Well, this was what happened in war. Galina must understand. He was not a monk. Should they find each other again, he would come to her a full-grown man, free of nervous boyish fumbling, of the false starts and abrupt endings that had marked their intimacy, such as it was, since their clumsy wedding night. He smiled to remember that innocent shame and trepidation, that perfect ignorance.
He tried to imagine Galina’s eyes clouded with desire, like Stella’s, her head thrown back in abandon, or giggling with mischief, like Hilda. He hadn’t known women could be so different one from another, so surprising. Now he knew.
He heard Ilya cough inside the shed and call to him. Filip stubbed his cigarette out carefully on the sole of his shoe, dropped the butt into his shirt pocket, and went in. The older man was sitting on his blanket, his legs stretched out in front of him in a childlike pose; the cuffs of his ill-fitting pants revealed a swath of pasty skin above his bunched socks. Desperate to lose the conspicuous German uniforms, they had settled gladly for the first pieces of clothing that came to hand, even if Filip’s new shirt had been liberated from an unattended clothesline, the two good wool uniforms left, neatly folded, on the ground in exchange.
Ilya’s face was ashen except for two clownish spots of fever on his cheeks. “Is there any water left?”
Filip checked the flask, emptied the contents into a tin cup, and watched Ilya drink with infuriating slowness. My God, how much longer until we find someone, anyone? How long do I have to carry this old man?
“Where is your ring?” Ilya cut into his thoughts, pointing to the wedding band on his own hand. Filip stared at him in momentary confusion, recovered his wits, and reached into his pants pocket. How stupid not to have taken it out of his wallet and put it back on his finger after the dance. How careless.
He felt around, thrusting his hand deep into first one pocket, then the other, expecting to find his horseshoe-shaped leather pouch within the folds. The wallet was not there. “Chort voz’mi,” he swore. “Devil take it. I put it here . . .”
“Did you sell it? Are we out of money?”
“No, I did not sell it.” Filip, sounding like a petulant boy, discarded without thinking the only reasonable excuse for taking the ring off his finger. “Stay here,” he said. He snatched up the flask and walked back toward the road. “There’s a couple of potatoes left from last night, maybe a little cheese. I’ll be back soon with more water.” He turned and ran, not caring who saw him, back toward the village, the tavern, hoping to remember the way to the plump girl’s house.
Her name, it suddenly struck him, was Krista.
Approaching the village, he replayed the previous evening’s events. This was the road, these the farms, some with freshly ploughed patches among the charred fields. This idyllic section of Bavarian countryside had received its share of Allied bombing, evidenced by cratered roads and the rubble of destroyed buildings. Yet something was growing, the green shoots vivid and vulnerable amid the stubble of burned crops. He knew nothing of agriculture, could not guess if these were wheat, rye, or ordinary meadow grass. Still, it was a sign, if one believed in signs.
Soon the houses came thickly, some standing apart, with fenced yards and fruit trees, others attached each to the next in rows of five or six, each unit set off from its neighbor by a different shade of pastel paint—sky blue, beige, pink, yellow, peach—all under identical green tile roofs. Signs of bomb damage were everywhere, but it was clear that repairs had begun: boarded windows, yards swept clean of debris and broken tiles, usable bricks, glass, and timber in neat stacks at irregular intervals. He didn’t know if these materials were communal property, available to anyone who needed them, or closely guarded private reserves for sale or trade. It looked like local pride and the work of willing hands would soon restore the village to its peacetime appearance. All the better to welcome their injured returning fighters, and bury their dead, he mused. The war was over for everyone.
What he had needed yesterday was an apothecary. He felt he would never sleep again if the old man didn’t stop coughing. Ilya could not work until his fever came down and his hands stopped shaking. Filip was amazed that, even now, people would buy a wire pin or bracelet, paying with a little cash or food.
The apothecary, when he found it, was closed. Filip had stood outside its shuttered window. What to do now? Honey. Honey would help, if he could find some. Standing outside the shop, he had swayed slightly, giving in to the wave of nostalgia that, for several excruciating moments, took him home, his mother ministering to his boyhood illnesses with tenderness and honeyed tea. And music. She would play her favorite records for him, singing along in a light falsetto, slightly off-key, making him laugh. He could hear it now, Strauss operettas, Onegin, Aida. Yes, especially Aida, the drums, the trumpets . . .
But this was no reverie. There really was a trumpet. He had followed the direction of its blare, pulled along the dusk-darkened streets by its resounding timbre. Approaching the tavern, he had heard other instruments, too—an accordion and then, closer still, a guitar. He had ducked in through the open doorway and listened, watching the trio at the far end of the room, the boy trumpeter full of joyous energy, accompanied by a sprightly white-haired accordion player. The guitarist, perched on a tall stool, beat out the tempo with his wooden leg.
They had made a fine noise, those three, the sounds from their unlikely ensemble clean and bright and lively. The old accordionist seemed to lead, his yellowed fingers bent to the chipped keys with easy familiarity, followed by the guitar player, who picked and strummed a scarred instrument crisscrossed with scratches. The trumpet, too, had seen better days, the horn surface pocked and dinged, the finish dulled, but the sound, when the young musician closed his eyes and blew, was thrilling, reverberating in the hot crowded room like a call to freedom.
Filip had threaded his way between the dancing couples. He’d scanned the room for Red Army uniforms and found none. He signaled a serving girl for a glass of beer and slipped his wedding ring into his coin purse. Just a glass or two. What’s the harm? He would find honey or medicine in the morning. It felt good to be young and free, with money in his pocket, even if the money was, strictly speaking, not his own, and the freedom illusory.
After the second glass, he was dancing with a succession of nameless smiling girls. And weren’t they all pretty in their short-sleeved cotton dresses, moving easily into his arms and out again, their low-heeled shoes skimming the creaking floorboards, bare legs flashing in the dim light? He had not danced in such a long time; he gave himself up to it with no thought at all, letting go of obligations, promises, memories, and caution.
When the band stopped playing, he noticed the girl he’d been dancing with, and realized he had partnered her several times in the last hour. She looked up at him, her round, open face blooming with freshness and glowing with sweat. “Ein Bier?” he said, pointing the way to a vacant table near the back door.
“Nein,” she smiled. “Wein, bitte.” He paid for the unlabeled bottle, pushing his ring out of sight with his little finger while he counted out nearly all his remaining coins. The wine was sharp, young, and bitter, but they drank it willingly, thirsty for a good time. They had talked, their heads nearly touching, Filip intoxicated with her fine russet curls, her vulnerable, perfectly formed ears. He poured the last of the wine into his glass—she had only drunk a little—and asked her name.
“Krista,” she said. She had pulled him to his feet, taking him out of the crowded room, into the yard, where they danced under a sky filled with threads of dark clouds before retreating into the shadows, away from other couples. “Krista,” he repeated, pressing her back against a tree. “Krista.”
And the honey? He had remembered Ilya’s cough, remembered asking her where he could get some honey when all the shops were closed.
“Come with me,” she said. “We have honey at home, not far from here.”
The walk to her house was a vague memory. Had they turned this corner, passed this po
nd? It was a farmhouse, of that he was sure, but which one? Stumbling in the dark, one arm draped around Krista’s neck, his head buzzing, he had paid little attention to his surroundings. And what had happened to the honey? He could clearly see Krista lifting the crock out of the cupboard, doling several large spoonfuls into a jar, giving him her fingers to lick, one by one. And then all was muddled, the girl pushing him out the door, answering a voice from upstairs, an unseen presence descending slowly, with heavy tread, down the steps.
Filip remembered walking along the road—this road? The early morning sun had found him sitting under a tree, with a sore head and stiff legs, a foul taste on his desiccated tongue, his head hammering a dull relentless rhythm. He had found his way back to the shed without much difficulty; it stood some distance from the road, in a yard fringed with apple trees, behind an abandoned cottage with a ragged hole in the roof.
Now he needed to find Krista’s house, his wallet, and his ring.
It was hopeless. The half dozen small farms he passed all looked very much the same: the same green tile roof, same painted gate, same flower trellis outside the same sturdy door. Even the lace curtains that billowed out the open windows looked identical. There were differences, individual details that marked each house distinctly from its neighbors, but nothing he would have noticed in the dark, his head thick with drink, all his senses trained on an amorous conquest he still did not know if he had achieved. He leaned against a boulder at the side of the road and lit the stub of his cigarette. What to do?
He watched a lone figure come into view in the distance, a woman on a bicycle just rounding the curve in the road. Guess I’ll have to ask, he told himself. Can’t sit here all day.
He had already stepped into the road, raising his arm to get the woman’s attention, when he heard the sound of an automobile engine and retreated, instinctively, into the shelter of the trees.
The country was overrun with military personnel: British, American, Soviet—all waiting for instructions on how the newly brokered peace was to be administered. Most private cars had been commandeered by one unit or another. But who could be trusted? Not these men. Judging by the Russian catcalls, they were Red Army, and that could only mean trouble for him.
Filip heard the car slow down just short of his hiding place. He heard a door slam and the woman’s bicycle fall to the ground.
“Sashka, we have no time! The colonel wants his brandy,” one of the men called out.
“You just had one, anyway.” Another voice, deeper, older. “Let this one go.”
“That was two hours ago, and she was ugly. This one’s not bad. Horosha. Look how smooth and ripe she is. Who can resist? The colonel can wait five minutes.” This voice was young, brash, and confident.
Careful not to disturb the foliage concealing him, Filip peered out. A young soldier had the woman by both arms, pinned against the car. She turned her head from side to side, struggling, kicking at him with short, desperate thrusts of her small feet.
Sashka moved her arms behind her back, easily grasping both wrists in one hand while he yanked at the neck of her dress with the other. He laughed. “What? You don’t like it here in the road? Excuse me, comrades, we need a little privacy.” He spun the girl around and pushed her, still holding her wrists, toward the woods.
Filip froze. Krista. He almost said the name out loud, catching himself just in time. He moved silently deeper among the trees, ducking behind a wide oak for cover. He should do something, but what?
He had no papers. He could impersonate a German, but that would get him, at the very least, a severe beating. If they found out he was Russian, it would most certainly be worse. Out of uniform, without papers, he could expect arrest, deportation, exile, even death. Krista was a nice girl, but he did not know how far things had gone between them after the dance, or how many such encounters she may already have survived. The young stud was sure to take exception to having his fun interrupted. If I had a gun, Filip thought, maybe I could be brave. But what good were his bare hands against three armed men? It was unthinkable. Maybe something would happen. Maybe she would get away.
He listened with growing apprehension to the pair’s approaching footsteps. Krista must have stumbled; he heard her cry out and fall. He heard Sashka curse, pull her up, and slam her back against the oak. “Hold on there, Fräulein, let’s just tie those pretty hands together, shall we? That’s better.”
Filip caught his breath when he heard Krista spit at the soldier and unleash an unintelligible stream of invective, a hysterical mix of pleading, cursing, and sobs. “Molchi, dura,” the soldier said, muffling her protests with a hand over her mouth. “Shut up, you fool. Ai! This one’s a biter!” he called out to his waiting companions.
“Sashka, you animal. Dovol’no. Enough. Let’s go,” the older one replied.
“Mama,” Filip whispered while the soldier raped the girl, quickly and efficiently, on the other side of the tree. “Why is this happening to me again?”
He was back in Yalta, three years ago, frozen with fear and indecision, unable to defend Galya, his dearest friend, from an attack that seemed, at the time, as imminent as this one. The attack had not come; she had walked away unhurt. He could not remember why. But the paralyzing inertia, the complete inability, like now, to move or speak—that came back to him so intensely he had to dig his fingers into the bark of the tree to keep from falling.
When he recovered his senses, the men were gone, leaving an echo of bawdy soldiers’ ditties reverberating on the placid afternoon air. The sounds of heedless birdsong, of crickets chirping and the humming of bees seemed like an obscenity; surely, the only appropriate response to what had just happened here, at the side of the road, in daylight, was silence.
He considered his options. Should he wait until she collected herself and left? No one would ever know he had been there. No one but himself. No, that was wrong. She might need help after her ordeal; he was not made of stone. And there was still the matter of the missing wallet.
“Krista,” he said, coming around to her side of the oak. He glanced furtively at her disheveled hair, noticed the imprint around her mouth where the brutal dirty hand had pressed against her face. “Krista, I . . .” He averted his eyes from her crumpled dress and its missing buttons, the angry bruises on her neck and breast.
“You! How long . . . Did you know . . . Why are you here?” She looked up at him with red-rimmed but tearless eyes. Crouched at the base of the tree she looked small, feral.
“I could not . . . could not . . .” It was too much to explain. “You don’t understand.”
She struggled to get to her feet, ignoring his extended arm, pushing herself up from the ground with both hands. She rubbed at the fresh tie marks around her wrists. “No, I do not understand. Anyone, a stranger, could have at least made some noise, it might have been enough to scare them off. But you . . . We danced. We talked together. I even let you kiss me. And you just stayed there, hiding?”
Filip tried to take her elbow to steady her, but she slapped at his hand and pushed past him, furious, out of the woods. He saw how the back of her dress was slashed and torn, bloody from where Sashka had rammed her against the tree’s rough bark. I am so sorry. I should have done something, he thought, but could not say it.
She picked up her bicycle and started walking with it along the road. “Look what they do,” she said, pointing to the wheel twisted beyond repair. “Your countrymen. Just out of malice. Why did you come, anyway? To collect your honey? For your sick Vater?”
“Honey?” He had forgotten all that, forgotten about Ilya and all those other complications yet to be faced. “No. I . . . last night . . . I lost my wallet.”
She kept walking, one hand holding the front of her dress closed, the other steering the bicycle along its crooked course. Filip followed a few steps behind, not really knowing why.
“Well, I am very sorry you lost your wallet,” she said finally, turning to face him. “I thought you were a decent per
son, intelligent and kind. But you are only a coward. Even if I had your wallet, I would not return it to you.” She walked on, limping a little, struggling to keep the bicycle’s good wheel on the road.
Filip stood a while, watching her stiff gashed back recede slowly, then turned back in the direction of the shed. “He’s not my Vater. My father does not sell trinkets in the street. My father would know what to do,” he muttered, kicking at a stone in his path, feeling his anger and frustration rise.
The stone arced, bounced once, and rolled into the weeds at the side of the road. Filip bent down, picked it up. It was an ordinary gray-brown stone, hot from the sun; it fit perfectly in his hand. He looked at it, studied it, as if intent on deciphering a cryptic message carved into its crevices and striations. He pulled his arm back and threw the stone into the woods, nearly falling over with the force of the effort. He stooped, picked up another and another, flinging each one with all his strength, running along the road, giving in to the frenzy with a mindless, mirthless obsessiveness fed by dumb fury.
When he stopped, bent over, panting, hands on his knees, his shirt plastered to his skin with foul-smelling perspiration, he felt empty, his mind mercifully blank. Filip passed a gritty hand over his face and laughed, picturing what he must look like: a crazed man with a dirt-streaked face, in unwashed clothing, stumbling along a country road with nothing to his name but his name. He heard a car approaching and hid in the woods, sitting motionless behind a clump of blackberry bushes until the sound of the motor died away in the distance.
2
FILIP SAT IN the woods a long time, long after the noise of the motor faded away and the air filled with bird sounds and the conspiratorial stirring of leaves above his head. He watched a trio of crows follow one another from tree to tree, their iridescent feathers glinting in filtered sunlight, looking for—who knew what crows looked for? Food, or smaller birds to intimidate with their shameless audacity. All the trees seemed alike to him, and maybe the crows thought so, too. They rested only a moment before lifting off for the next perch, stopping now and then for a brief raspy consultation. All at once, they were gone, taking to the sky above the treetops with raucous cawing cacophony. So we creep from one hiding place to the next, he thought, each one identical to the last, meaningless, and no closer to the answers we need. How will we know when the end of the road is in sight?
Roads Page 28