Dragged by Yulya, who was a lot stronger than she looked, Lisa moved forward. Like a robot, she put one foot in front of another without thinking, without feeling. The machine guns deafened her as she clung to the damp soil and grabbed the foliage with her bleeding fingers that she had cut with a knife that morning. Like a lizard she crawled across the clearing that over the last few months had become her home but was now scorched earth. Bullets cut the grass and hit the ground around her like a torrential rain. This is it, she thought, a silent groan trapped in her throat. The next bullet is going to find me. I will remain here, forever in these woods, and no one will know what happened to me. I will never see my family again. Unable to crawl any further, she put her hands over her ears and screamed. She screamed with all her might but could still hear Yulya’s voice, could still feel her hands shaking her with vigour. ‘Follow me or I will leave you here. We need to get to those trees, or we’re lost!’
Lisa looked up into Yulya’s face. It was completely white but her eyes were burning with determination as she pulled the two girls behind her.
Yulya found a giant oak tree, old and knobbly and large enough to shelter a garrison, let alone three terrified women. Under the shower of German bullets they climbed as high as they could, hiding in the leaves. Lisa clung to the tree as if her life depended on it. Finding refuge in the branches, she peered out but couldn’t see anything beyond smoke. Something exploded overhead and she felt her hands shaking. If she wasn’t sitting firmly astride a branch, she would have fallen out.
The partisans had dispersed and the settlement seemed deserted, but for half a dozen bodies left on the ground. When she saw them, Lisa stifled a cry and wanted to climb down and run to them, peer into every face to make sure it wasn’t Maxim or Anna. At the bottom of the hill, behind the canopy of smoke, she could just make out grey shadows, their rifles and machine guns pointing at the settlement. Men in hated Nazi uniforms were not the only ones moving swiftly towards the partisan battalion. There were others too, wearing civilian clothes, waving and gesticulating. With horror Lisa realised they were Ukrainians who had turned their backs on their people and were helping the Nazis. Shaken, she watched the little figures surrounding them like locusts, the guns in their hands spitting out death.
Out of the trees and from behind the rocks, the partisan rifles barked in response.
Lisa leant closer to her branch, embracing it like a lover, like it was the only thing standing between her and death. This was her greatest fear realised. Since the moment she had arrived at the partisan battalion, she’d been afraid of the day the Germans would find her hiding place in the woods. Now that this day had come, she felt like she was living her worst nightmare. She should have returned to Kiev and made amends with her family. With luck, the Nazis would have left her alone. But the woods had seemed so peaceful, so serene. So safe. And look at her now, besieged, under attack and trapped in what had turned into hell on earth within minutes.
‘The cursed Nazis!’ shouted Yulya, who was hiding in the branches above. ‘Soon the day will come when they will pay for everything.’
‘How did they find us?’ asked Masha, her voice barely audible.
‘Someone betrayed us. And I have a good idea who that someone was.’
Lisa thought of Matvei’s pig-like face as he told her he would do anything to survive this war. She had been right not to trust him. She searched for him in the swarms below, but the enemy was still far off and the visibility was low. She didn’t see him.
The bombs landed closer and closer, making the earth tremble. With every explosion Lisa squeezed her eyes shut and thought, This is it, this is how I’m going to die. She wished she knew a prayer. With every burst of machine-gun fire, she repeated, ‘Please help us, God. Please help us!’ Could God hear her? She could hardly hear her own thoughts. Another bomb, another ‘Help us, God.’ It was comforting, as if now that she had said the words, her safety was in someone else’s hands. And a good thing too – she couldn’t trust herself to save her own life. She could barely trust herself to hold on to the tree branch without falling out, so afraid was she of what was happening around her.
‘You have your rifle! Do something! Shoot at them! What are you waiting for?’ shouted Yulya.
It took Lisa a few moments to realise the older woman was talking to her. She had forgotten all about her rifle that was uselessly dangling behind her back. Shuddering as if awoken from a deep sleep, she pulled it closer, thinking, What’s the point? Could it make a difference? Despite the incessant fire from the partisans, the enemy kept coming and there was no end to them. Even though she held a weapon in her hands and knew exactly how to use it, Lisa had never felt so helpless.
The rifle felt heavy in her sweaty palms. It almost slipped and fell to the ground but she grabbed it just in time, holding it tighter and bringing it into position, just like Maxim had taught her. As she was about to shoot – pressing not pulling the trigger – an ear-splitting noise was heard and she felt the tree under her feet shift and keel to one side. ‘We’ve been hit,’ she heard through the ringing in her ears. Was it Masha or Yulya? It was impossible to tell. The desperate screaming – was it them or was it her? Dropping the rifle to the ground, Lisa held on for dear life. As if in slow motion, the tree toppled over, a heavy branch hitting Lisa in the face. A sharp pain pierced her wrist.
For a few moments, everything went dark. When Lisa opened her eyes again, she was on the ground, her arm trapped under a thick branch. Her vision was blurry and her temples ached. As if through a fog she noticed flames. Yulya and Masha, where were they? She lifted her head but all she could see was the fire devouring what was left of the oak tree that had served as their shelter.
Lisa called out their names but couldn’t hear beyond the whistling of bullets. Pulling with all her might, twisting and turning and screaming in frustration, she tried to free her arm but couldn’t. Her eyes stung from the smoke and her tears blinded her.
The flames licked the branches like grotesque orange tongues. As each terrifying moment trickled by, the fire was gaining momentum, reaching for her, breathing hot death in her face, cracking and whistling and whispering. How long would it take before it was upon her? Another minute, a few seconds?
A part of the tree collapsed, hitting Lisa hard on the head, and she could no longer hear the terrifying cacophony of war, nor see the flames that were inching their way closer.
Everything was gone. Even the pain was gone.
Chapter 18
In the village of Buki, two hundred kilometres west of Kiev on the left bank of Rastaviz River, with the sun bright in her eyes and the scent of apple trees in full bloom in her nostrils, Irina was weeding the garden. Not that Azamat’s wife Agnessa had much growing there, just some carrots and beets and a couple of bushes of undernourished tomatoes. Before the war, she had chickens and goats and even a cow, but on the second day of the occupation two German soldiers had marched in and taken them. On the third day of occupation, they arrested Agnessa’s old father for being a Communist. Almost two years later, Agnessa couldn’t talk about it without tears in her eyes. Irina couldn’t hear about it without tears in hers either, thinking of her parents-in-law, lost in a Nazi prison camp, perhaps forever.
Agnessa had told Irina proudly that the vegetables in the garden would last them all winter if they were careful. Looking at the tiny patch, Irina was doubtful. But she wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity for some physical work in the fresh air. Ignoring her aching knees, she trimmed and pruned and pulled at the pesky weeds that kept reappearing, no matter how hard she had battled with them the week before. There was something about being close to the soil that made her whole body relax and her chest feel lighter. This land was here long before the Nazis had invaded. And it would be here long after they were gone. It was a reassuring thought that filled her heart with hope.
In June 1943, she had every reason to be hopeful. Even the German-controlled, Nazi-propaganda-filled Ukrainian Word printe
d only good news these days. The Nazi party had been dissolved in Italy. ‘The enemy’, meaning the Red Army, was gaining ground. No one seemed to know where exactly they were but what Irina did know was that the Nazis were dedicating significant resources to digging trenches and fortifying Kiev. That, more than anything, spoke to her about the Soviets’ imminent arrival. And here, under the blue skies with not an aircraft in sight this morning, hidden away from the world behind the tall tomato bushes, she could sense the end of the war the way swallows sensed the approach of spring.
As she continued with her task, whistling a popular tune under her breath, Sonya crawled through the grass, then stood up and toddled towards her mother. ‘Mama, a man!’ she crooned, pointing in the direction of the fence. ‘Mama, man!’
Irina looked up from the carrots she was tending and squinted in the sun. A tall young man, almost a boy, was staggering through their garden, as if he was drunk or hurt. When he approached, Irina saw blood on his face and tunic. He was wearing the same tattered Red Army uniform as Maxim. Although this man with his blond hair and slim build looked nothing like her husband, Irina paled and her heart pounded with dread.
The young man widened his eyes as if trying to tell her something, then swayed and tilted sideways. Irina leapt to his side but it was too late. By the time she got to him, he had collapsed on the grass. She called out but he didn’t respond. His eyes were closed.
She tugged at his arm, trying to shift him, but he was too heavy. There was no way she could move him on her own.
Scooping Sonya up into her arms, she ran towards the house. ‘Agnessa! Are you there? There’s a wounded partisan in our garden,’ she shouted through the door.
‘Hush, child,’ exclaimed Agnessa, placing her knitting on the table and her finger to her mouth. ‘Not so loud. You never know who might be listening.’
Irina muttered an apology and together they rushed to the garden. Irina saw Agnessa’s face go white at the sight of the man. She ran through the carrots, crushing them with her feet, and took his hand. ‘Anton! Can you hear me?’
‘You know this boy?’ asked Irina.
‘It’s my daughter Anna’s sweetheart. He joined the battalion only eight months ago.’ She stroked Anton’s cheek, whispering, ‘Can you hear me?’
Irina crouched by the older woman. ‘He’s still breathing,’ she said.
‘Wheezing. Is he going to be all right?’ Agnessa’s hands shook as she held Anton’s head in her lap.
‘He’s covered in blood. Let’s get him inside and clean him. Then we can call a doctor. You know a doctor, don’t you?’
They lifted the young partisan and carried him into the house, placing him on a small folding bed on the porch. Agnessa unbuttoned his tunic. ‘He’s been shot,’ she whispered, pointing at a gun wound in his left shoulder. ‘He lost his parents nine months ago. Poor boy hasn’t been the same since. My daughter and he are inseparable. What if something has happened to her? I couldn’t bear it.’ It took Agnessa a minute to compose herself and wipe the tears from her face. Together they cleaned Anton’s face and chest, careful not to touch the raw flesh torn by the bullet. Anton groaned but didn’t open his eyes. Agnessa cried, ‘The doctor. We need the doctor.’
‘I’ll fetch him. Stay with Anton. Just tell me where to go and look after Sonya for me.’
Irina didn’t have to go far. The village was small and consisted of a dozen houses, a boarded-up and padlocked library and a shop that in the distant pre-war past sold white bread, fresh out of the oven and delicious. Now it was a collection point for sheets and blankets for the wounded Germans. Once a week, a small window opened and a grim Ukrainian man with an eye patch and a broken arm divided the unpalatable German-issue bread among the dwindling village population. Irina walked past the shop and turned the corner to the doctor’s house.
When she returned, accompanied by an old man who walked with a limp but seemed eager to help, Anton hadn’t regained consciousness and Agnessa had worked herself into a frenzy, crying by his side as if he was already dead. She looked like she could do with the doctor’s attention herself. ‘He said he didn’t want to live without his parents. When the Nazis shot them, he said he wished he was there, so he could die with them. And now this! It’s as if God has heard him.’
‘Trust me, God had nothing to do with this,’ said the doctor. ‘Why don’t you let me take a look at him?’
To Agnessa’s tearful relief, the doctor pronounced that Anton’s wound wasn’t life-threatening. He removed the bullet, cleaned and bandaged the shoulder.
Before he left, the doctor said, ‘Anton needs complete rest. If he develops a fever, send for me at once. I’ll come back tomorrow to check on him.’
That evening, Irina settled Sonya to bed and had just closed her eyes herself, when she thought she heard noises. Someone was walking outside. Under the bedroom door she could see flashes of a kerosene lamp. She stepped out into the corridor to find Agnessa standing there. In her white nightie, with her face pale and her grey hair loose around her shoulders, she looked like a ghost. ‘I thought I heard a groan,’ she said wistfully. ‘Here it is again.’
The two women ran to Anton’s side. His eyes were open. Unfocused and confused, he was looking around the room as if not quite sure where he was. ‘Agnessa Mikhailovna,’ he whispered. ‘Is it you?’
‘Anton, dear! Don’t talk. The doctor said you are going to recover but you need to rest.’
He didn’t seem to hear. Fear was in his eyes. ‘I came straight here. I didn’t know where else to go.’
‘You did the right thing. You know this is your home. You are safe here.’
‘Nowhere is safe. Not for us. I was lucky to get away.’
Irina wanted to ask what happened but her voice failed her. The familiar dark foreboding gripped her and she could do nothing but stare at Anton, who tried to sit up in bed and groaned in pain, falling back on the pillow. ‘We were surprised by the Nazis. I’ve never seen so many of them in one place. Our battalion is completely wiped out.’ Irina heard him but refused to understand. Her legs gave out and she sank into a chair. If the battalion had been wiped out, where was her husband and the father of her child? Where was Maxim?
In her mind, she could see him at the house in Podol a few weeks ago, collapsed over the kitchen table, devastated by the news of his parents. She could see him safe in her arms in the small church in Priorka, whispering that he would always be with her, that he would never leave her. And she believed him. To this day, she believed him because the alternative, a life without him, was too terrible to contemplate. And here was Anton, bringing her worst fears to life with his words.
As if from a great distance, she heard Agnessa’s broken voice. ‘Wiped out? What about the others? What about Anna? Azamat?’
‘I don’t know,’ whispered Anton. ‘It was hell on earth. I don’t know if anyone else survived.’
*
How did she make it through the night without crumbling? Maxim and Irina were supposed to grow old together. They were supposed to live a long married life together, waking up in each other’s arms, cooking meals, arguing, making up, taking their daughter to kindergarten and school. Having more children. Having grandchildren. What had happened to their dream?
Letting go of the sleeping Sonya’s hand, Irina slid to the cold floor and remained there with her head on the floorboards, sobbing quietly. She tried to imagine Maxim’s face, alive with laughter, and couldn’t. She tried to feel him out there and couldn’t. It was as if he was truly gone. With everything she had, she clung to one remaining sliver of hope, despite the dread and the horror inside her. Because she couldn’t imagine her life without her one shining light, she hoped for a miracle. Her husband, the love of her life, couldn’t have left her. It was impossible. She had already lost so many people she loved. She couldn’t lose him too.
As hard as she tried, she couldn’t get Anton’s words out of her mind. He had told the two women the Nazis appeared without warni
ng, surprising the battalion as they were relaxing after a long day. One minute there were songs and laughter and jokes. Someone was strumming a guitar. The next, the woods exploded in gunshots and screams of agony. Before the partisans even realised what was happening, a dozen of them had been cut down. All Anton could think of was finding Anna. He didn’t know where she was or whether she was safe. Instead of taking cover, he crawled under the torrent of bullets through the grass that wasn’t tall enough to hide him, crawled from one dead body to another, glancing into the lifeless faces of his friends and shouting in anguish, his voice lost in another explosion, another burst of machine-gun fire. And then a sharp pain in his shoulder.
For a long time, he lay face down on the damp ground. When he came to, the partisans, what was left of them, had hidden away in nearby rocks and trees and were firing at the Nazis who never stopped coming. There was no end to the dark shadows running towards the settlement. Relying on his one good hand, Anton made it to a large tree and hid inside a hollow. He didn’t know how long he spent there. It could have been a whole day or a couple of hours. When he finally emerged, it was quiet in the woods, as if the horrifying attack had been nothing but his imagination. For a moment he doubted himself, wondering if it had all been a bad dream. But then he saw the bodies scattered around the meadow. Gritting his teeth, he checked every one of them, looking for signs of life, looking for Anna. He couldn’t find her.
Dawn came, surprising Irina on the floor, trembling and stiff. But even as the sun filled the room, she couldn’t move. Maybe if she stayed in one spot long enough, refusing to accept the unacceptable, it would all go away. If only she could ignore her fears, they would vanish like an early-morning dream. She wanted to hide from the ugly world forever. But her little girl needed feeding, cleaning and changing. The water had to be boiled and the porridge cooked. Finally, Irina forced herself to get up, kiss her daughter’s peaceful face and make her way into the kitchen, where she did her chores without giving it a thought, walking around slowly, as if every little movement brought pain.
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