“West,” Ilya decided. “Away from the eastern border.” And far from the approaching Red Army, with its threat of forced repatriation, they all understood at once.
Ksenia moved toward a cleared space near the open station doors. “I will stay here with our things. You, Ilya, get in line for tickets. And you two go, look around the city; we have enough time before our permit expires. Try to find something to eat if you can. And don’t forget the curfew.” She piled their cases and bundles together and sat down on the sturdiest one.
It was a good plan. Without their things, the young couple could blend more easily into the crowd, move around the city with less likelihood of being stopped at every turn to have their papers examined. They wandered, looking in shop windows like newlyweds, admiring linens, furniture, glassware. A movie house marquee advertised an Italian comedy; the concert hall promised an early evening chamber music recital.
“Schubert? Who’s Schubert?” Galina wondered.
“An Austrian composer, a little like Beethoven, but less”—Filip struggled for the right word—“forceful. You do know Beethoven, yes? His picture was on the wall of the music room at school.”
“Yes. I never liked him. He looked like a beast.” They spoke softly, lest their language attract unwanted attention.
“Well, speaking of beasts, it’s this way to the zoo.”
The zoo was quiet after the busyness of the street, the hubbub of the train station. A group of German schoolchildren crowded around a matronly guide, only half-listening to her talk about the lives and habits of sea lions. The still-energetic seals were starting to show the effects of war rationing, their otherwise shiny pelts dotted with dull, rusty patches and scabby lesions, which seemed to cause them some discomfort. They slithered about on the wet platform, scratching their necks with paddle flippers, filling the air with comical throaty barking.
Here and there, couples, almost invariably one or both of them in military uniform, strolled along the freshly swept paths, paying only cursory attention to the caged animals. Young mothers in groups of two of three pushed baby carriages; an old woman sat on a bench, scattering bread crumbs to a single peacock and his harem of hens. And everywhere there were refugees, dazed, pathetic-looking people moving mechanically from cage to cage, excited children in tow.
We look like that, Galina thought. No wonder they don’t want us here. She straightened her shoulders, ran her hands down the sides of her thin coat, then took Filip’s arm. “Where are the elephants? I can hear them, can’t you?”
“Filip? Is it you?”
They turned, surprised and alarmed. Who would know them here? Was it wise to respond?
The man before them was young, and only a little older than they. He was almost impossibly handsome, his perfect features set off by smooth black hair swept back from his forehead, showing off high Tatar cheekbones and piercing dark eyes. Galina did not recognize him. A face so beautiful was not easily forgotten.
“Musa,” Filip said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Looking at the animals, just like you,” the man smiled, his crooked stained teeth spoiling the overall effect. What a shame, Galina thought. She shot Filip a questioning glance. Did he really know this man? She shivered.
“Let’s walk,” Musa said. “It will be warmer than standing here in the wind. Still collecting?”
“Who has money for stamps?” Filip shook his head. “But I find one from time to time.”
Musa was well dressed, in pressed trousers, good shoes, and a warm jacket, a fur cap in his hand. How had he come to be here? What gave him such a confident, secure air? Should they be talking to him? Was it simple acquaintance, friendship, that motivated his approach? Or was he an agent and, if so, for whom? What did he want?
Galina hung back, not wanting to appear suspicious, yet unsure how to respond to this dazzling young stranger from home. Filip seemed at ease, deep in conversation with Musa. They talked stamps, numbing detail about issues and watermarks, series and values—talk so specialized and mundane that she felt her fears dissipate. She turned her attention to the animals in their small but clean cages.
They walked through the monkey house, warm humid air heavy with a musky blend of fur and fruit, the occupants screeching invective at the passing spectators, pushing small leathery palms through the bars, demanding handouts. In the outdoor exhibits, a pair of black panthers, draped languidly on dead tree limbs near the top of their cage, appeared to be napping, ears flattened, tails gently twitching. There was a lone tiger measuring its confined space with endless pacing; a herd of gazelles, antelopes, and other hoofed creatures whose names Galina didn’t know; a family of giraffes whose small heads and absurd necks made her laugh out loud.
“But where are the elephants?” She interrupted the men, who had moved on to other subjects, something about buildings or bicycles. “I want to see elephants.” She stopped, a brown bear gnawing a large stick in the cage at her back. Musa took her arm and pulled her away just as the bear reared to its full height in a rapid movement that belied its shaggy bulk, baring fearsome tan teeth, waving furry paws the size of a man’s head, claws extended, in their direction. Galina cried out, then covered her mouth, stifling a nervous laugh.
“He must be hungry,” Filip observed, taking her arm and steering her away from the now indifferent bear.
“And so am I. Come have dinner with me,” Musa said. “I insist,” he added, seeing their hesitation. “I have plenty of food. After we see the elephants, of course.” He smiled at Galina. To her own surprise, she smiled back.
The elephants were housed in a spacious cement compound surrounded on three sides by a deep dry moat. “Oh, look, they are chained!” Galina exclaimed. “How awful.” Each creature was tethered to a thick iron post; the chains circling its hind leg had etched a deep groove into the skin.
“The chain is long enough for them to move around. See how they come right up to the edge of the moat? And most of them are born in captivity, so they have never known any other life,” Musa explained in a tone that struck her as patronizing.
Filip, standing aside, hands in his coat pockets, turned to look at his companions. “Can you miss freedom if you have never known it?”
“That, my friend, is one for the philosophers, and I don’t recommend we discuss it here in public.” Musa bent to pluck a handful of dried grass from the frozen soil. “Here,” he said to Galina. “Just stand near the fence and stretch out your arm. They can reach it.”
First one, then all the elephants came to her, even the baby, trotting on its sturdy cylindrical legs, a stiff breeze stirring the wiry tuft of hair on its smooth gray head. She laughed to see them, waving their trunks, stretching across the moat to take the grass from her open palm. Musa and Filip moved along the path, looking for the last of the fallen leaves, brushing aside patches of snow to reveal clumps of grass underneath, plying her with these while she spun this way and that, trying to make sure each animal received at least one handful.
“Look how calm they are. No one is pushing or fighting to get more than the others. And, oh, Filip, you should try this! Their trunks feel like kisses in your hand, so warm and gentle.” She was breathless with delight. “I just wish I could reach the baby.”
“The baby is taking care of itself,” Musa observed, handing her the last of the vegetation within reach. “Look.” True enough, it had stopped shuffling from side to side and was sweeping its little trunk playfully along the ground, snuffling up bits of food the others had let fall. From time to time, this perfectly formed miniature replica of it gigantic elders would look up, holding the tip of its trunk in its mouth, which looked to be perpetually smiling.
When there was no more grass, the elephants moved off, dragging their chains, to huddle together at the far end of the compound, herding the baby into the middle of the group. Galina grew quiet. She moved both hands to her belly. The child turned inside her as if in response to the family scene before her. What kind of world w
ould her little one know? Would she, Galina, be able to care for and protect this child the way these huge placid beasts cared for and protected theirs?
She had Filip, of course, yet however attentive he could sometimes be, he knew nothing, nothing at all. He and Musa were talking about stamps again. She felt more protective of him, she thought, than the other way around. Her mother was an anchor, indispensable to her survival in countless ways, and her father’s tender love lay at the very center of her existence. They had all stayed together through the last harrowing months. She understood, from talking with other refugees, how rare that was.
What if they were separated? How would she manage?
The imminent birth of her child was an unimaginable ordeal; the prospect filled her with dread. Her fears were vague, unarticulated but powerful, chasing each other in an anxious jumble that made her feel suddenly weak. Stay safe—the words, rising out of her murky mood, had the fervent yearning of a prayer, encompassing her innocent child, the little elephant, and all the people she loved.
Galina shuddered. She turned to Musa. Eyes shining, she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I will never forget this day.”
“Nor I,” Musa said quietly. He placed a hand on Filip’s shoulder. “Your wife is cold. We should be going. There is a very good stamp dealer near my apartment. We can stop there on the way.”
“I have no . . .” Filip faltered, torn between responsibility and desire.
“My treat, old man. For old times’ sake.”
While they walked, Musa filled them in; how, after leaving school, he had worked at one of Yalta’s better seaside restaurants, learning the culinary craft and perfecting German in his spare time. They all knew that people from the Tatar villages were less likely to be taken to labor camps, those villages being a key source of provisions and information for the occupying forces. Through the restaurant, Musa had caught the eye of a Nazi colonel who took him on as his personal cook and interpreter, attached him to his staff, and arranged to keep him on when he received orders to return to Germany.
“Then you’re a . . .” Galina could not get the word traitor out. She blushed deeply and lowered her eyes.
“Call it what you will. You Russians are in a tough spot there, caught between the monster at home and the tyrant who wants his land. Hitler’s plan is to decimate the Slavic population, or reduce it to slavery, working for good Aryan colonizers, while he and his circle enjoy the heavenly Crimean climate and feast on your delectable fruit. Here, take some more of this.” He served them veal schnitzel left over from the colonel’s table, with fresh peas and wide buttered—buttered!—noodles. Galina could not be sure, after the rich dinner and half a glass of wine, whether his hand had brushed her arm by accident or by design. The gesture annoyed her, but she was too dulled by the welcome warmth of the room and the comfort of real food to give it much meaning. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she felt a vague stirring of urgency; they had to get back to the train station, where she knew her parents would be worried about their long absence. But for the moment, she was blissfully content.
“. . . the Ukrainians, the ones who work the land, raise the livestock and grow the food, they have it much, much worse,” Musa was saying. He refilled Filip’s wine glass, then his own. “It’s ironic, don’t you think? Persecuting the very people whose labor is most essential to your survival.”
“And the Jews?” Filip ventured, no longer caring how safe it was to talk freely with this man of questionable allegiance. He was unable to stifle his own curiosity; there had been so little reliable information. And the wine had gone to his head.
“Well, yes, the Jews, of course. Unfortunately for them, Hitler has never considered their contribution as essential to society, nothing that can’t be done as well, or better, by beautiful upstanding blue-eyed Christians. No, they can simply be disposed of.” He sipped his wine, then added quickly, noticing how both his guests had gone pale. “I’m not saying I agree. History will sort it out. Right now, it’s everyone for himself. Chocolates? They’re very good. Made right here in Dresden.”
“How do you mean, disposed of?” Filip reached for a bonbon but did not eat it, placing the square confection on the edge of his plate. “We were told they all got passage to Palestine.”
“Palestine,” Musa snorted. “They might be dreaming of Palestine, if the dead can dream.”
“Avram . . .” Filip blinked rapidly, as if trying to erase the image of the kindly grocer, an echo of the gruff voice rumbling in his ears. “Surely not . . .”
“I don’t know your Avram, but I doubt his fate was different from the others. Sadly, this is one area where Hitler and our Comrade Stalin were in agreement. I thought you knew. I’m sorry to have spoiled our pleasant evening like this.”
Galina rose and began to clear the dishes. “We must go, Filip. How far is it to the train station?” The uneaten chocolate square fell off the edge of Filip’s plate and rolled, like gambler’s dice, several times before landing facedown on the tablecloth. For a moment, no one spoke.
Musa cleared his throat. “There is a curfew. Nine o’clock. The train station is too far for you to get there in time. The colonel has a car, but I could not use it to drive you there, even if it were available this evening.”
“So let’s go now, quickly!” Just then, the child flipped and kicked, forcing Galina to sit down heavily on her chair. Musa placed a light hand on her shoulder and ran it down her arm. “Don’t touch me,” she said, her eyes steely and her voice expressionless. Coward was the word in her mind, but she restrained herself. She could not wait to get away from this despicable man.
“It’s better if you sleep here. I must leave early myself, to prepare the colonel’s breakfast. I will show you the way.”
They wasted more time arguing, Musa countering all her objections with calm, infuriating logic: “If you are stopped after curfew, you will be detained and miss your train. Your parents will be forced to leave without you.” These last words defeated her; she had to concede there was no alternative. Through it all, Filip remained unaccountably silent.
They placed three chairs against the length of the narrow bed, pulling the mattress partly onto the seats, filling the gap with extra blankets. Galina lay down first, facing the wall, with Filip next to her and Musa on the chairs.
In the morning they took to the streets almost at a run, weaving among preoccupied people on their way to work or some equally pressing purpose. The train station turned out to be closer than Musa had suggested the night before.
“We could have left after dinner,” Galina said. “Instead of worrying my parents and sleeping with that collaborator.”
“Collaborator? You could call him that. More like an opportunist, I’d say. And what about your father, and all those Nazis coming to your apartment to pick up their pins and carved boxes?”
“How dare you! My father accepted their orders because he’s a craftsman, and unlike our own people, those officers had money to spend. But he never served them breakfast or polished their boots. And he never told them anything.”
“Don’t be angry, Galya. I’m only saying he did business with the enemy, and took the food parcels they brought him while everyone else subsisted on rations. I never said he was a spy.”
“Everyone else would have done the same, given the chance, and you know it. As if you ever turned down a bite of that extra food! And what about your work interpreting? What do you call that?”
“That was in a labor camp. I’m not much good at digging ditches or hauling rocks.” He yawned. “That was the most uncomfortable night, but the food was good.”
“I don’t know why he was so generous. How well did you know him?”
“He’s two or three years older. We met while buying stamps at a collectors’ shop in town. Made some good trades, too. I don’t know what came over him. Maybe he’s homesick.” He did not mention the hand resting on his waist, or the erection pressed against the back of his thigh, M
usa whispering, “I know you’re not asleep,” his voice thick with wine. Filip first not breathing at all, then imitating the rhythm of deep slumber, until the older man’s body went slack, his soft snoring hot on the back of Filip’s neck. “Who knows why his colonel found him valuable enough to bring along? Forget him.”
When they found the others, Galina broke down weeping into her father’s arms. “Nu, nu,” he crooned, smoothing her hair. “Stop, now.” Amid apologies and explanations, Ilya told them what he and Ksenia had learned.
“There are too many people. We are to leave our luggage here. Mama has the claim tickets. I’ve heard rumors that the Red Army is advancing, so they want to move us away from the border. Maybe they’re afraid we’ll join forces with our troops. I don’t know.”
“Where are we going?” Filip asked. “Must we leave everything here?”
“South and west.” Ilya looked at his ticket. “Leipzig. Our things should be on the next train out.”
“We are permitted to each take a small bundle or case,” Ksenia added, spreading her hands apart to indicate the size. “No bigger than a woman’s handbag.”
They spent the next hour or so sorting through their belongings. All around them, clustered in tight family groups, people were doing the same, pulling on extra clothes, setting aside bulky items and household goods to reclaim later.
Ksenia focused on food supplies, tying a small article of clothing around each packet of rice, flour, and salt, finding room in her bundle to add two tin cups and some spoons. For Galina, she fashioned a flat backpack using a thin blanket rolled with underclothes and socks.
“Ai, Mama, I can hardly move,” Galina complained. “I’m already wearing two dresses and a sweater under this coat.”
Ksenia ignored her daughter’s protests, crossed the ends of the blanket over Galina’s shoulders, and tied them firmly in back. “Hush. Now sit here on this suitcase while we finish packing.”
Filip refused to wear his second shirt. He wrapped it around his stamp albums, a notebook and pencils, and some photographs from home, jamming it all into the smallest suitcase they had. Ilya took only his workbox. “It may be bigger than a woman’s handbag, but I’m not leaving it behind, not even for a day. I need my tools and materials. Where will I find ivory now?”
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