Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  I’m not tall like Father. I bear the unfortunate stature of my mother and have small, delicate features that fail to give me the formidableness of the great Tomas Herrmann. My father is tall and broad, his thick blond hair giving him a youthful appearance. Father never hides his feelings; every pleasure or disappointment reflects openly in his blue eyes.

  My sister inherited the strong figure of our father—my rebellious sister who I once wished to be. Remembering her bold words against our fatherland brings a surge of disappointment, and my hands tighten around the barrel of my gun. When Talia left home, I vowed that I would make Father proud enough for both of us.

  It never occurred to me that I might be anything but a soldier. I am the son of a proud German. My father stands in the presence of the Great Führer.

  As a boy, I often listened to Father speak with his fellow countrymen about the growing need to create a pure Aryan race. My earliest memories reside in the dusty garden of our home, my mother moving about the house at the bidding of her powerful husband. I moved the dirt in circles not because I enjoyed it, but because it gave the appearance of youthful ignorance. My play made me invisible to the men of stature and allowed me to listen and glean.

  As I dragged my fingers through Munich’s hallowed earth, I learned the ways of manhood. I listened closely as, eyes steely blue, the great men spoke, their thin lips organizing the mobilization of the masses. As a boy of only four, I knew of the shameful death at Feldherrenhalle that left true German nationalists martyred at the hands of a misguided Bavarian government. I learned of a man who was greater than all others. I heard of his courage as he ignited a putsch against his own government there in the beer hall.

  One night long ago, after listening to my father retell the story, I stood before the mirror in my small bedroom. My hands and feet were covered in dirt, my cloak of invisibility. I imagined what this man they called Hitler must look like. Grabbing the stick I’d brought in from the garden, I marched back and forth, steps of power masked in the body of a child. I was the great, brave Hitler … until Mother came in and ordered me to bed.

  “You must never pretend to be that man again,” my mother hissed, tucking the covers around me so tight I struggled to breathe. “This game your father is playing is dangerous,” she said, her breath hot on my cheek. “Don’t become like him.”

  The last words were a vapor. They wafted from her lips to my ears and locked inside my memory.

  That was the night I realized her weakness and I decided to hate my mother.

  Two days later, I saw him for the first time. When Herr Hitler entered the room, I stopped short. We were inside the house, which left me without the protection of the dusty earth. The floorboards creaked, and the hollow walls reverberated with my heartbeat like a warrior’s drum.

  After greeting my father formally, Hitler turned and locked eyes with me. I couldn’t hide, so I stood still, awed by his presence. He was not a tall man. My father, in his great stature, dwarfed the mighty Hitler. But the confidence that the future Führer possessed made him a giant.

  “Hello, boy,” he said. His voice was stiff. It wasn’t warm or friendly. I made him uncomfortable. I knew it, and so did Father.

  “Leave us, Frederick,” Father barked, and I immediately obeyed. As I hurried from the room, I heard our future leader speak again. “Train him right, Tomas,” Hitler said evenly. “Train him right and he’ll do great things. Someday he will be a part of history.”

  He was right.

  It’s been fourteen years since that first meeting. Hitler visited our sitting room many times after that, but I was always ordered to bed before his arrival. I spent nights sitting at the top of the polished staircase, listening to the passionate conversation from the men gathered around the hearth. So many words, all of them moving and swirling together like the dust of the ground, and as I listened, I imagined what it would be like to be part of the future that they spoke of so highly.

  I haven’t spoken to Father since I left to wage this war, but I know he hears of me. He hears of my failures, and today he will hear of my success. My father is a man of great wealth and power within the SS. He commands respect when entering a room, and anyone who wants his approval must work hard for it. As I have done.

  I’ve been promoted to Einsatzgruppen C. My colonel, Standartenführer Paul Blobel, is a personal friend of Father’s, as is Major General Eberhard. They served together in the first war and quickly became partners and confidants.

  I grew up with Blobel nearby, as he and father worked together in architecture after the first war. But, dissatisfied with the direction our country headed, Father and Blobel joined the SA and then the SS, where they quickly worked their way up the ranks into the highest levels of responsibility. Blobel was later moved into a high-ranking position with the Nazi army while Father, a brilliant architect and creator, has remained in the mother country working in close quarters with Hitler’s top officials.

  My father is a hero. My hero.

  For my part, I worked my way through training, always at the top of my class, always ready and willing to go further and push harder. I’ve earned this position—I am sure of it. Father would have no part in my undeserved promotion, and I want no handouts. I don’t mention my connection to Father, or to Blobel or Eberhard. I don’t tell anyone I’ve shaken hands with the Führer. If I’m promoted to a position of privilege, I want it to be of my own accord. And now, under the great Standartenführer Blobel, I have the distinct privilege of carrying out the Final Solution.

  Today, as I march through the dust of another man’s land, I hear the Führer’s voice once again in the recesses of my memory. Looking down, I take note of the rich soil caking my boots, and I feel the same sense of power I got as a child when the dust of the land covered me. This dirt belongs to my people now. My heart swells as the dust fills in the crevices of my boots.

  “He will be a part of history.”

  We move steadily forward, two days into the journey toward our destination. The dust rises and falls in puffs, our steps echoing the mission. We’re not just a part of history. We are history. I taste it, gritty and rough. My father’s passion, Hitler’s vision, my destiny—it’s all within reach.

  Kiev, Ukraine, is to be our final destination. As we now pass the center of another village, a man steps timidly out into the road, his arms stretched out toward us, offering a large loaf of fresh bread. We stop and stare for a brief moment. Finally I step forward and take the loaf from his hands. He bows slightly, mumbling something in the language I’ve come to destroy.

  They welcome us here. They think we’ve come to liberate them, to end their oppression and set them free. My eyes shift from the man to the villagers who surround him. Women cling to the hands of small, thin children whose eyes are big and round. The young ladies curtsy, and I nod my head politely in return. They’re afraid of us. I see it.

  I relish their fear.

  LUDMILLA “LUDA” MICHAELEVNA

  Vinnitsya, Ukraine

  June 30, 1941

  “Luda!”

  I stand in the small bedroom and glance into my mother’s hand mirror. It’s the only piece of her I have left. My father got rid of everything else when she died. I don’t remember her, how she looked or spoke or even how she smelled. I don’t know if her laugh sounded like a thousand bells or a babbling brook. I have imagined her so many times, but I have no photographs to tell me what she looked like. There are no grandparents to tell me stories. So I’m left to my imagination.

  I see her tall and pretty. Her eyes dance when she talks, and her delicate hands feel like silk when she holds me. In my mind, she is the very picture of love. In my mind, she sings softly to me each night as I drift to sleep. In my mind, her voice is a melody and her movements a beat.

  But it’s only in my mind.

  I was two when she died. I don’t even know what happened. Father won’t tell me. The only time he mentions her is when the vodka bottle is half empty. My father at h
alf empty is pleasant, relaxed, almost happy. When the bottle is empty he’s sad, mournful, and wants only to be alone. Most of my nights are spent wrapping a blanket around the shaking shoulders of my empty-bottled father.

  My father with a full bottle of vodka is frightening. This means he’s sober. My full-bottled father is filled with dashed dreams and self-loathing. He is the father I fear most. The full-bottled papa is why I keep pouring.

  “Luda!”

  I jump and look in the mirror again. Is this the same reflection she saw when she looked in it? Large brown eyes, thick brown hair, and a small red mouth? Today I don’t have time to wonder. I quickly hide my precious mirror, protecting it from the potential rage of a full-bottled father. Rushing out the door, I smooth my tattered skirt. My father stands by the front door of our flat, his hand wrapped around a nearly empty bottle of cheap vodka.

  I haven’t eaten for two days so he could have his poison.

  “Go out and get us some bread,” he says, pushing open the door and gesturing into the dark hallway.

  “I … But … Papa,” I stammer. “It’s late. The market isn’t open.”

  “Stop being stupid,” he snarls. “Go get me bread. I’m hungry.”

  With a sigh, I reach down and pull on my tattered shoes. I pull the pouch of money off the hook on the wall and hear the pitiful tinkling of two lonely coins knocking together. Even if the markets were open, I wouldn’t have enough money.

  Stepping out into the hallway, I turn to try to speak reason to Papa once more, but he shuts the door in my face. With a sigh, I slowly make my way down the stairs and out into the street.

  Looking up at the dim sky, I wonder what the future holds. I know that the country has been invaded, and based on Papa’s drunken rants, it seems that impending doom awaits. I wonder how long it will be before the Germans find their way to my town and if their arrival could possibly make things better for me.

  I walk quickly to the only place I can think of for bread. Within ten minutes I’ve arrived, and I knock on the door timidly.

  “Kto tam?”

  “Katya, it’s me,” I answer. “Luda.”

  The door flings open, and my friend Katya pulls me inside. “What are you doing here?” she asks. I look up to see her father walk into the room.

  “Excuse me, Alexei Yurevich,” I say with a small nod of the head. “I’m sorry to come so late, but—”

  “What is it, Luda?” Alexei Yurevich takes a step toward me, his brow furrowed.

  “My father told me to get him some bread,” I reply.

  Katya and her family are the only ones who know of my troubles with Papa. They know that I quit school last year to work. They know of Papa’s drinking and his cruelty, and whenever possible they allow me inside their home. Katya’s brother, Oleg, joins his father and Katya inside the small foyer.

  “Mama!” Alexei Yurevich calls out. Katya’s grandmother appears in the doorway, and I shift in embarrassment to now have the entire family looking at me in pity.

  “Mama, Luda needs a loaf of bread. Please give her what we have,” Alexei says. She disappears quickly into the kitchen and returns minutes later with two small loaves of bread.

  “Take this, child,” she says softly. “You eat one of these before you return. Give the other to that pig you call Papa.”

  “Mama.” Alexei Yurevich’s voice is sharp behind her. She turns with a huff and leaves the room.

  “Oleg will walk you home, Luda,” Alexei Yurevich says. Oleg leans down and begins pulling on his boots.

  “Oh, no. Please,” I respond. “It’s not necessary. I can make it.”

  “Luda.” Alexei Yurevich takes another step toward me. “You shouldn’t be out walking at night. Not anymore. It isn’t safe.”

  I nod slowly, not really understanding but warmed by the concern in his voice. Oleg joins me, and with a wave to Katya, I turn and follow him out the door. We walk slowly down the sidewalk so that I can eat the second loaf of bread in my hand. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I took the first bite. I instantly feel my energy return, and as we turn the corner toward my flat, I brush my hands and mouth clean of all crumbs.

  “Take care of yourself, Luda,” Oleg says. Shy and soft spoken, Oleg doesn’t speak often, but I always sense that he’s standing at the ready to protect me.

  “Thank you,” I reply. With a small nod, I push open the door and make my way up the stairs. I put my key in the door and push it open.

  “Papa?” I call. “I’m back.”

  I step into the room to find Papa slumped over on the couch, the empty bottle still clutched in his hand. With a sigh, I pull a small blanket over his shoulders, then lay the loaf of bread on the floor beside him and retreat to my room … alone.

  IVAN KYRILOVICH

  July 28, 1941

  Pain is an interesting sensation. It’s more than physical, though it certainly manifests itself in physical ways. I said good-bye to my son today. I watched him kiss his mother’s tear-stained cheek and hold tight the sisters he adores as they soaked his shirt with bitter tears, and I felt the pain well up from somewhere deep inside.

  Hugging my son for the last time, my arms physically ached as though the muscles tore from bone, and when I pulled back and looked into his brave, tear-filled eyes, I felt my heart rip.

  I think I even heard it.

  I won’t get that piece of my heart back, and that’s the interesting thing about pain. It never leaves you. Sometimes it’s dull. Other times you feel healed, but pain always leaves a mark, a scar as a reminder that life and love aren’t free.

  Pain changes everything.

  I have to walk slowly this morning, stopping frequently to make sure I’m going the right way. When a man surrenders his firstborn to wolves, it’s not without repercussion. Mine is a feeling of loss and of being lost.

  I’ve spent most of my life in hard labor. I worked the collective farms as a boy, my back bent over rows of vegetables and my hands caked with the dirt of another man’s supper. My father didn’t love me—he used me. I was his mule, and this made me strong. It also made me rebellious. I left my home the day I turned eighteen, as well. I left for different reasons, less noble than my son’s.

  I wanted to be on my own. The first war was over, and my older brother, my father’s pride, was dead. He was the boy, the man, my father wished I could be: loyal, dedicated, hardworking, with a love for the land.

  I was the lover. I wanted to live life, and I wanted to give it. Tanya and I met when we were sixteen, and we both longed for the cosmopolitan life of the city. This was unheard of in our small country community. Boys didn’t leave home unless they went to war.

  But I did leave home, and I took the love of my life with me. With no money and enough food to last us one week, Tanya and I snuck aboard trains and walked the two hundred kilometers to Kiev, where I quickly began my work in construction. I loved the sweat and risk of building. I knew I was on a pioneer team to bring progress to my great country. Our work was slow, but I felt satisfied each day as I walked home, covered in dirt and grime.

  Tanya threw herself into developing our lives with equal fervor and heaps of grace. We quickly found a judge who agreed to marry us, and by the time we were twenty years old, we were the proud parents of a son. I held my child tightly through those long night hours and stared into his delicate face. I vowed then to never be as my father had been. My children would understand love and would be free to develop in their strengths.

  As I stop and study my surroundings once more, I wonder for the first time how my father felt when he woke up that morning and discovered my note. Did he experience a shred of the pain that I now feel? Was there any regret?

  I tried to contact my mother twice after leaving. The first time was a month after we settled in Kiev. I sent a letter explaining why I chose to leave and asked if she could ever forgive me. I didn’t receive a reply. I sent one more letter years later, after Maria was born. I thought my mother should know she ha
d grandchildren. That time I received a reply, not from Mother but from Father.

  “Ivan. Your mother is dead. You killed her. Does this finally make you happy?”

  That was the final communication I ever received from home. I don’t even know if he still lives … and I don’t care.

  I finally reach Shamrila and turn up the narrow alley toward our flat. My girls wait for me, wounded and scared. I wonder if I can be the man they need me to be right now. I pause and take a deep breath, my chest tight, hands shaking. My arms ache for my son, leaving me weak and fatigued.

  Pushing open the heavy door, I breathe deeply. It’s damp and wet, and the smell heightens my heartache. Taking one slow step at a time, I suddenly feel much older than my thirty-eight years. As I step onto the third landing, I pause to catch my breath, and the door in front of me opens a crack.

  “Who’s there?” comes a gruff voice.

  “Ivan Kyrilovich,” I answer with a jolt. “I live in the flat above you.”

  The door opens wider, and my neighbor steps out just beyond the door. I’ve seen him before once or twice, but only in passing. I take a moment to study him closely and realize he is doing the same.

  He’s a short man with small eyes framed by round glasses. His hair is a mop on top of his head, curly and wild, giving him a crazed appearance. His clothes are wrinkled, and the bags under his eyes tell me he hasn’t slept well.

  His eyes dart left to right as he ducks his head. “Would you join me inside, please?” he whispers, jittery and spooked.

  I step inside his dim flat, and he locks the door behind us.

  “I am Josef Michaelovich,” he says in a nasal voice. “Can I ask for your help as a neighbor and countryman?” He wrings his hands. “My wife and I are Jewish.”