. She didn’t want to stay at home any longer and, luckily, she didn’t have to. It was her first day at the cafeteria. A little nervous, a little upset, Natasha dressed quietly and stood outside her parents’ door for a few thoughtful moments. She knocked. The door remained firmly shut. She knocked once more and, when there was no answer, she left the apartment.

  It was overcast, not a ray of sun penetrated the heavy cloud. Snow mixed with rain settled on the ground. It didn’t take her long to walk to the other side of Podol, where the cafeteria was located in a side street. The cafeteria served mashed potato with no milk and no butter, and chicken broth with hardly any chicken. The food was expensive and unappealing, but Natasha estimated at least two hundred people in the queue. Men, women and even children were fighting and shoving each other. Only the strongest and the pushiest made it to the front of the line. How they managed to eat, Natasha didn’t know. The piercing glances of hungry onlookers were enough to put anyone off their food. Those few lucky ones that managed to get their food gulped everything down in seconds, looking around as if afraid that they would be beaten to death for their meatless broth and their butter-less mashed potato.

  Everything in the cafeteria was dull. The room looked as if the colours had run out, pale wallpaper with flowers barely visible, beige tables, old chairs that were once bright yellow but were now the colour of grey sand, muddy brown floors, people’s dim eyes. And only a large portrait on the wall was bright and new. From this portrait, a square-shouldered and moustached Hitler glared at Natasha in triumph, as if everything in the cafeteria belonged to him.

  Natasha received a mop, a bucket, and a kerchief to tie around her head. Her job was to clean the floors and wash the dishes with water she was to fetch from the pump. She ambled through the large hall, trying not to drop the dirty dishes that she piled on top of each other, half a dozen at a time. Trying not to look at the wall from which Hitler’s beady eyes followed her every move.

  Around lunchtime she thought she spotted a familiar face. She put her mop down, watching an old man in a threadbare coat. With his matted beard and unkempt hair, he looked like a homeless man, the likes of whom Natasha saw every day. She was about to go back to work when the man turned around and faced her. To her dismay, Natasha recognised Professor Nikitin, Grandfather’s colleague from university and one of his closest friends. Professor Nikitin taught astronomy and was highly regarded in academic circles. Now he was dragging his emaciated body from table to table, picking up plates that had already been licked clean and desperately searching for leftovers.

  Her mop forgotten on the floor, Natasha approached her grandfather’s friend. ‘Stepan Ivanovich, come with me, I’ll find you something to eat,’ she said, pulling his sleeve. He glanced at her in his usual absentminded manner, and Natasha could tell he didn’t know who she was. There was no recognition in his face, nothing in his face at all except confusion and hungry impatience. Still, he followed her to the kitchen. She made him sit in a chair and asked one of the cooks, a large woman called Sonya, if she could have her lunch. Sonya poured her a plateful of broth that looked like nothing more than warm water. Natasha carried it to the professor. She watched as he devoured the food, trying to forget that she herself hadn’t eaten anything that day. She rummaged in her bag and gave him a stale piece of bread she had packed that morning.

  There was something in his eyes that scared her. ‘Stepan Ivanovich, where is your daughter? Your grandson? Are they well?’

  He looked at her as if she spoke a language he didn’t understand. Stuffing the bread in his mouth, he sauntered back towards one of the tables, picking up an empty plate. Natasha looked away. Even the sight of Hitler watching her sombrely from his wall was infinitely preferable to the sight of her grandfather’s old friend, a respected professor at the university, as he searched other people’s plates for scraps to eat.

  In the evening, Natasha asked her supervisor if he wanted her to lock up. The middle-aged balding man looked at her with disdain and said in Ukrainian, ‘Don’t speak Russian to me again. You’re not in Moscow. This is Ukraine. From now on, address me in Ukrainian.’ Natasha didn’t want to be the one to tell him that there was no Ukraine, there were only Soviet territories occupied by Hitler. She didn’t know how to say it in Ukrainian, so she said nothing. ‘Yes, lock up after you’re done,’ he barked.

  When Natasha thought her spirits couldn’t sink any lower, Mark came to see her, and she felt her heart soar and her long day melt away. She had a wet mop in her hands and when she saw him, she let it fall to the floor and rushed into his arms. He pulled her close, kissing her on the lips. ‘Wait,’ she giggled. ‘Let me wash my hands. I’m all dirty.’

  He didn’t let go. ‘I don’t mind,’ he said, laughing. The cafeteria was empty, but for the flustered Natasha, whose heart was racing all the way from Kiev to Lvov and back, and Mark, who was holding her so tight, it hurt her to breathe. Her hair was hidden under a kerchief, and she wore an unbecoming pair of dark trousers. They belonged to her mother and were slightly too big for Natasha. But Mark was looking at her as if she had never looked more beautiful. ‘I just stopped by to see how your first day was going,’ he said. ‘And bring you these.’ In his rucksack, there was a bag of flour and a bag of barley.

  ‘Than
k you,’ said Natasha. ‘I’ll tell Mama I got them at the cafeteria.’

  ‘And look,’ said Mark, handing her something wrapped in a piece of paper.

  She removed the paper and looked up in surprise. ‘Cake! I can’t believe it. Where did you get it?’ It suddenly occurred to her that she had had nothing at all to eat that day.

  ‘Some factories resumed work,’ he replied. ‘As well as weapons and bread for the Germans, they’re making cakes.’

  ‘It’s as if life is returning to normal,’ she said. Except there was nothing normal about a life in which Natasha mopped the floors in a cafeteria filled with starving Soviets, most of them women and children, under the watchful eye of Hitler’s portrait on the wall. Even though it was getting dark, out of the corner of her eye she could still see him. Was it her imagination, or did the Führer smirk at her from the confines of his wooden frame?

  ‘How was work?’ asked Mark.

  Why was he looking at her like that? ‘What?’ exclaimed Natasha, blinking fast. ‘Do I have cake on my face? What is it?’

  He shook his head, but she wiped her face anyway. ‘Work was…’ What to tell him? Did he need to know about the incessant stream of the hungry and the destitute, of frantic children pleading with tears in their eyes for just one spoonful of potato, of broth, of something, anything to soothe their aching stomachs, of frantic Natasha begging the cook for a spoonful of something, anything to give to the crying children and of the cook telling her that not only could she lose her job but she could be shot for stealing food? ‘It was okay.’ When she said that, she didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I’m exhausted but it’s better than sitting at home doing nothing. How was your day?’

  ‘Quiet, thankfully. I was translating some documents.’ She peered at him closely, at his tired eyes, his weary but smiling mouth. Was there something he was hiding from her, too? He pointed at the mop and asked, ‘Can I help you with anything?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, thank you. I’m almost done.’

  Mark fetched some water from the pump and mopped the floor while she cleared the dishes. She wiped and washed and scrubbed until her hands were blister red. When Mark was done with the floor, he came up close behind her and put his hands around her. She dropped the dishrag she was holding. Slowly he stroked her arms. Without a word, she turned around and looked into his face. He kissed her then, running his hands through her hair. She felt light-headed and giddy, the way she would feel riding a bicycle at a high speed down a steep slope when she was a child. She felt childish now, being close to him and not knowing what to do. He put his hands under her blouse and touched the bare skin of her back. He stroked her hips and the nape of her neck.

  She stood in front of him in silence, her hands raw, her heart raw. His fingers under her blouse stroked the soft skin of her stomach, moving higher and higher, finally circling her nipples. Big circles, smaller circles, faster and faster, while his lips on hers never stopped, kissing her with such force, such abandon that she couldn’t help it, she groaned. She felt something unfold inside her, unfold and engulf and spiral out of control.

  ‘You’ve never done this before, have you?’ he whispered.

  Her cheeks burnt. She didn’t reply.

  ‘Look at you. You are so unbelievably beautiful.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘We can go as slow as you want. We won’t do anything until you are ready, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ she whispered faintly.

  ‘You want me to stop?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  He kissed her neck, kissed the base of her breasts, pulling her blouse off. Loud voices were heard outside. She held onto her blouse, pushing him away. ‘Stop,’ she whispered.

  Somehow, he took his hands and his lips away. A part of her felt relieved but another, bigger part craved his touch. She breathed softly, shallowly. He sat down on the cold floor and rested against the wall, motioning for her to join him.

  Their bodies intertwined, her head on his chest, his heart beating into her cheek, his fingers stroking the palm of her hand, he smiled and reached into his backpack. ‘What’s that?’ asked Natasha when he showed her a book.

  ‘You don’t recognise it?’

  It was too dark to see. He found his torch. In the circle of light, she looked at the cover.

  ‘Is it The Count of Monte Cristo?’ She faintly remembered the day she had found the book in the snow.

  He nodded. His arm around her, he flipped through the book, not stopping until the last page. ‘Listen to this. I love this part.’ His face serious and his eyes sad, he read, ‘“Until the day when God shall design to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words – wait and hope.”’

  ‘Wait and hope,’ she repeated. ‘Isn’t that what our life is all about? Especially now.’ He didn’t reply. He was watching her with a smile on his face. Remembering his fervent hands on her bare breasts, she blushed. ‘Do you carry this book with you everywhere you go?’

  Without saying a word he nodded and moved closer, his lips on hers, his hands on her back, burning her.

  She groaned. He stopped. But she couldn’t stop blushing.

  Blinking fast, she said, ‘I love The Count of Monte Cristo but I don’t know if I agree with Dumas’ concept of revenge, of taking justice into your own hands, deciding the destinies of others. Shouldn’t it be up to God?’

  ‘I don’t think Dumas approves of revenge, either. Not revenge that knows no boundaries, no limits, the kind that takes over your life until there’s nothing left. Which is why his book ends on a note of forgiveness, on the importance of letting go.’

  ‘It makes you wonder whether absolute evil exists. Or whether darkness has redeeming qualities, just like everything else. Dumas certainly thought so.’

  ‘What do you think? Does Nazism have redeeming qualities?’

  ‘No, not Nazism.’ She touched the cover of The Count of Monte Cristo. It was stained with mud, with snow. ‘Such a beautiful novel and so tragic. Such love and such betrayal,’ she whispered.

  ‘All great love stories are tragic. The classics knew it well. Dumas, Pushkin, Tolstoy.’

  Kissing his unshaven chin, she said, ‘Did you know that, just like in The Count of Monte Cristo, there’s a treasure hidden right here, in Kiev? Centuries ago, there was a group of outlaws living in the caves of Pechersk Lavra. They’d buried all the money they had stolen and no one’s found it yet.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘My mama told me when I was a child.’

  ‘Does your mama know where the treasure is?’

  ‘Hmm. We went looking for it when we were children. Stanislav, Lisa, me.’ She held her breath. ‘And Olga,’ she added in a tiny whisper.

  ‘What about Nikolai?’

  ‘He was too young for treasure hunts.’

  ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘We didn’t get very far. But we did come back with a bucketful of apples. It was the season for them.’

  The torch and the book back in his rucksack, they clung to each other in the dark, whispering unconnected words into each other’s mouths. It was long past curfew when Mark walked Natasha home, but she wasn’t scared. She knew that nothing bad could happen to her while he was by her side. When they said goodbye at the entrance to her building, she stood in the doorway and watched him walk away until she could no longer see him.

  *

  Home was just as dim, just as colourless as the cafeteria. The colour faded from Mother’s face as she sat at the kitchen table, sobbing into her hands, surrounded by sombre faces. Everyone was in the kitchen. Everyone except Father.

  ‘Mama, what happened? Where is Papa?’ demanded Natasha.

  Mother cried and didn’t answer. Lisa cried and didn’t raise her eyes. It was Grandfather who said, ‘Your papa was arrested an hour ago.’

  Natasha sank into a chair. It was her father’s favourite chair and normally she wouldn’t dream of sitting in it, but her legs refused to support her. It wa
s the chair or the floor. ‘Arrested? Arrested for what?’ No one replied. ‘Arrested why?’ she repeated, louder.

  ‘He confronted the Nazi supervisors for not letting the men take a break for food and water. Timofei, who was with him at the time, said he was magnificent, talking to them as if they were his subordinates in the militia,’ explained Grandfather sadly.

  Natasha could imagine her father’s face as he squared up to the Nazis, demanding fair treatment for his fellow workers. It was so typical of him, to succumb to his anger without a thought for his safety. He was never one to accept injustice. Never one for caution, either, raising his voice first and thinking of consequences second.

  In bed that night, Natasha prayed for sleep the way she had once prayed for the war to end. Sleep was oblivion, albeit temporary. She prayed and thought of her father. Although they had their disagreements, she knew in her heart that he loved her very much. In his own distant way, he had always been there for her. It was her father who had taken Natasha and Lisa ice skating in winter and rowing on the river in summer. It was her father who had helped her and Lisa with their maths homework. When she was seven, he’d taught her and Lisa how to play chess, even though Mother said they were too young. When she turned eight, he gave her a bicycle and taught her and Lisa how to ride. What she said to him that morning was unforgivable. If only she could see him one more time and tell him how sorry she was.

  Chapter 9 – The Icy Fortress

  November 1941

  Natasha heard from a neighbour that most of the prisoners arrested that week had been taken to Brovary, a prisoner camp across the river. ‘It’s one of the biggest camps in Kiev. Our Papa must be there,’ Natasha said to her mother, who hadn’t moved from Father’s favourite couch, his pillow under her head. She looked like she hadn’t slept since Father had been arrested. Natasha wanted to put her arms around her mother, to comfort her, to inject some life into her dull face. But nothing she could say would make her feel better. Having met Father when they were both fourteen, she had never been apart from him. Now that he was gone, she looked lost and confused, as if without him by her side she didn’t know how to go on.