The Story of Us

by Lana Kortchik

There was not a star in the sky, not a light outside. There was no sister to share made-up secrets with. Natasha was alone when Yuri’s watch announced the arrival of 1943. She stared into darkness and thought of this day a year ago when she was still with Mark, when she was already pregnant but didn’t know it. When she was blissfully unaware of so many things. She repeated under her breath her favourite line from The Count of Monte Cristo: ‘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.’

  Like a lullaby, the song of her broken heart.

  Chapter 16 – Tentative Promises

  March 1943

  One beautiful spring morning when winter was finally over and summer was about to begin, Natasha curled up in bed with the first edition of Tolstoy’s War and Peace – her sister’s present to her at the start of the war – and read aloud to her son and daughter, only occasionally pausing to look out the window.

  Nikolai’s voice interrupted her, making her jump. She hadn’t noticed him come in. ‘War and Peace? Really? You do realise they’re only six months old?’

  ‘They love it. Just look at their faces.’ The twins giggled, reaching for the book and attempting to pull at the pages.

  ‘They would love it just as much if you were reading from the Communist Manifesto.’

  ‘They enjoy the sound of my voice.’

  She wished they lived in a world where she could dress her babies in sweet outfits, put them in a pram and walk with them to a book stall at the Besarabsky Market, where they could choose a bright picture book that they could chew, marvel at and read with their mother. Instead, they lived in a world where she couldn’t leave the apartment with her babies for fear of what might happen to them.

  A quick glance out the window showed her the street was empty. ‘Any news?’ she asked. Yuri hadn’t come home the night before and the Smirnovs were worried.

  Nikolai shook his head. ‘We were supposed to write leaflets yesterday. I waited half the night for him. He didn’t show up.’ Seeing Natasha’s face fall, Nikolai added, ‘Don’t worry, he was probably delayed somewhere.’

  ‘Where? Doing what?’

  ‘He is a partisan, after all. And it’s not like we have a working telephone.’

  Nikolai was right. The telephone on Ilinskaya had been ominously silent for a year and a half now. ‘Grandfather says the streets of Kiev are more dangerous than ever,’ Natasha said. ‘Yesterday morning the Nazis shot someone right in front of him.’

  ‘In broad daylight?’

  She nodded. ‘They shoot first, ask questions later.’

  Nikolai, the perpetual optimist, replied, ‘They are getting twitchy. Not doing so well at the front, are they?’

  At the end of February, Yuri had heard on the radio that Kharkov, Voroshilovgrad and Krasnodar had been recaptured by the Soviets. The family rejoiced, only to find out a few weeks later that Kharkov was once again occupied by the Germans. And yet, the Soviets were advancing. Their progress was slower than the Smirnovs would have liked, but there was no denying it, as much as the German-controlled newspaper tried to. Natasha knew that the situation was worsening for Hitler because more and more wounded German soldiers were arriving from the Stalingrad front. Hospitals were full to the brim, and the Nazis did regular rounds of the apartments, collecting blankets and sheets for the wounded.

  The family waited all day for Yuri to return. Every time there was a noise outside, Natasha would run to the door. But invariably the voices quietened down and the noises passed. When she finally went to bed at midnight, she didn’t fall asleep until four in the morning and even then she dreamt she was wide awake, waiting for the front door to open, waiting for Yuri’s heavy footsteps. In the morning, she rushed to the living room, hoping to see Yuri’s sleeping body on the couch.

  There was no sign of him.

  After breakfast of some barley and two eggs divided among five people, Natasha and Nikolai sat opposite each other at the kitchen table. Her usually carefree brother was silent and grim. Finally, he said, ‘Gregory.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He might know what happened to Yuri.’

  If Yuri had disappeared on one of his partisan missions, Gregory would be the one to ask. ‘If only we knew where he lived.’

  ‘Somewhere in Lavra. Yuri took me there once or twice. I think I could find it.’

  ‘How will you get there?’ asked Natasha. Lavra was a few kilometres south of Podol, and trams were no longer running.

  ‘Don’t worry. Unlike you, I can walk fast,’ he said.

  Natasha waited impatiently for her brother to return. She cleared the dishes, chewed a stale piece of bread and attempted to knit, all without taking her eyes off the kitchen window. Her hands shook badly and she missed stitch after stitch, undoing the rows she had just knit, trying again, missing another stitch. Finally, she had to give up. She didn’t want to ruin the scarf. She returned to the bedroom, where Mother was looking after Costa and Larisa. A thick blanket covered the window, blocking out the sun. It was shady and dark in the room. The twins were sleeping and so, it seemed, was Mother. Natasha marvelled at the size of her children. Despite her mother’s lamentations that they were too small for their age, in six months they had almost doubled their birth weight. Their eyes were a shade darker, their faces a touch chubbier. Even if Mother was right and the children did lack in size, they more than made up for it in energy. They were like magnets drawing everyone to Natasha’s room, waving, smiling, blabbering, touching and tasting everything within their reach.

  Natasha perched on the bed, trying not to disturb them. The bed squeaked. Mother stirred. ‘Natasha, is that you?’

  ‘Sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to wake you.’

  ‘I wasn’t sleeping.’

  ‘Did you see yesterday’s papers? Was there anything about the partisans?’ asked Natasha, holding her breath in trepidation. The Nazis liked to make an example out of partisans they captured. Natasha never read the terrible stories of torture and death inflicted on them. She couldn’t. Unfortunately for the Germans, their atrocities didn’t seem to deter the partisans. If anything, they inspired them.

  ‘Not about the partisans. But there was something about the Italian soldiers.’

  Relieved, Natasha said, ‘What about them?’

  ‘A number of them were shot. In Babi Yar, of all places.’

  ‘How terrible,’ whispered Natasha.

  ‘Serves them right, fighting for the Germans.’

  ‘They’re no longer fighting. Isn’t that why they were shot?’

  ‘The way I see it, they got what they deserved.’ Mother reached for Natasha in the dark, taking her hand. ‘Don’t worry, darling, I’m sure Yuri is fine. You know how he is. Always off on one secret partisan mission after another.’

  ‘But what if he never comes back? What if he has been sent to Germany too?’ Natasha nestled into Mother’s arms. It felt comforting, just like it did when she was a child. ‘I wish I’d married him, Mama. I should have said yes when he asked me. He would have been safe now.’

  ‘Yuri asked you to marry him? He would make a wonderful husband. He’s loyal, honest, reliable. What more could you possibly want? He’s a good man, Natasha.’

  ‘I know. He would make a great husband. Just not for me.’

  ‘You could do a lot worse.’

  How could Natasha explain to her mother that when Yuri’s hand brushed hers in the kitchen, she felt nothing? That when he smiled at her, it didn’t make her heart sing? How could she explain this to her well-meaning but practical mother and expect her to understand? ‘I always believed that I would only ever marry once. That I would marry for love. And I don’t love Yuri, Mama.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s better to be loved than to love. Safer.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. You married Papa whom you adored.’

  ‘At times I wish I loved him less. Things would be so much easier.’

  ‘Yo
u can’t settle for a safe option just because you’re afraid of getting hurt.’

  Mother squeezed her cheek. ‘When did you become so wise?’

  ‘It might be easier but it’s not what I wanted for myself. Can you imagine anything worse than living with a man you don’t love?’

  ‘Living with a man who doesn’t love you?’ Mother paused as Costa stirred, mumbled in his sleep and fell quiet again. ‘With time you can grow to love somebody.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mama. You either feel it or you don’t. And I don’t loveYuri.’

  ‘Gratitude often turns to love. So does friendship. Besides, children need a father. They need someone to take care of them. You need someone to take care of you.’

  Larisa stirred and muttered in her sleep. Absentmindedly Natasha stroked the palm of her hand that was just visible from under the cover. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Mark. And you know what the worst thing is?’ she said, shivering.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That I can no longer remember his face.’

  Mother held her tighter. ‘Oh Natasha.’

  ‘I loved him so much. I still love him. But when I close my eyes, I can’t see his face. I want to. I lie awake at night trying to force myself to remember. But I can’t. I remember other things, though. I remember his laughter. The way he pronounced my name. His smile.’ She strained to see her son in the dark and couldn’t. ‘But his face, no.’

  Natasha felt her mother’s soft hands patting her back. Mother said, ‘You have all these happy memories of him. Memories that no one can take away.’

  ‘What good are memories when all I want is to see him again?’

  ‘These memories will stay with you for the rest of your life, just like my memories of your father will stay with me for the rest of my life. We’re the lucky ones. Some people never have that.’

  ‘I don’t want to forget, Mama. I don’t want to go through the rest of my life not remembering.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘You think he’s still alive? That he’s out there somewhere?’

  ‘Oh Natasha.’

  Natasha contemplated telling her mother about the letter she had found at the bottom of Mark’s rucksack. But putting her doubts into words would only make them real. Deciding against it, she wrapped the blanket around herself, hiding inside it. ‘I wish I’d helped Yuri when I had the chance.’

  They heard shouts outside. And then, a few seconds later, all was quiet again.

  ‘It’s Lisa’s birthday tomorrow,’ said Mother. Her voice was even.

  ‘It’s not your fault Lisa was taken, Mama. You know that, don’t you?’ It’s mine, she wanted to add but couldn’t.

  ‘I should have never let her leave. For months she lived in that awful place…’

  ‘She was the one who left. She was the one who refused to set foot in this house.’

  ‘She left because of me. Because of all the horrible things I said.’

  ‘She deserved to hear those horrible things.’

  Would the guilt ever go away? The guilt over Alexei and over Lisa, and now over Yuri, too. She could have helped so many people but chose to do nothing. Now they were gone, and she was responsible. ‘He’ll be back,’ Natasha whispered, reaching for Costa, who opened his eyes and looked unblinking at his mother. ‘He’ll be back.’ It might be too late to help the others, but she could still help Yuri. As she held her son and rocked him back to sleep, Natasha made a promise to herself. If Yuri came back, she would marry him, to save him from the Germans and to save herself from her remorse.

  *

  Nikolai returned, grim, red-faced, dejected. There was no sign of Yuri at Gregory’s apartment. Nor could he ask Gregory if he knew anything because there was no sign of Gregory either. Every day Natasha stared at the nearly empty street, her hope dwindling, until finally, four days after Yuri’s disappearance, she abandoned her post by the window. Nikolai no longer mentioned Yuri. Mother no longer startled every time there was a noise outside. Grandfather stopped trying to convince everyone that Yuri was fine and instead sat in his favourite armchair, sheltered behind a newspaper. Outwardly calm, Mikhail smoked one cigarette after another. He had a few packs stowed away for a rainy day. Natasha was surprised that he managed to hold onto them for as long as he had.

  It was on the day Natasha stopped watching the road and Mikhail was reduced to his last cigarette that there was a soft knock outside. Natasha followed her mother to the corridor, her heart beating fast. She didn’t want to get her hopes up. It couldn’t possibly be Yuri. It’s not him, it’s not him, it’s not him, she repeated to herself.

  But it was him.

  He saw her through the doorway and his lips curled upwards, stopping short of a grin. She sprang forward and held him tight. He smelt as if he hadn’t washed in days. His clothes were torn and muddy, his face was bruised but his eyes still held their familiar twinkle.

  He leaned on Natasha’s arm as they walked to the kitchen.

  ‘I told you he’d be back,’ said Nikolai. ‘And you didn’t believe me. I’m so glad you’re alright.’ He hugged Yuri, who didn’t look well at all.

  When they reached the kitchen, Yuri fell into a chair. For a minute he looked as if he had fallen asleep, but as soon as Mother brought in some food, he sat up straight.

  Mother said, ‘I was able to get an onion at the market today. Made some stew for dinner.’

  ‘Smells great,’ said Yuri.

  ‘Help yourself, have as much as you want.’

  Yuri didn’t wait to be asked twice. He pushed his bowl close and for a minute nothing was heard but the sound of his spoon. He devoured the stew as if he hadn’t seen food in days.

  Nikolai watched Yuri eagerly. Finally, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. ‘What happened to you? Where have you been?’

  Mother said, ‘You can’t imagine how worried we were. We didn’t know if we would ever see you again.’

  Yuri was taking his time to chew a small piece of German bread. After it was gone, he picked every crumb off the table and only afterwards replied, ‘When they first grabbed me, I was certain they were about to put me on one of the trains headed for Germany. But instead they marched a group of us to Kreshchatyk and forced us at gunpoint to dig trenches and build barricades.’

  ‘The Germans are entrenching?’ asked Grandfather sharply, looking up from his newspaper.

  Yuri nodded. ‘For four days we dug. Twenty hours a day without a break, without food. There were forty of us when we started. After four days only twelve of us remained.’

  So relieved was Natasha to see him again, she squeezed his hands. He flinched. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ she asked. He showed her his bleeding calluses.

  ‘It’s a miracle they let you go,’ said Nikolai.

  While Mother cleaned Yuri’s hands and applied bandages, Grandfather said, ‘The Red Army must be close. I have a feeling the Germans won’t hold Kharkov for long. It could be liberated at any moment.’ He started pacing around the small kitchen with excitement. ‘We could be liberated at any moment.’ His hands trembled.

  ‘Thank you, Zoya Alexeevna. That feels much better,’ said Yuri. He turned to Grandfather. ‘And I helped build the trenches that would stop the Red Army from entering Kiev.’ He buried his face in his bandaged hands as if he was ashamed.

  ‘You had no choice. They forced you,’ said Natasha.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Mother, nodding.

  ‘That’s right, young man,’ said Grandfather. ‘Besides, what good did the trenches do us in September 1941? Did they stop the Germans? What makes you think they will stop our soldiers now?’

  Yuri’s shoulders relaxed but he didn’t reply. Suddenly he looked exhausted. ‘Come,’ said Natasha, pulling him by the arm. ‘Let me help you to bed. You need rest.’ In silence they walked to the living room. Without removing his clothes, Yuri collapsed on the sofa. Within seconds, he was asleep.

  *

  A week after Yuri’s ordeal, a man came to see
him. With his mop of black hair, his matted beard and a scar across his face, he looked as if he belonged in Stevenson’s Treasure Island. So striking was the man’s appearance, Natasha realised she was staring right at him with her mouth open. She watched the two men disappear into the kitchen. When he left an hour later, Yuri returned to the living room. Natasha waited for him to say something. When he didn’t speak, she asked, ‘Did he bring any news?’

  ‘Yes. Gregory was sent to Germany.’

  Natasha put her knitting down. She knew Gregory was like a brother to Yuri. ‘Why would they take him? He works for the Germans. Officially, anyway.’

  ‘He was discovered. There was a Nazi officer who knew some Russian. He noticed some discrepancies in Gregory’s translations.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Yuri,’ whispered Natasha. ‘Gregory saved many lives. He’s a good man.’

  ‘The best.’ Yuri rose to his feet. He paced the length of the room without looking at Natasha. ‘No one is safe in Kiev. Absolutely no one.’

  ‘At least he’s still alive. That’s something, isn’t it? And you never know, he might come back.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who returned from Germany?’

  ‘When the war is over, he’ll come back,’ said Natasha. ‘Other people, too. Stanislav, Papa.’ She patted his hand. ‘And Lisa,’ she added softly.

  He remained quiet, staring out the window at the German patrol making its way down the street. Natasha knew it was now or never. She had to ask. The moment might never come again. She might never find her courage. She whispered, ‘Remember back in September you said we should get married?’ She wasn’t sure if Yuri heard her. She hardly heard herself. She couldn’t lift her eyes. She looked at the table, at the floor, at the buttons on his shirt. When he didn’t answer, she muttered, ‘Just before I had Costa and Larisa, you said…’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Do you still… want to? If you don’t, I’ll never mention it again. But I’ve been thinking and… I think we should do it.’

  She expected a smile, expected the sadness on his face to melt. Instead, he watched her in silence.

  ‘Of course, if you don’t want to, I understand,’ she stammered.