Without you, I would not have a room to come home to. Neither Father nor Galya, with all their best intentions, could have done that for me. It was your arm that swung the hammer, your determination that drove in the nails. I will never forget this.
I will be home before your reply reaches me. Looking forward to your warm embrace.
Your loving son,
Maksim
Kharkov, 18 September 1941
Dear Galya,
Thank you for the birthday greeting.
Professor Zorkin has recommended I go to Moscow, to complete my studies with an eminent doctor at the university there. He has arranged the transfer and the travel pass, but suggests I bring as much warm clothing and extra food as I can carry. There are rumors of increased enemy activity north of us, but life cannot wait for rumors, and there are too many conflicting reports. Tell Mama I will come home to collect anything she can find. A good pair of boots would be most welcome, if she can manage it.
It will be a brief visit, one night only. Train travel is difficult and there is no time to waste. At least the weather is still good; the first hard frost has not yet come, followed by the inevitable thaw—the rasputitsa that drowns everything in mud and makes moving about a misery for man and beast, not to mention machinery. It makes one wish for the true start of our infamously brutal Russian winter.
I will see you soon.
Your brother,
Maksim
PS: Help our mother every way you can.
3
“I SO ADMIRE your singing, Fräulein Galina,” the officer said in heavily accented Russian, taking her hand and bowing formally from the waist. He hesitated as if looking for words, then lapsed into his native German. “Das ist sehr herrlich. Lovely.”
She had not observed him working his way to the front of the knot of well-wishers surrounding the cast of the evening’s play. Only when he had elbowed past the last row of theatergoers did she recognize the young man who had stood conspicuously on his chair near the back of the hall while she sang. Everyone had seen him, she thought, flattered but also embarrassed at his bold attentiveness to her performance.
He was a short, slender man, with dark-brown hair cut close to a round, boyish head that reached just past Galina’s chin. She could not help noticing how young he was—surely not more than twenty-two or so—and how smoothly the fitted German uniform, with its junior officers’ insignia, set off his toned and compact form.
“What is the song called, the last one?” he asked politely.
“‘Belaya Akatzyia,’” she replied shyly. “‘White Acacia.’ A love song, very sad.”
“All the best love songs are sad, nicht wahr?” He smiled and released her hand. “I am Franz. I hope I may hear you sing again.”
“Yes,” she said, not sure which part of his statement she had agreed with. Not sure, too, how to interpret the warmth in his voice, and whether to look for meaning in the hot flush flooding her face and neck.
Many Germans came to the little theater’s performances now; word had spread since summer, and the hall was frequently packed to capacity. “We may be at war,” Fyodor had remarked at one of the recent rehearsals. “But these occupation troops need something to do in their spare time. And most of them actually pay for their tickets.”
“The Germans are a refined, cultured people,” Luyba had said in her best leading-lady stage whisper. “Our company may be small and impoverished, but I am sure they recognize the quality of our professional training.”
“Da. And what a convenient way to look for Gypsies and Jews,” Mishka, whose training was in a decidedly different profession, had growled. “Or haven’t you seen them checking papers during intermission?”
Remembering this conversation, Galina became aware of the people around her. Fyodor and Luyba stood talking to an elderly couple, glancing discreetly in her direction. Mishka, always on his guard, laughing with a few of his buddies, his accordion on the floor at his feet, keeping a wary eye on her. And Filip near the door, at the edge of the crowd, waiting to walk her home.
They made their way through the familiar streets in silence. Filip walked with his shoulders hunched, head down, as if studying the pattern of the lightly falling winter rain on the sidewalk in front of him. Galina kept pace with him easily with quick, short steps, one hand pulling her thin sweater closed against the chill evening breeze.
“What did he say to you?”
“It went well tonight—” They spoke at the same time, not looking at one another, the usual tension of being out in the city after dark magnified by a new awkwardness neither could identify or explain.
“Not bad—” and “Nothing much—” they said together again, their eyes meeting this time. Both laughed spontaneously, relieved and suddenly happy.
“Papiere, bitte.” The sentry had stepped out of the shadows, catching the young pair by surprise, blocking their way. They produced the necessary documents at once. No one ventured out without their identity papers; it was now as natural as breathing. They stood meekly side by side, but not too close together, while the middle-aged soldier examined the papers, lifting his gaze to rest brazenly on Galina’s features for several interminable moments. She pulled at her head scarf, shielding her face from the now steadily falling rain as much as from the penetrating intrusion of his stare.
He pushed his cap back, laid one finger along her cheek, moving her face from side to side like a photographer looking for a subject’s best angle. Galina froze. Filip! The name filled her head, but her mouth, dry with dread, made no sound. She felt her friend at her side, wooden, useless, dumb. What did she want from him? Any heroic rescue attempt was likely to end badly for them both. They were entirely at the man’s mercy, helpless against his superior strength, and the power evidenced by the pistol at his side. He could do anything he wanted to, with absolute impunity, here on this deserted street corner.
“Ja . . . ,” he said, drawing out the syllable with palpable menace. She closed her eyes against the sight of her tormentor’s unshaven jowls, holding her breath against the stale, nauseating smell of cigarette smoke and wet wool, hoping he had not seen her fear. Knowing, too, that fear was the one thing she could not conceal, that it was written indelibly on her and that the soldier fed on it, violating her even if he released her unharmed.
“How old are you, boy?” The soldier addressed them in a hodgepodge of German and Russian so clumsy it might have been comical under different circumstances. He shifted his eyes to Filip without moving his head, his hand now resting heavily on Galina’s shoulder. “Wait . . . I can work it out . . . 1925 . . . May . . . so, seventeen, ja? Almost ready to serve der Führer. You don’t look like you could do much work, though, skinny kid like you.” He made a strange sound, something between a snort, a laugh, and a whinny, something animal and chilling.
Perhaps it was the weather that saved them, the sky now lit with intermittent lightning, the rain hard and cold. Or maybe the presence of the boy, who, though clearly unable to protect his companion against the older man, could have been enough of a nuisance to make the enterprise not worth the trouble. The soldier could have shot him, of course, but just this week the Kommandant had impressed on the men in his unit the need to supply the fatherland with a steady stream of “recruits” to work in factories and mines—labor essential to Germany’s war effort. This kid was no Hercules, but even he could be made useful, soon enough. Besides, the new austerity measures extended to munitions; every bullet had to be accounted for.
He let them go, but not before the back of his hand brushed against Galina’s neck and slithered over her breast, coming to rest for several interminable heartbeats at her waist. “Forty minutes to curfew,” he said curtly, shooing them away like bothersome flies. “Vierzig Minuten.”
They hurried on, Galina in front now, her head down, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
“Galya, I—I—” Filip stuttered, running to catch up to her.
“What?” She turned
on him, feet planted wide, the icy fury in her eyes catching the weak reflection of a single ineffectual streetlight. “You what?”
They stopped talking to let an old woman by, her net shopping bag distended with several small paper-wrapped parcels, scuffed house slippers slapping against her bare heels. She eyed the young people with guarded curiosity. “Make peace with one another, children,” she muttered in passing. “For God’s sake, make peace.”
Filip looked away. “I was afraid,” he confessed once the woman was out of earshot. How to begin to explain his failure even to make a sound while the person he cared about most in the world faced imminent danger? And what about the threat to himself? He had no words to describe the utter paralysis that had gripped his every muscle, a paralysis now released with spasms of violent shivering. He jammed his fists into his pockets to hide the trembling of his fingers.
Galina looked at him, seeing the boy, the sheltered child that he was. Her stance relaxed a bit, her voice softened. “I know,” she said.
They did not speak again until they turned onto Galina’s street. There was nothing to say; it had been the first direct threat to their safety, but surely, in this city crawling with invading troops, not the last.
“My friend Vova, you remember him from school?” Filip asked.
“Vova the joker, who put toads into Leonid Petrovich’s briefcase?” she recalled, her tone lighter but still strained.
Filip nodded. “He ran off yesterday, looking for a Red Army unit to join.”
“Vova’s eighteen? It doesn’t seem possible.” Galina shook her head. “But the Reds are retreating. How will he find them?”
“Papa says they are north of here, heading toward Moscow.”
“What will he do? Vova, I mean.”
“Fly. He said he would rather die in a blaze of glory from the sky than be shot like a rat in a muddy maze of trenches. And anything is better than working for the Germans.”
“Ai,” she exclaimed softly. “Is no one safe?”
“Men under eighteen and over forty-five, and some university students, though I hear they will be next. And married men are exempt for now, I think.”
The rain had all but stopped. Galina took off her kerchief and shook it briskly, the wet cloth flapping sharp as a gunshot in the stillness of the night. “I know several families whose fathers are at the front.”
“So do I. But I don’t understand why they went.”
“And you a Young Pioneer! Have you forgotten your lessons? Patriotism, defending the motherland, doing your part? A Pioneer honors the memory of those who gave their lives in battle for the freedom and glory of the Soviet homeland.” She recited the slogan so solemnly that he could not be sure she didn’t believe it. “Some went for the pay, too. You know there’s practically no work here.”
“Not much sense in it if they are killed. Or worse, captured. The Nazis are not known for humane treatment of prisoners. I was never a model Pioneer. You know I’m no good at informing on family and neighbors. I can’t even sing properly.” They turned into the alley leading to Galina’s courtyard, walking quickly now, aware of the passing time.
“I will be eighteen in two months.” Filip stopped at the door to Galina’s flat, speaking in an urgent whisper. “There is no university exam until the end of May.”
“What will you do?” She leaned into him, her breath sending a shiver down his spine.
“I cannot fight. It’s just not in me. I can do something, ‘my part,’ as you say. But not fight. And the thought of working in Germany makes me sick.” He looked up, watching the turbid sky clear to reveal its wintry arrangement of stars, the rain clouds moving south in the direction of the Black Sea.
“Then we must marry.” She kissed him, quick as a bird, and disappeared behind the door, shutting it rapidly behind her.
Filip ran. Was it possible for so many monumental things to happen at one time? He was grateful for the night’s cover, hiding his confusion, his delight overshadowed with uncertainty and fear. It was overwhelming—the young officer’s gallant advances to Galina, followed by the ugly threat to their personal safety, the frightening prospect of forced service in Germany. His cowardice. No other word would do. He had been tested, and failed to behave with courage or even simple dignity. How could he be expected to defend his country, to fight and kill, if he could not even protect his dearest friend from danger?
His mind shifted tracks, like a streetcar jolting off in an unexpected direction, heedless of its beleaguered passengers. If he secured his ticket for the university exam before his birthday, he might be able to defer his German labor obligation. No war lasts forever. Things could change.
And if he did not pass the exam? The new entrance requirements were more rigorous than ever, making a student exemption from service nearly impossible to come by.
Could marriage save him? The thought was so bold, so completely new, it stunned him just to consider it. He tried to picture life wedded to Galina, setting up a household, scrounging for scarce commodities, sipping tea together in the evening before retiring to the murky mysteries of the bedroom. It was almost too much to think about. But she kissed me, he thought, reaching the entrance to his apartment building with a few minutes to spare before the siren blast announcing curfew. “Galya kissed me, a coward,” he said aloud, dizzy at the wonder of it.
* * *
Galina turned off the little tabletop lamp her mother had lit in expectation of her arrival, and leaned her back against the closed street door. She liked the dark, liked the softer outlines of her familiar surroundings; things took on a comforting presence while concealing some of their blatant daylight shabbiness.
She could hear muted voices in the kitchen. She knew her father was on the road, following the warmer weather along the coast, selling his wares. When he returned, he was sure to bring something—a little money, some fresh fruit, a piece of clothing to use, alter, or trade. Tonight, Mama and their neighbor, Nina Mihailovna, would be having their evening tea together.
She could hear her mother talking. “You know my Maksim is at university, studying to be a doctor.” Galina felt a familiar twinge of envy at the unconcealed pride in Ksenia’s voice. Why is there no letter from him, your beloved, since September? she wanted to say. Is he too busy, studying to be a doctor, to leave his mother with no news all these months? But her complaint withered and died almost as soon as her mind formed the hurtful thought. Who was she to stifle her mother’s only hope? What source of comfort could she offer instead? The postal service was erratic at best, as everybody knew only too well.
Galina was in no hurry to join them in the kitchen. She felt no special closeness to her brother. Maksim had always treated her with an impatience bordering on contempt; she was only a girl, a younger sister whose opinions were of no consequence, whose gift of song was, to his mind, no gift at all. A second-year medical student with poor eyesight, he had avoided Soviet military service; his course of study was considered vital for the good of the nation.
He was lucky, too, her brother, with a cool, quick wit, capable of reasoning like a diplomat, getting himself out of any number of difficult situations. “You can find plenty of rough hands among us for labor,” he had brazenly told the German officer who had marked him for inclusion in a recent transport. “I can serve your country better as a doctor, no? Once I finish my studies.” And the officer had, miraculously, agreed, granting Maksim the coveted deferment.
But Filip—what would happen to him? Galina loved the gentle side of his nature, the quiet ways and dreamy aspirations that were sure to mark him as sacrificial fodder for the war cause. Even if he passed the university entrance exams, she knew her country, in its struggle against the Fascist invasion, needed soldiers more than it needed architects. If, like Vova, he managed to join the Red Army, he was surely doomed to suffer and probably die.
That left only the shadowy world of the Partisan resisters, tough, energetic men and women committed to frustrating the enemy with act
s of sabotage and home-baked espionage missions. No, she decided, Filip could not do that, either. He lacked the unique blend of recklessness and stealth these patriotic fighters required. And, she admitted, he lacked the courage.
She thought of Franz, of the way he radiated confidence, free, it seemed to her, of the arrogance one would expect of the aggressor. And yet—what acts of exemplary service had he performed to earn his junior officer’s rank at such a tender age? Service to his country against its enemies. Against her people. He seemed educated, perhaps even sensitive. Yet how different could he be, really, from the oaf of an enlisted man whose loathsome pawing she had just escaped? Galina shuddered, rubbing at her face with her wet scarf as if to remove any trace his coarse touch might have left on her skin.
People were different from one another, though, even if they were committed to the same merciless cause. That was the point, and the source of her confusion. She knew that any stirring of attraction toward a young, appealing enemy officer was entirely inappropriate, just as she knew that Filip was no soldier, that he could never cultivate the poise that, for some men, came with the uniform. And Filip was the one she needed to save.
She took off her shoes, slid her feet, still cold and wet from the storm, into house slippers kept by the door, and made her way through the darkened front room toward the warmth of the kitchen.
4
Near Moscow, 22 October 1941
Dearest Mama,
I hope this letter reaches you. Things are so chaotic here, there are simply no guarantees. My journey north was harrowing. Twice we had to leave the train and take shelter in the woods to escape enemy bombers. Several cars were damaged; a military commander (I do not know his rank) formed us into work details to detach the shattered wagons, push them off the tracks, and reattach the sound ones so the train could proceed. It was very hard; you know I am not accustomed to such work. Afterward, the shortened train was so crowded, we traveled most of the way standing up. Sleeping was out of the question.
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