That she was safe.
Epilogue
9 May 1945
Her arms around a large cake box, Lisa Smirnova stood outside a cottage in the village of Taborov by the river Rastaviz. Behind the blueberry bushes that embraced the dwelling, she could hear the murmur of the water, the cackling of the chickens and the low growl of a dog. Before she had a chance to knock on the door, an elderly neighbour opened the garden gate and ran up to her, grabbing her hands and waltzing her around the front yard, cake and all. Lisa allowed herself to be whisked away into the dance, her heart soaring. On and on they twirled around a large apple tree in bloom, the scent of the blossoms stirring at Lisa’s heartstrings. Finally, the woman embraced her, tears leaving streaks of dark mascara under her eyes. ‘It’s over!’ she exclaimed. ‘Can you believe it? It’s all over!’
An orchestra was playing in the village square, its sounds wafting towards Lisa in bursts of joy and sorrow. A male voice was crooning a familiar war tune.
I loved you, and I probably still do,
And for a while the feeling may remain …
But let my love no longer trouble you,
I do not wish to cause you any pain.
The powerful tenor transported Lisa to a different time and a different life, a bittersweet memory of herself perched on a chair in the underground cafeteria and of Maxim strumming his guitar, singing this song for Lisa.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she replied, nodding her head to the stranger as if to say, Yes, it’s over, it’s finally over.
‘It’s the happiest day of my life,’ whispered the woman, finally letting go of Lisa and bursting into tears. ‘This war took my whole family. I am all alone.’
As Lisa patted the inconsolable woman on her back, the door flew open and Irina stepped outside, a chubby nine-month-old attached to her hip. Her hair was shorter than two years before and her beautiful face was fuller. ‘Maria Andreevna, why are you crying when you should be cheering?’ she asked her neighbour with a kind smile.
‘I am crying from happiness as every good citizen should. Today is a celebration, one we will never forget for as long as we live. This is what millions of people died for. This is what our families gave their lives for,’ stated the woman, before taking her leave and moving on to the next house to share her joy and sadness with another neighbour.
When she was gone, Irina embraced Lisa. ‘Happy victory day,’ she whispered. ‘Come in! Sonya’s been talking about you all morning. Here, would you like to hold Kirill?’ She took the cake from Lisa and placed the baby in her arms. Lisa smiled at Kirill, poking her tongue out, tickling him, inhaling his baby smell. The little boy giggled.
‘Did you bake the cake yourself?’ Irina led Lisa into the corridor and glanced inside the box. ‘Looks delicious.’
Lisa gave a distracted stroke to Bear, who had recently developed problems with his eyesight but came out to greet her every week when she visited. ‘My sister baked it for me. All I did was lick the spoon.’ She was being modest. While Natasha was certainly the mastermind behind the cake, Lisa was in the kitchen until late the night before, stirring and mixing. Thanks to her time in the partisan battalion, she knew her way around the kitchen, and after Kiev had been liberated, both sisters got jobs at a cafeteria in Podol. While Natasha cleaned, Lisa cooked. The hours were long and gruelling but there was something incredibly satisfying about feeding the starving Kievans, especially the children, whose little faces lit up when they saw Lisa and her tray of food.
Ever since Lisa’s miraculous return from the partisan battalion, the two sisters had been inseparable. They lived in their old apartment on Tarasovskaya Street, helping their mother, who after the occupation had developed problems with her heart. The doctors said it was hereditary but Lisa knew better. She was convinced it was the fear and uncertainty of war and the agony of losing so many loved ones.
‘Lisa! Lisa!’ A small body flew into her, while a pair of arms went around her knees. ‘I waited and waited and finally you’re here.’ Sonya was a big girl of four and a half. As the years passed, she looked more and more like her father. Her long hair was a dark curtain down her back. Her eyes were his eyes. Every time Lisa visited, the child followed her around like an overexcited puppy.
‘Of course, I’m here, little one. I wouldn’t miss a victory day hug from you in a million years.’ She leant down to kiss the little girl on her head and when she straightened up, Maxim was standing in the doorway, his eyes twinkling. For a moment, Lisa couldn’t speak. All she could do was smile and wave.
‘Happy victory day!’ he said, walking towards her and pulling her into a warm embrace.
‘We fought hard for this, you and I.’ Their eyes locked and everything they had been through flashed between them: the weight of her rifle in her hands as she took her first aim, the heartache as she took her first life, the heat of the burning branches in her face and the sensation of his arms around her as he carried her to safety. Masha’s lifeless body and Danilo’s face that had haunted her since they had left the woods, haunted her for seventeen months and forevermore.
Letting go of her, Maxim smiled happily but his eyes remained sad. Personally, Lisa thought he had never got over losing his parents, who were killed by the Nazis not long before Kiev was liberated. Like Lisa had promised, her friend Yuri was able to provide Maxim with a fake set of documents. Under a different name, Maxim fought the Nazis ferociously first in Crimea and later in Lvov, as if killing as many of the enemy as possible could bring his mother and father back. Nothing could bring them back but they did win this war, and to Lisa, the man standing in front of her was the reason behind this victory. Despite everything, Maxim remained her hero.
As for Irina, it had broken her heart to see her husband go off to war and she lived from furlough to furlough, leaning on Lisa for support, sharing the good and the bad. Maxim hadn’t been there for the birth of their son but Lisa had, bringing Irina what little food she could find, staying up nights with the baby and holding Irina’s hand as she cried for her husband. Now that Maxim was back from the front, Irina’s eyes sparkled with happiness. To Lisa, Maxim and Irina were living proof that true love existed. And if it existed, maybe one day she would find it for herself.
The tea was steaming in front of them in little cups. The cake had been cut, eaten and praised. Maxim filled three small glasses with vodka and stood up. ‘Let’s remember those who fought hard for this day but didn’t make it. I want to drink to the partisans who have fallen.’ His hand holding the vodka glass quivered but he didn’t pause. Lisa knew he had ghosts that haunted him at night, just like her. ‘And I want to drink to my parents.’
After a moment of silence, without touching their glasses together, the three of them took a sip.
‘I want to drink to my friend Tamara. She was killed in a bombing in Kiev just before the Red Army arrived,’ said Irina.
Another moment of silence, another sip.
‘I want to drink to my grandmother, Alexei, Olga and Masha, and my brother Nikolai, killed by the Nazis at the end of the occupation,’ said Lisa, her voice hollow with sadness. ‘And to Yulya and Danilo,’ she added quietly. She wanted to curl into a ball and sob her heart out. She wanted to scream in pain right here in front of her friends and their two children, scream from heartbreak, from the unfairness of it all. Here they were, celebrating the happiest day their country had ever known, the day of victory over Nazi Germany. But there were so many who couldn’t celebrate with them, so many who had lost their lives fighting the evil that had descended on their country like a dark cloud. What had been the point of it all? What was the meaning behind it? What had the Nazis been fighting for all these years that made the terrible losses worth it?
And what about those who were still standing? What about Masha’s husband, who had his happiness snatched away from him? When she had returned to Kiev, Lisa had sent him a long letter, telling him what had happened to Masha and what a hero she was. A reply came a few months later
. In every word was heartbreak. Lisa’s heart broke for Oleg. And what about Azamat, who had lost a leg at the Battle of Kiev, and Anna and Anton, who got married and had a baby but would be forever haunted by what they had been through? Yes, they had survived the terrible war, but their lives would never be the same again.
The old radio on the wall screeched and came to life. Stalin’s youthful voice filled the living room. ‘The great day of victory over Germany has come. The great sacrifices we made in the name of the freedom and independence of our motherland, the incalculable privations and sufferings experienced by our people in the course of the war, the intense work in the rear and at the front, placed on the altar of the motherland, have not been in vain, and have been crowned by complete victory over the enemy. The period of war in Europe is over. The period of peaceful development has begun.’
Lisa cradled her cup of cold tea, under the impression of Stalin’s impassioned speech, where he had called her his sister and congratulated her on their victory, thanking her for her struggles and sacrifices. The door creaked and a tall blond man appeared.
‘Lisa, meet Dmitry,’ said Irina. ‘Maxim’s cousin.’
Lisa rose to her feet and shook the man’s hand. She wanted to say something witty and flirtatious – something like: Where have you been hiding this handsome man all this time? – but once again she found herself unable to speak. It wasn’t meeting Dmitry that made her shy and tongue-tied, although he was attractive enough. It was the expression on his face.
The war was over and a stunning Ukrainian summer was beginning, with its sun-kissed days and balmy nights, when the air was scented with apple blossoms and couples in love strolled hand in hand through the streets of Kiev. The man standing in front of Lisa with a box of chocolates and a wide smile on his face was staring at her as if she was the most exquisite thing he had ever seen.
Suddenly, the evening was full of possibilities.
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Keep reading for an excerpt from Sisters of War …
Chapter 1 – Black Cloud Descending
September 1941
It was a warm September afternoon and the streets of Kiev were crowded. Just like always, a stream of pedestrians engulfed the cobbled Kreshchatyk, effortlessly flowing in and out of the famous Besarabsky Market. But something felt different. No one smiled, no one called out greetings or paused for a leisurely conversation in the shade of chestnut trees that lined the renowned street. On every grim face, in every mute mouth, in the way they moved – a touch faster than usual – were anxiety and unease, as if nothing made sense to the Kievans anymore, not the bombings, nor the fires, nor living in constant fear.
Most stores were padlocked shut and abandoned, and only one remained open on the corner of Taras Shevchenko Boulevard and Vladimirovskaya Street. A queue gradually swelled with people, until they spilled over into the road, blocking the way of the oncoming cars that screeched to a stop, horns blaring and harsh words emanating from their windows. Soon, as is often the case in a line for groceries, a heated argument broke out near the entrance to the store.
‘I’ve been standing here since four this morning, I’m not letting you ahead!’ screamed a red-faced man with dull eyes. He looked angry enough to strike the intruder, a small woman holding an infant.
‘I have a baby. She hasn’t eaten since yesterday,’ the woman pleaded, lifting her little girl for everyone in the queue to see.
‘So what? You are not the only one with a mouth to feed,’ said the angry man.
The woman moved towards the end of the line, while her baby screamed at the top of her lungs.
‘Do we have to listen to this?’ were the parting words from the man.
‘Come over here, my dear,’ said an old woman dressed in a winter coat with a kerchief over her head, despite the mild weather. ‘You can go in front of me if you like.’
‘Why are you letting her ahead? We’ve been waiting for hours,’ complained a matronly lady behind the old woman.
‘And another two minutes won’t make a difference,’ replied the old woman in an I-won’t-hear-any-argument voice. And apart from a few belligerent looks, she didn’t get any.
As the mother thanked the old woman with tears in her eyes, two young girls and a boy approached the store from the direction of the Natural Sciences Museum. They didn’t try to jump the queue but stood quietly at the back, unsmiling and serious, as if they were attending a lecture at a prestigious university.
‘What are we queuing for?’ asked Natasha Smirnova, a tall, dark-haired waif of a girl.
‘Sausage,’ said the old woman.
‘Flour,’ said the woman with the baby.
‘Tomatoes,’ said the matronly lady. But no one seemed to know for a fact, and the line didn’t move, nor did anyone leave the store with bags of sausages, flour or tomatoes.
‘That’s good. Tomatoes will keep,’ said Natasha.
‘They won’t keep,’ replied her companion, a petite redhead with a ponytail and a sulky expression on her face. ‘We’ll have to eat them in a week.’
‘If we pickle them, we can have them all winter.’
‘Winter? This war won’t last till winter,’ said the young mother confidently.
‘You mean, we won’t last till winter,’ murmured the old woman. ‘Not if the Nazis come here.’
‘Haven’t you heard?’ said the old man directly in front of the woman with the baby. ‘Chernigov fell last week.’ The old man puffed his chest out, seemingly proud to be the bearer of such important news.
‘What are you talking about?’ exclaimed the old woman. ‘If Chernigov fell, we would have known about it. We would have heard on the radio.’ Others in line had interrupted their conversations and were now listening in, their faces aghast.
‘Believe me, comrades, Chernigov is in German hands,’ said the man, enjoying the attention. ‘I heard it from my cousin, a captain in the Red Army.’
‘My daughter is in Chernigov,’ cried the old woman, wrenching her arms.
The queue fell quiet. Chernigov was only a hundred kilometres from Kiev. If Chernigov fell, was Kiev next?
‘Let’s go home,’ said Natasha dejectedly. ‘We won’t get anything here. The queue is not even moving. Let’s just go home.’ She regretted stopping at the store and overhearing the conversation. Dread like liquid mercury spread inside her, heavy and paralysing.
The three of them made their way through the crowds towards Taras Shevchenko Park, wide-eyed at the commotion around them. Those who weren’t busy queuing for food occupied themselves by looting and robbing. The Red Army had retreated in July, and the government evacuated in August. In the absence of any form of authority, no shop, library, museum or warehouse was safe. Men, women, even children, moved from store to store, laden with sacks and boxes, searching for something valuable, preferably edible, to steal. Outside the entrance to the park, two men carried a piano and a woman struggled with a potted plant and a typewriter. Eventually, she placed the typewriter on the ground and took off with the plant. ‘It’s a palm tree,’ said Natasha, watching the woman with a bemused expression on her face. ‘I wonder what she’s going to do with it. I’d take the typewriter if I were her.’ When she didn’t receive an acknowledgement from the redhead, she added, ‘Lisa, will you look at that?’
‘Who knows what she’ll do?’ replied Lisa, shrugging. ‘Grow bananas? Barricade the door from the invading Germans?’ She chuckled but her eyes remained serious.
When the woman disappeared around the corner, Natasha turned to Lisa. ‘We should get going. If Papa realises we’ve left, we’ll be in so much trouble.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Lisa. ‘He’s too busy searching his newspapers for news from the front to think about us. He won’t even notice we’re not there.’
&nb
sp; Pulling Lisa by the arm, Natasha replied, ‘He’ll notice all right, especially if you don’t get a move on.’ At nineteen, she was only a year older than her sister but she was always the serious one, the more responsible one. Sometimes she admired Lisa’s impulsive character, but not today. Not on the day when the Nazis were perilously close and their father was going to kill them.
Lisa turned her back on her sister, her long red hair swinging out to whip Natasha across the face. ‘Alexei, are you coming?’ Her voice was too loud for the muted street, and several passers-by glared in her direction.
Alexei Antonov, a blond, broad-shouldered boy, had stopped at what seemed like the only market stall in Kiev that was still standing. The stall boasted a great selection of combat knives, and Alexei was in deep conversation with the owner.
‘Alexei!’ Lisa called again. Her voice quivered.
Alexei handed the stall owner some money and pocketed a knife. ‘Wait up!’ he cried, breaking into a run.
‘Dillydallying as always,’ said Lisa, her plump lips pursed together in a pout. ‘Keep this up, and we’ll leave you here.’
‘Nagging already? And we’re not even married yet.’ Pecking Lisa on the cheek, Alexei adjusted his glasses, his face a picture of mock suffering and distress.
‘Get used to it,’ said Lisa, pinching the soft skin above his elbow. He attempted a frown but failed, smiling into Lisa’s freckled face.
They paused in the middle of the road and kissed deeply. A van swerved around them. The two lovers didn’t move. They barely looked up.
‘And this is why I walk five metres behind you. It’s too embarrassing.’ Natasha stared at the ground, her face flaming. Wishing she could run home but not wanting to abandon Lisa and Alexei in the middle of the street, she was practically jogging on the spot. ‘You heard Papa this morning. Under no circumstances were we to leave the house.’
‘We had to leave the house,’ said Lisa. ‘You know we did. It was a question of life and death.’
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